Thirty

Our firstborn son turned 30 today. God, you saw him, didn't you, nestled like a little seed in my middle that day I stood shivering by the car, 16 and pregnant, clinging to Steve so I didn't slip from consciousness? You saw him ten years later and twenty and now thirty, strong and brave and faithful. You saw him reaching millions of people through education, and saving the lives of two toddlers, and bringing light to more lives than we can count (but you have numbered). You saw him as a fierce leader and a brother and a husband and a daddy. You knew it would all be okay, even as we stood there unsure of how it would all come together. It did, and I am grateful. 

Eucharisteo.

In Search of Simplicity

I noticed this morning that I have a habit of placing my hands on either side of my head, running my fingers about halfway through my hair, then resting my head there with my elbows on my desk. With a long sigh, I sometimes sit here for several minutes thinking, calming, processing, until the thought occurs that one of my teens might notice and worry that I'm upset.

If I am alone I can stay in that spot for a long time, and I have to say I actually enjoy it. It feels centered, or something. Focused. Peaceful. It's about as opposite from upset as it gets.

Only just over a month into 2011, my theme of "Simplify" is hitting home with a sharpness that only one who has known the blessing/curse of sensory over-stimulation can appreciate. If the goal is simplicity, how come what I'm feeling is so often complete mental/emotional/spiritual chaos?

No one warned me that this journey to introspection, of coming home, of discovering who I am in this world, in God, would make me wonder if I was losing my mind. No fair.

But had I known, would I have nodded that timid okay to His prompting of the theme?

I would really, really like to say yes.

Wonder and Lightning

I watched him descend the stairs at the ice forum this evening, his lanky frame sauntering in characteristic fashion and making me smile at memories of watching him walk across parking lots and down mall midways and across rooms for more than thirty years now. I watched him until he disappeared around the corner and into the corridor below.

I sat back and breathed deeply, the noise and beautiful chaos of a professional hockey game surrounding me like a comforting blanket and warming me against the chill of the ice below. The bellowing of horns and yelling of fans with arms and hands flailing in giant waves around the arena only deepened my sense of happiness.

This is my life. And it is a beautiful life.

On the ride home I could not stop smiling. We considered stopping somewhere for pie and coffee, then reasoned that we could pick up whole pies at the store and make our own coffee for less money and enjoy it (and whatever else our imaginations might dream up) in the comfort of our night at home alone.

Our reasoning was perfect.

Lately I've been giving more thought to enjoying each moment for what it is, for what it offers, for the beauty it holds, rather than worrying about other things or thinking about much of anything outside that teaspoon of time. Tonight I could feel that deep appreciation for every tiny detail of our evening together, like the way the scrapers left little mounds of powdery ice for the shovels to scoop up, the way the Zamboni hummed across the surface and left it shining like glass, the smiles and shrieks of delight from fans caught by the camera and displayed on the giant screen overhead.

Our team lost, but neither of us seemed to care.

The walk from the forum back to the car, stopping to listen to the street musician drumming on paint buckets, listening to old favorite songs on the radio, chatting about plans for the next few months...all of it was a gift.

What a blessing, this life. This simple, lovely, beautiful life.

The truth is in the details.

I write my truth at my desk in the little office space off the kitchen, with windows all around but often closed to keep out much of the light. There is something comforting about semi-darkness, not to hide me but to allow calm for thinking.

I write my truth in my head nearly every waking moment, doing what nearly every writing coach and book tells the writer to do...to notice the details, the specifics, the things our senses only pull from our surroundings when we engage them. My senses are engaged. Always.

Anne Lamott says, "There is ecstasy in paying attention."

I have often thought of myself as odd for paying such close attention to detail in my surroundings, in the people I encounter. I take people-watching to new heights. It makes it very easy to create character profiles when I have a million characters wandering around in my mind all the time. But there is another value in paying attention, in looking more closely. In noticing. There is a validation of worth that is whispered or spoken or screamed aloud when our details are noticed.

Somebody cares enough to see who I really am.

Our truth is in our details, and our truth deserves to be told. Why else do we live, except to love and to adore the Creator for all of this...for every blessing, for every moment, for every detail, and how else do we express this living except through the tiny pieces of the whole, the textures, the aromas, the beauty of our day?

There is nothing ordinary about this life.

There is nothing mundane, nothing plain, nothing uninteresting in this beautiful life.

It's time we told our truth, but we have to notice it first.

I want to be here, now, ever present in this moment, noticing and describing the details as though my very life depends on it. Because the memory of the life I've lived truly does.

God, keep me present in the moment with a pen in my hand.

The Simple Woman's Daybook (1/1)

What a blessing to participate in the Simple Woman's Daybook blogging connection.

FOR TODAY
Outside my window...the clouds sprawl grayish across the sky as far as I can see. It is my favorite kind of day, or at least it will be when the rain comes and I can hear the thunder pushing its way through the billows.

