Category Archives: writing

Mama Duck

She keeps me grounded while faithfully tending her eggs. At last count there were four. Now she is consistently present when I pass by. There may be more. She keeps them hidden.

She offers a destination. I’m going to check on the duck. There is reason to head out for a walk and a reminder that it is enough to do small tasks faithfully.

She sits, rotating on her nest, building it up around her. Sometimes I see a beak, others a tail. Her eye looks out, feathers expand defensively. Small movements grow new things.

With nowhere else to be, she rests, trusting the process going on beneath her. I remember to trust my process, too.

I love mama duck. My kids laugh. I promise them I will not write about her compulsively. Only a little.

So that is what I do this first day of April, April Fools Day. I write about mama duck, because though there are many other things to say, I am tired and my words are few.

I climb onto my nest and sit, waiting, thankful for the gift of tea at a busy day’s end. I am grateful that my ducklings are growing up and that this April Fool’s Day has been kind.

First Day of Spring

This first day of spring brings a brand new thing
A push towards the light
Movement

A walk that is brisk, a sky that is crisp
Steps taken by faith
Courage

A change in some limiting past beliefs
A facing of fear
Growing

Not knowing the outcome, still pressing on
Trusting the process
Patience

Holding the truth that this labor is hard
Yet laboring on
Birthing

Whatever happens this first day of spring
Held close to this heart
Soaring


Love in a Cup of Pens

On an ideal morning I rise early, gather my Bible, devotional book, and prayer journal and head for a quiet space to read, think, and reflect. My favorite destination, the TV room couch. The trick lies in rising early enough to get there before it is taken over by a child or pet.

Shuffling out of bed, pouring coffee, hunkering down, I begin my morning reading routine. Sitting across from me is my love, doing his own thing. We are together in the early morning silence. On an ideal morning.

I wonder what it is like from his perspective. I imagine it is not ideal to be interrupted by conversation surrounding the random thoughts that pop into my head. It might not be easy to have me hunker down to begin journaling only to discover I have no pen, a common occurrence. (The need for tissues is another.)

He is always kind and patient with my interruptions and random thoughts.

One morning I felt overwhelmingly loved as I plopped down in my usual space and discovered a full cup of pens waiting for me on the end table. It was such a kind, generous act. I was seen and cared for, and I was grateful.

I have fallen off of my early-morning TV room wagon and cannot seem to climb my way back on. It has been weeks since sitting in my favorite space, and most mornings my mind shifts into overdrive as soon as my eyes open. I think of all the things all at once.

Then I turn off my alarm and fall back asleep.

The pen cup came to mind today. I walked into the TV room to see if it was where I had left it and if there were any pens remaining. Yes, it was, and yes, there were (three of them!).

Maybe I will put my early- morning book stack back in the basket under the coffee table next to the cup of pens. Maybe I will try to rise early, once again, and inhabit that quiet space with my coffee and best friend.

Maybe it is okay to push the reset switch on my early mornings and start over again, cheered on by a sunny cup of pens. Where are you feeling the nudge to push reset, these days, Dear Reader?

March Snow

March snow evokes memories
Of a 22 year old woman
Waking to a heap of it on the back deck of her two-story apartment

Look at this!

Her husband excitedly calls to her
in the early morning hours
Snow is not expected, this third day of March

I think my water just broke!

She is not sure, though it is her second pregnancy
Standing in the small living room
Water running down her leg, she hopes that is what it is

The baby is coming today!

Unesxpected
Birth is not on the radar, yet
This is early for her, for them

Get the midwife!

Chains on tires
Driving through deep snow through back country roads
The Mennonite midwife is retrieved

I’m glad we planned this at home!

She hurries up and waits
The day is long
Baby two is full of surprises

It’s a boy!

Birthed into her room
5:30 in the evening
Sisters and husband present to help

What’s wrong with him!

Skinny arms and legs
Lusty cries, annoyed at being disturbed from warm slumber
All she can see is that he is too small

Nothing is wrong!

This is normal
Seven pounds four ounces is a good size for a newborn
Two pounds smaller than her firstborn seems tiny to her

He is perfect!

She dresses him in a terrycloth sleeper
He swims in it
So small

Welcome, Baby Boy!

Hunkering down for the night
Mother and baby snuggle together
Beginning a new chapter of life.

