This is All I Have to Give and Its At The End of the Rope

Yes, I'm at the end of the rope. 

That long, braided mass of brown fibers that I hold onto and tug and stretch and yank day after day and it scratches and burns and so I let go. Opening my worn hand, for good, its gone. 

I see it and feel it as it waves goodbye showing itself wildly dangling and flapping in the wind as if to entice me back into its reach. It wants to be chased.

Do I reach for it? Do I want it back? That rope. Do I give it another shot, another try? Wrestle with it and the mind and body grows weary yet this need to know could I have? Could I have done it better? Made it work? Fixed it? Believed enough? Been that someone?

Sometimes yes and sometimes no and it will be missed.

It soared away and out of me, leaving behind a tug at the heart, a willingness to finally lose control of what can't be controlled. 

Giving it all I have to give I couldn't get it back now. 

Watching sometimes there's regret for who am I? Who are we?

All we have to give is what we've been given. 

Does anyone really want it anyways? All I have to give. Its 10:30pm and the pot still soaks in the drain that big pot that held dinner for four and that I wish would be easier to scrub the longer it sat but it wouldn't be. 

The sweep of the night with broom in hand as broken chips, leftover cheerios, and blueberries are swept into a pile mingled with dust and dirt from happy feet and theres little legos that are carefully picked out and placed away. 
Exhaustion shows herself and I can't remember where I laid the brooms pan and spend extra precious glances from tired eyes to find it. 

Basket in tow, laundry is finally being done and the machine comes alive and I continue to clean, pay bills, and toss away trash and wash and write. 

Soon the lock on the door will turn and the carpenter will come home his hands soiled and splinted and wish to talk the talk of tired mouths to which more than too often mine remains closed. 

Morning hours comes and my tired legs finally head off to bed and before this body can feel rested the alarm goes off for an early morning walk and I think about me and Him and life and wishes and unfilled dreams and unexplained expectations of those close. 

Its easy to feel like a failure, like you haven't given it your all, when there's no silver plaque adorning the wall, no rolled white paper with red ribbon, no golden silhouette, nothing to show that's tangible that's so highly placed as above the worth of the heart and soul. 

Don't  believe the belief you have given it your all and that it runs dry or its worthless because giving never stops and its love that gives. 

We just may not know how much we do give and not everyone sees all the giving those little moments that mean big in His eyes and that drops a shining stone into an awaiting crown that's not sealed with a red ribbon or plaque but with eternity.

Just because it hasn't been seen or may not be done doesn't mean it should have been or couldn't have been. 

All we have to give is what we have been given and we have been given the greatest gifts of love and Spirit. 

His Spirit that lives and breaths in us that fades from mind too often and which I tend to forget, this powerful, resurrecting Spirit that speaks life and and truths and hope and salvations eternity.

Give a testament a testament to Him no matter the circumstances though life is hard and can crush and bruise the soul  it can still give Spirit. Turn cheek and give love that keeps renewing, strengthening, testing, encouraging. Commandment love.

Give the commandment love that commands to be given in homes and across seas and green and desert and it never stops and fills hearts and souls and spirits, its fathomless and knows no boundaries, selfless.

The joy He is, is Love. 

The Hope He is, is Love. 

The Promise He is, is Love. 

The Freedom He is, is Love.

All we have to give is what He has made us to be, Him in His own image.

And its fibers fly, woven, braided and faded and it soars away and I let it fly this rope that's tangled and tucked and yanked for some things are meant to be let go and given away to find the true Giver who gives chances and grace and mercies and salvation. 

Who wipes away every tear. 

The love of the Giver is He always gives and there is another and always another and its grabbed, that woven fiber, in this tired, worn hand and "in His time" He works all things beautiful.


**This is part of the Proverbs 31 bloghop for the online book study by Lysa TerKeurst "Am I Messing My Kids Up," a wonderful read.**

"Don't Lose Heart"

A heart string was pulled.

The kind that slaps you back into reality. 

But then in breaks the light and the pastor speaks on exactly what teased, plucked, and pulled this string.

And He is so right and I am so wrong and we are all wronged, and everyone hurts when God no longer remembers. 

But we do remember, our flesh does, and we eat from it, live it, and share it with others this wrong, this mistake, this unfortunate sin nature.

Share sins and it consumes every step, every word, every action, it breathes its lie of destruction with its silent whispers.