I am thinking...that my passion for writing has only grown stronger over the years, and I only see it growing stronger still in the years to come.

I am thankful for...my husband, who last evening turned my chair to face his, placed his hands against my cheeks, and spoke softly but insistently, "I am glad you are writing again. It makes you happy, and it makes me happy."

From the learning rooms...my daughter has not yet opened her math books that arrived today. Math is a struggle for her, and it makes her feel inferior. If only she could understand how genuinely gifted she is.

From the kitchen...Things have been quieter today. It will get busier later when I don my apron and start preparing our dinner of sesame ginger boneless chicken wings.

I am wearing...soft black capris, my green USF t-shirt, and sandals.

I am creating...pathways of memory to explore and then word, one by one, reaching backward to pull them forward and share them in some way with the world. Memories are stories waiting to be told.

I am going...nowhere for the remainder of the day, which means I will be at home, my favorite place in the world.

I am reading...A Writer's Book of Days. I will be reading Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts as soon as it arrives.

I am hoping...it storms through the night.

I am hearing...the chirping of Mama's bird clock. It always reminds me of how much I wish she was still here.

Around the house...are candles of varying scents, mostly homey aromas that invite the heart to open and rest and be a child again.

One of my favorite things...is the way my precious friends have gathered behind me in support and encouragement of my writing. It's hard to express to them the impact of their kind whispers. They can't know how much it means.

A few plans for the rest of the week: A meeting, making sure Rosie gets to and from dance rehearsals and a friend's sleepover, a trip to the meat market, maybe lunch at Brocato's, church on Sunday followed by dinner at Nana & Papa's to celebrate two of the family birthdays. It amazes me that our oldest son turns 30 next week.

Here is picture for thought I am sharing...

Photo: I took this through a 1"-thick pane of tinted glass. I love the way it
colorizes the entire image. I didn't see a need to edit it in any way.




From my heart...
Lisa

Remember Me?

I know this with a certainty that applies to few things in my life. God gave me my beautiful family--my husband and children and grandchildren--at least in part to bless and fill an empty that has been part of my life nearly from the beginning.

See, throughout my life I've found myself wondering

Hello...can you see me? Do you remember me?

Ironically, this didn't happen nearly as often with friends as it did with some of my own family members.

It hurts to have to beg to be a sister. I just wanted to be a sister. And of them all, one chose me. One chose me as his sister and he was my brother and we were family.

He left this earth far too young and I was left emptier than before. I miss him.

I hold his journals among my most treasured possessions. Sometimes I bring them out and read them just to feel close to him again, to hear his funky laugh, to hear him sing his deep, mellow baritone or make odd faces that made us all laugh.

The others are busy with their own lives. I understand. I'm not angry. But I do feel the empty where they should be, should have been all along. All along while I cried out mute like a bad dream where no one can hear and life goes on without noticing the need. A few years ago I stopped crying.

I hold my husband and my babies close and I bless God that they can see me and hear me and that they love me as much as I love them.

Love fills the empties.

They may not remember me, but I will always remember them. And I will always know, somewhere deep within where I still think about it just a little bit, the sister I could have been to them, given the chance.

In the end, if they ever do remember me, I pray they know that I loved them.

Because I do.

My Comfort

Looking back through blog entries from years past on my old faithful Xanga blog, I came across one I had nearly forgotten about. I haven't forgotten the intensity I felt the day I wrote it, though. I can't forget that.

March 3, 2003

I want to freeze this moment and save it for a million more moments in my lifetime when I want or need to revisit it and touch its magic and taste its sweetness and hear it in this preciseness.  I lay there in his arms and the tears came so suddenly...an emotional response to the intensity of our sharing, our bodies connected perfectly as God dreamed them. 

Confusion and concern crossed his face as I shook my head, reassuring him nothing was wrong...no, everything was right.  It was just...right.  He brushed my hair from my face with a tenderness that took my breath away, his eyes searching mine for a glimpse into my heart.

Tears commonly betray me, met with a fierce resistance from the depths of my resolve, but tonight...tonight they came and I welcomed them.  I cried and laughed at the same time, embracing the paradox of feeling coursing through my being at that moment, capturing the love and desire and relief and bliss of being there with him in our perfect moment. 

His arms tightened around me, holding me to himself like a priceless treasure.  We didn't need any words.

Phrases from the love song playing in the background floated through my consciousness, their words unobtrusive and strangely comforting.

In this sweet madness...oh, in this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees...when you're pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie...you're in the arms of an angel; may you find some comfort here.

I will rest in the arms of an angel tonight.  Morning's light will find me nestled safe there, and then a thousand mornings to come, each sunrise graced, kissed, perfectly traced by the finger of God.

I've found my comfort here.

Eight years later I still feel it, this twinge in my heart when I think of him.

I am my beloved's and he is mine.