Water and Manna

Yesterday I woke with overwhelm and anxiety. Some of it stemmed from the eight kid factor, a common theme in my story. Other was from an over-responsible, irrational carrying of the weight of the world, not mine to bear.

Naming the feelings to the one lying next to me and releasing what was not mine to carry back to the one who holds the world in his hands helped. I still felt grief. Sometimes there is just sadness over all that is broken, and I weep.

Reading Exodus 16 and 17 brought me to water from a rock and manna from heaven. God’s people were being led the long way through the wilderness to prepare them to enter the promised land. This journey brought supernatural provision.

I was reminded of daily sustenance provided to me, physically, spiritually, emotionally as I walk with others (any myself) the long way through the wilderness. I felt gratitude and confidence to move forward in the day.

That feeling lasted all of an hour, before reality struck in the form of unexpected bills and adult responsibilities. Things that I am responsible for.

Fear rose in my core and erupted in the form of anger. I lashed out in frustration over all that feels too muchyet continues. Gratitude fell away replaced by entitlement and expectation. Confidence gave way to doubt and insecurity.

It felt unfair to be losing my grounding, even as others depended on me for theirs. I had an appointment to keep, a visit to make, kids to pick up from school, volunteer responsibilities, more work to do.

I did the next thing, because someone needed me to. This found me in a waiting room without any of my usual comforts. I had my art journal in a tote bag but no books to read or markers to draw with or writing instruments to use.

Nearby was a basket of books. I pulled out Morning and Evening by Charles H. Spurgeon and out of curiosity opened to February 4, morning. Would God meet me here? In stunned silence I read this.

On a coffee table covered with magazines was a coloring book and package of Crayola Twistable crayons. Picking up the crayons I took out my art journal and began drawing water from a rock and manna from heaven. I focused on this quote,

He has opened the rock to supply thee, and fed thee with manna that came down from heaven.

It was such grace to be reminded of daily provision, to feel seen, and to create. I felt a settling in my soul and a rest in my spirit.

Water and manna.

A New Grip

Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen. It gives us assurance about things we cannot see. . . So take a new grip with your tired hands and strengthen your weak knees. Mark out a straight path for your feet so that those who are weak and lame will not fall but become strong. Hebrews 11: 1,12,13 NLT

I sat across from one of my adult children in a local coffee shop, steaming mugs of cayenne mocha in our hands. The invitation extended to me resulted in conversation about hard things. This is the part of parenting I did not anticipate when, by faith, I opened my young self to accepting any blessings that God gave to me ~ because children are the greatest blessing.

Listening intently to words being spoken, truth being told. I affirmed that speaking the reality of growing up in our home was not dishonoring, but necessary for healing to happen. How I long for healing.

My journey with mothering closely mirrors my walk with God. I struggle with shame over choices, and seeming lack of choice, that resulted in eight humans birthing from my body. Yet I am not the author of their lives. I am part of the means by which their lives came into the world, the unseen.

It is deeply painful that what I viewed as an act of faith and trust in God resulted in harm to hearts in my home. The shadow was not lurking outside. It was within the walls.

My husband and I wounded our children by our inability to shepherd and parent well. We set up scenarios that caused the weak to fall rather than grow strong. Our ideal selves collided with, and were overtaken by, our real selves.

Twenty-eight years ago when I was a young engaged woman looking forward to a wedding day as the solution to all problems, dogma came not with the click of a mouse, but in the form of passed books and live conversations. It was perpetuated in community with others, gathered around the same ideals. It flourished behind locked church doors before fear of terrorism was a thing.

I was young and deeply impressionable. I was full of faith, however misguided. I had hope for a future better than what was in my past.

The same faith that believed if I only opened my life and womb to God, blessings would flow, now opens my heart to coffee and hard questions from the fruit of those ideals. I realize that this is a blessing, the ability to hold the tension of sitting in truth when everything inside of me longs to bolt.

Faith is a mystery. Sometimes I ask myself, Am I walking by faith or living in denial? Because faith and denial can look awfully similar. I know it is faith when I look at, instead of away from the pain. Looking into my child’s hurting eyes is an act of faith.

In doing so, I take a new grip with tired hands. My weak knees are strengthened by these redemptive conversations. Talking through hard places in our family story allows for new paths to be marked out, ones that are straight, direct, and true.  

I long for my children to rise up with this strength. I have confidence that they will the more they engage the truth of their childhood stories. The young woman in me also rises and grows stronger as she speaks her truth and names her harm.