But God, He wants nothing from this or of this. For it says bring no gift to God. 

He doesn't want it with this in hearts. 

This wrong as the motivating factor on how to live this one precious gift of life; these moments that waste in wants and pity's of self.

If God no longer remembers why the starving of flesh and souls peace to give way to fear, uncompromise, and pity.

It must be because God is no longer the center of hearts. When He is not the center We are and we miss. 

We miss out and we may not care. Time too much time has flown by; too many seeds have been sown that have fallen.

But we are always planting seeds..the seeds of life..of souls..of spirits..of fruit...of forgiveness..of love.

Don't lose heart, the seeds have not run out for the Giver gives them plentifully and we must sow the seeds that will reap harvests not just on earth but Gods harvest in His heart which will reap in ours.

Summer=sight of seedlings breaking through revealing there show of exuberant beauty, of its survival, of its root hidden underground strong, entwined in the reach soil that nourishes.

Entwine the roots of hearts and of souls into His word so that it nourishes and produces such a show of His glory that it stems life into Us the life that bears His fruit.

Don't lose heart.

Seeds, every instance is a chance to plant a seed.

Seeds will fall and scatter and will lay by the wayside useless and we may feel as it does useless, scattered but then we find the strength to plant a new seed and we hope and tend to it on His promises that love will sustain life.

Don't lose heart. The Giver rejoices when a seed has revealed its true heart broken and molded and tended by Him. 

Its the honest strive to dig deep into the depths of our soul and spirit to find His that gives us the light to shine even when the clouds hover dark. 

His light protects and tends and it grows this seed while time takes time and don't lose heart, it will grow if cared for and looked after. 

And they will come those that wish to choke the good and the life and the strength from them, don't grow weary. 

Seeds tenderly cared for are souls tenderly sown. 

Go through seeds. 

Some fall and some flourish but don't grow weary, plant the seeds that will reap a harvest of His words, His peace, and His joy, His blessings.

"Let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we will reap if we do not grow weary." Galations 6:9

When A Father Builds

I see smoke rise as pieces and chips of wood float in the wind and around his face as he squints his pale blue eyes.

Its a piercing sound.

I hear it often. Day and night.

The sound of wood being sawed, hammered, nailed, followed  by the mounds of sawdust left in heaps covering the ground and grass. It later beckons the children to toss as confetti and I quickly say a prayer it stays out of their eyes.

His workroom stays filled with the smell of wood, of oak and of hours of squinting and sawing and building and sanding, a mess but a beautiful mess not seen till the end.

Its a sound most days I wish would go away, that ear piercing wail, that produces the finest pieces of work in its completion and which the neighbors often bring up in passing eager to see what he's building next.

I pull my books from its shelf, file my children's schoolwork on it, place my nightly glass of water on top, type upon it. Its more than I realize what hes made from wood that now sits in our home.

And the latest a bunk bed- play house for the children above my oldests bed. 

The days and hours it took were exhausting to watch. Time. Time could be better spent doing something more important, for me. It seemed as if it would never be completed and with me hovering hands on waist its a wonder it did.

All the trips back and forth from room to work area, the tracked shoe marks of sawdust and dirt through the house, the heaps of sawdust on my sons bed and floor, both were vacuumed out daily.

I disapproved and saw it as wasteful even though the wood was free it was a waste of time, of moments, of adding this and that, unnecessary.

I didn't see the value in it and I let him know I didn't. 

Those instances when you open the mouth and out comes frustrations that were hidden until the big final moment of reveal and all is released and in the end you hang your head, ashamed, that was me on Father's Day.

I spewed and he listened and listened and then I heard his words and my heart tore as his eyes swelled with silent tears and his brow creased and it revealed the lines of time that weren't present a year ago. And my heart sank more when he spoke.

Building this house for the boys all the hours and minutes, wood and mess and sweat, was his way of wishing and wanting to build us a house, to give us a real house of our own and since he couldn't give me or the boys that this was all he could do. This was all he had. And his heart showed in it and I couldn't see it. 

His words rang true "House or no house of ours we have faith and love and always hope... that's what builds a home...you can never love too much or respect too much." 

All I saw was wasted time and mess and all he saw was love and faith and a chance to give happiness. 

And all the boys saw was a place to hide and pretend, pretend that they were someplace else and they would holler and scream and peak through holes and play in a freedom that adults only dream of.