This is the mystery, the unseen, the confidence, the faith that I hold. I do not know why I still have faith. I cannot explain or define it, but it is real. It is a part of me that should not be viable, yet it grows. It grows over coffees and breakfasts and phone calls and text messages. To this confident mystery, I cling in hope.

Happy Decade Day

Someone special begins a new decade of life today!

Her heart holds its stories close
Every so often one
Rises to the surface to be

Noticed and told
And she shares it, laughter
Mingled with curiosity
Excusing the format of

Ink penned words
Scratched on the back of

Cut paper
And not exactly written as a
Real story
Yet shared authentically
Not stopping until the end

And I get the gift of
Noticing more of the woman
Destined to be my mother

Still growing, learning, curious
Holding much in a heart that
Expands to reach those she

Loves
I long to know more of the
Kindness inside and how she
Endured hardships and
Struggles to arrive at the place she is now

But those are her treasures to share
I love her and
Remain curious to
Discover more of who
She is as she enters a new decade of life.

Happy Birthday, Mom! I hope this decade is your best one, yet!!!!!




Top 10 of 2018

I post links to my top 10 blogs on the Facebook page at the end of each year. This year I decided to crate a separate post linking them together in one space for the curious and also for myself.

These posts are the ones most read over the year.

#10 Mystery Solved where I have a trigger and meltdown and am completely vulnerable with feelings surfacing in my 19 year old self.

#9 Free Bread where there is provision in a stressful situation.

#8 Composting the Fart: The Weekly Baab

#7 In Between which explains my feelings during a time of transition in my home.

#6 Unprepared for Goodbye faces the loss of a special person in my life.

#5 Up Next talks more about further story training work I did in 2018.

#4 Hello, New Beginning is about just that. The gift of a new beginning.

#3 Mother of the Groom because I was also one of those this year.

#2 Goodbye, Costco since we had to part ways for a season.

#1 Goodbye 25 Years which details the close of a chapter.

It was clearly a year of endings and beginnings and transitions. I am eager to see what 2019 holds and plan to continue writing on the blog. Stay tuned!

All is Calm

In this moment all is calm. 

It is almost laughable that I am sitting on the couch in one of my favorite places with a small terrier pressed up against me and a calico cat looking on from the far cushion. Anyone that knows me recognizes the absurdity of this scenario.

The only sound is a light purring. Sunlight streams through the window, just missing my eyes.


I do not want to move my body, so I lower my head a bit.

This moment of calm is brought to me by a messy kitchen and a pile of laundry. It comes from an intentional choice to sit and spend time with my words rather than with a broom and dustpan.

The animals recognize this and take full advantage of the space. They live in it. They bring their presence to me, one of them leaning in close. This is how they spend their days, and they invite me to experience their world.


Paws folded, one eye open, Zephyr shifts and snores. She has nowhere to be right now, is in no hurry. Dewey leans closer to me me each time she adjusts.


I want the calm to stay, but I know that it can’t. The day marches on, and I must go with it. So I rise carefully, a habit formed while tending my babies. Let sleeping dogs (and babies and cats) lie.

In a most unusual turn of events, neither one moves, save to adjust for comfort. They curl into parallel balls of fur and sink into sleep. I leave behind an imprint of just that and exit the room, carrying the calm with me.

Peace, Love, Joy

December days roll along. The felt tree fills as we settle into a groove of lighting advent candles during dinner and putting up the piece at the end.

This year’s reading time is less structured and, as a result, more peaceful. Whatever it is I have been striving for year after year has been laid to rest. I continue to learn to embrace the present.

Embracing the present looks like trusting the words I read yesterday morning in Deuteronomy 31:6,7 NLT Be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or panic . . . for the Lord your God will personally go ahead of you. He will neither fail you nor abandon you.

How quickly I flee from love to fear, from peace to panic. These words reminded me again of my anchor. I can trust the one who goes before me, ordering my steps.

I love the picture of handmade felt Advent pieces in the header. I wanted to plan a post around it, but nothing came. The words I tried felt awkward and clunky. Instead of joy, I felt burdened and pressured for something to say.

Listening to Jason Upton’s A Table Full of Strangers, vol 2 I heard the line Peace, Love, and Joy come from you. Quickly I pulled up the picture for my pieces and there were the words. 

Love

Joy

Peace

That is how inspiration came to me. 

Maybe you will be inspired, also. Blessings, Friend!