But when they were through they opened the door, climbed the steps back down to solid ground and laughed and smiled the smiles that reached the ears and they would go search him out and then they three would holler and scream and laugh.

And I could only stand and watch and shake my head, wondering when this mess of me would ever understand. How long would it take till I could see?

I needed to look deeper.Look deeper, past the mess because hidden underneath is a beautiful meaning that can't be seen unless we see.

Lay all of life's messes bare before him and remember to see as He sees; I am a mess but He sees me as His beautiful mess, a beautiful mess that He gladly gave Himself for so that I could see my worth in the mess and rejoice in it. We will always have mess but its a beauty because of Him.

And so I saw in my husband a need fulfilled, a hearts need and as I look around at all of the wood that graces our home I remember the motive: You can never love too much.

Sometimes You Just Have to Throw It Down

I wanted to throw it down that pen.

To give it up.

To curl up with shame and sadness and just mourn over past mistakes and choices.

They haunt you even though you know your Savior walks with your hand in his. 

They still linger over you, the rotten scent of pasts and you cry out and pray, beg, for a change and when it comes the answer is not what you wanted to hear.

Its a fence, a dark fence that if allowed could shut out all that is the soul keeping its captive reclused by fear, worry, and self doubt.

And so I can throw it in, give up, soak in the criticisms, drown in the pasts, or I can draw close and believe that He is present and He hears and He knows the heart, the soul.

I had to choose.

I could grow angry, remorseful, and weep over circumstances which I did, or I could try and live the days and not let them just past and fade away, mundanely.

I felt like I had been doing it before this trying to grasp the minutes of the day, the looks on sweet faces, the laughter, and the memories. It can drive you crazy this desire to hold on to what will be forgotten in months and years ahead.

And it all brings me back to THE resting place and the fact that I can't change past choices even though I wish I could even though I prayed I could, that He would and He will because I believe.

Drawing closer, is a way of realizing the depth of our need for someone outside this world, someone who gives grace and mercy and loves us like an only child, who will never let this soul and heart down.

So I put away the pen and the past few weeks have been a whirlwind of recitals, field trips, discoveries, vacations, relaxing, lessons, and a sense of  peace when it comes to myself.

And sometimes you just have to put it down.

Those things that ring "you."

That bring enjoyment and a certain since of fulfillment, drop, toss aside and be "okay" with it.

Why? Because its called sacrifice and by sacrificing its the laying down of oneself  to see, to rest, to enjoy. 

Harvest the early mornings snuggled next to little bodies, the busy days of markers and paper and paints and lunches, and afternoons of books, pool trips, and evenings of sloppy joes and ice cream and long warm walks.

In the end you see yourself, you find the idea, you find His presence, His joy in His creations.

To soak in what was meant without having to be heard.

Because you ARE heard by the One and the ones who loves you the most.

And I drop the pen because I hear.

Early, I hear the creak of the door and see the little body stumble with morning legs, and messy hair, in sleepy sea side pajamas and I rush and pick his little body up, hold him close, kiss his swollen cheek, as he whispers, "Mom......books?"

Yes, this is the sacrifice.

I will gladly give away mine for his. 

And so I will take up this pen for His and for them and see, see where it leads but only during time that's not beckoned by the presence of a little hand in mine.

Because I can drop the pen.

But I never want to let go, ever, to drop the hands, those little hands that need a sacrifice.

A Lifetime of Kingdom

"You have to decide what kingdom it is you belong to, what kingdom you serve."

It appeared like a flash of red out of the corner of my eye and then it was gone.

It belonged though for I can still see it when I close my eyes bounding over the gravel road dust kicking up from behind its trail as it made its way around the winding driveway of days ago. It was easy to spot at the local groceries, on the main street, and around town, this red and when I saw it, I knew it was hers.

And now it was here. 

A quick flash of red. It couldn't be but yes, it was. For that red I couldn't mistake nor the silhouette of the driver. 

It slipped the words from my mouth, "Mom's here?" To which my oldest replied in repeated excited tones of Grandma's here and where was she. I quickly cleaned and stashed so she could walk through the door.

And she did and she stayed.

The boys would plop on her lap or sit by her side listening to the stories she would read or the shows she would play, drawn to the way her presence beckoned love and gentleness. 

A Grandmothers heart grows and twines itself in their hearts and it brings a certain safeness, love, and protection that they feel and understand.

Every evening before bed there were questions of the mornings light and if she would be there. 

She was and there was no rush. 

And she spoke of Kingdom and Psalms, of pasts and wrongs, of life and love, of motherhood and family, of choices.

We picked from the treats.

We picked from the treats and it reminded me of being a little girl and the way she would try to make the days special, the outings a surprise, the simple things exciting for most of our life growing up she was poor but she made it seem rich for we were young, happy, and carefree.  

We had no clue. 

She made the days rain with joy even though hers were shadowed with clouds but it didn't show, for we were her sunshine and we grew up knowing we were loved, believing we had much, our shoulders were never heavy with pressures or stresses or expectations we lived freely. She carried it.

And the days slip fast, they flee, from pigtails and braids to school days and drivers licenses and we forget, and we grow up and it becomes Me and we forget the Her in us. 

Somehow with the world backing me, chanting its untruths changed the way I see her and I begin to doubt, the doubt of a daughter of a Mom's way, heart and soul. 

Life was hard and it tested and tried her but she did the best she could with what she had and the life she was given.

And then I flip, flip through pages with finger and mind and I try, try to see her life as a little girl, a young mother, and now older and I remember, forget and am thrusted back in to the world of Mom and of how little I know and remember and time does not stop, its days know no halts.

A lifetime.

I hear her, I don't see, I cry, I remember, I laugh and it takes a lifetime a lifetime of sits, and talks, and holded hands, memories, deep looks, to know, to fully know it takes a lifetime.

I can never assume to know for I do not.

Whatever time it is how much or little, nothing absolutely nothing that has crossed paths, disappointments, mishaps could or will stop this lifetime of honor and knowing.

With her she brought her words of Kingdom and how we choose, choose the kingdom that we will serve a lifetime. This worlds with its fleshly cravings of mine and more or His Kingdom of peaceful love and grace filled days.

I choose the peaceful, grace filled days and when I think about what those days could be like I think back upon those little girl days of happiness that she made from nothing but her presence.

It reminds me of a childlike wishful dream of a white mane blowing in the wind, of hooves pounding the grass filled hills as it races, its neck twisting in unbridled freedom as it rears its front legs because there it was free and the dream was lived.  

She is gone but I can still see her as she goes about because I know and I always will and I always love her. 

A lifetime.    

If I Can I Will

And kindness speaks and I hear it.

Spring is finally here!

Yet I suspect we will have more snow within a few days. The longing for warmths arrival never ceases to leave my mind for I would rather be by the beach soaking in the sun, walking along the shore with my boys, digging for..something (with boys it doesn't matter), planting flowers, herbs, and vegetables year round. 

Something just rings..peace.

There's so much to be done in warmth, very little in cold except to lay in haste of springs return. Unless of course you like the snow which I do for about the first two falls, then its brace for the chill.

Yellow, I am loving yellow especially the three yellow flowers my husband brought back from the sunfresh store while on break. But they were met with raised eyebrows and scowls of "how much?"  The look, the look he had when he opened the bag I will remember, such happiness met with such disdain. Yes, I should kick myself in the head sometimes. Yet he knows me.

So first of spring was spent outside where it should have been. With two little boys running around the park, laughing, and being free along with the other many children let loose to enjoy warmths short arrival.

And yes I ran and hollered and growled chasing them like a crazy old lady noticing the glares but not giving them a seconds thought. 

If I can I will.

Another new saying to go along with my ceasing to complain.

If I can do it I will and it doesn't matter how well.

If I can try I can outlive the lie that time restricts me.

If I can learn to be grateful and not fear the unknown, contentment will come.

If I can keep my eyes on God and not on others, freedom of spirit and soul will arise.

If I can push aside all the thoughts of you cant's, I can I will try.

For there's only one life, one trip to which we can't revisit.

And time hears no cries for halts or stops or take backs but present only for the now, for tomorrows days of what we choose to make it, if we can but try.

And only one God can steer this trip, better make it a good one.

On the Days When We May Feel Like Trash

So some days you just might feel like "trash" or you don't but I do. 

I do and lately there have been a little too many of them..these "trash" days. 

There's no better word for putting it at least in my book. 

All this complaining, expectations lost, grumbling, self pity, worry, feelings of failure, wonder, anxiety, and the list goes on. 

Everywhere I turn I read of giving thanks, finding joy etc it will cure all of it and sometimes I want to throw it out the window all these quotes, niceties, and just give it this thanks and its so easy..and I am thinking..right..if only.

Yes, its written I see it but I'm still working on Love I can't give thanks if I don't Love to give. 

And its easy to give thanks when you have things to be thankful for but its hard when you feel like "trash" and you don't have anything and the days go by in wonder and mystery.

Yes, I have my wonderful children, husband, health and yes, I am thankful ten fold for them over and over again but this other "thanks" I could out speak it with complaining and all my wants, wishes and should have beens.

It can swallow you up and consume you this nature of it isn't fair, everyone else has it and I don't, and what about me? Yes, I am acting like a spoiled child but humbly and honestly.

So I'm on this quest to stop. Stop my complaining and moaning for I could out wail a dog and just go with it and fly with this resting peace that comes but fades each time I open my mouth. 

I don't want to be "trash" I want to be His treasure and his treasure.

For anothers person's trash is anothers persons treasure and even the little him sees it and still loves it this "trash." 

He holds it high and lofty, parades it down the streets, around the corner; he's proud of his trash even though busy onlookers brush past, zoom by with stares. 

But he doesn't see it and keeps on loving this trash day after day.

To him its not trash but worth something much more than that for it gives his heart gladness and joy. 

It may look like trash as I feel I look but to him, its not, I pray its not that I'm his treasure. 

He find this trash thats been tossed aside, thrown out to rot, and he loves it.

I'm reminded of God and how He parades us, His children whom He loves, and shelters, and died for, unashamedly.

I may see myself as "trash" but God sees me as His beauty and He only sees me not my possessions, my surroundings, but me purely me.

The "joy set before Him," the reason He endured the cross, the reason He spoke and life entered for me, us..we are His greatest joy. 

Finding joy in Him and in myself and in my family, Loving to give and learning to thank, regardless of circumstances..hard..but this treasure.

And He loves this "trash" and forgives and forgets and builds and His Spirit comes alive in its awakening unravel.  

We are His greatest treasure, the joy set before Him.  And yes I give thanks for this love.

Ten Minutes

Ten Minutes and only ten because that's how long its going to take, it's all I can spare, and all I can allow myself now only ten minutes.

I can finally sit in silence if I choose yet classical music plays, a favorite. Ten minutes alone and undistracted except for thoughts of to do's that creep and fill the mind but I push and give way to silences stillness.

The birds are back, their chirping calls awakening the world to the presence of spring as they hop across colorless grass pecking between its folds. Nature soaks its sun as bud tipped trees awaken, little bugs scatter here and there across the pavement, beginnings of buds emerge and green grass shoots up sporadically among its brown remnants. Children run and play in its sweetness.

Ten minutes.

I feel the breeze filtering in through the open window and it reminds me of long ago little girl days and the fan that would blow on my face as I slept during hot, summer nights.

As you get older it seems as if your senses come alive with what before only sneaked past in the rush of the young excited, anticipated life.

Now in the ten minutes I praise, I worry, I remember, I rationalize, I rest, and I thank.

Grateful so grateful to live a life of chasing little boys, fixing lunches and dinners, cleaning toilets, changing diapers, doing lessons, repeating words over and over, cleaning behind little ears, holding small hands, and big ones, folding sheets, buying groceries, playing sports, reading books between two little bodies, laughing at sweetness, fixing the toilet handle again and again, ruining the dinner, misplacing things I need, the cracks in the table, breaking up bickers, picking up toys, sicknesses again, balancing the checkbook, taking out the trash, forgetting to do's, worries over tomorrows come and I complain and bite my tongue to hold back, whisper to be strong and remember Love that gives and little hearts and...ten minutes.

Take ten minutes more to sit in silence, think, listen.

It's okay and why? Because He lives and yes facing tomorrow because He does and I do and its going to be okay. It might not be what it was but it never is, it's learning to live with praise, contentment, and sacrifice. 

Learning to live not as myself but as Himself, His Spirit, not as others say it should be or I wish it be but abundantly in Him; it's hard but its what life should be lived for because its eternally present later.

And I hear the sound of wheels along the gravel road, the squeak of little faithful parts and its gone, ten minutes gone, and it's all good. 

I will miss this sound someday the creak of little wheels that need oiled and the little feet that push them and I soak and store and hustle to the kitchen...dinner awaits, thankful times, tomorrows ten minutes and more.