The Beginning of Forever

I was a mere girl when we met, 15-turning 16. I first saw him at a stoplight, him with his poofy afro and loud rock music in the car with his best friend first at the light next to me and my friend in her dad's VW Beetle smiling and waving at strangers in the cars around us.

We didn't meet at the mall, where we had all been just moments before. And we didn't meet at the stoplight where we first smiled at one another through the car windows. We did get silly and follow them, then they followed us--all the way to the apartment where my mother and I lived (alone). That's where we first met. We chatted for a bit and talked vaguely about going out for pizza sometime and then said goodbye.

A couple of weeks later the four of us did just that, him paired up with my friend and me with his. By the end of the evening, we knew the pairing was all wrong. He and I had chatted and grinned and made eyes at each other across the table the whole time. We felt it even then, even though we weren't sure what "it" was. A few weeks later as we sat talking in his '65 Mustang about everything and nothing, I whispered, "I could stay here forever." He whispered back, "That's kind of what I have in mind."

Some things change over time, and some things stay the same. His afro is now a short-cut completely gray. His body looks much the same, while mine has changed numerous times. Our conversations about having "maybe a couple of kids" turned into five offspring and two we kissed goodbye too soon. Our humble beginnings turned into more beauty and blessing than we could ever have imagined.

One thing that hasn't changed is the way we looked at each other across the cars, and then that first night out paired with the wrong people gazing across steaming pizza and salad plates. Tonight as our eyes meet across the table on our 31st Valentine's Day together, our hearts will dance like they did back then. We will smile those same giddy, mischievous, adoring smiles that say I could stay with you forever.

And we will.

A Good Gift

I trace my hand along the top of a warm loaf of Ciabatta, not long out of the oven. I pick it up and examine it, raise it to my face and breathe its aroma deep, my eyes instinctively closing as I experience it.

Suddenly wondering if I should feel silly, I ask Steve, "Is it okay to feel reverent toward bread?"

"Sure." he answers. "It's a good gift."

I smile, thinking over all that God has brought to my heart lately, all the awareness of all these good gifts.

"Yes." I plunk the loaf back onto the parchment and grin. "Yes, it truly is."

Quiet in the Chaos

I bustle about my morning, the aroma of maple bacon wafting through the house for only the Rose and me at the moment. In a while, Steve will be back from taking Matt to work, then gather up Rosie and stop by for her friend and take them to dance rehearsal.

Today I bake bread all day for tomorrow, the celebration of our son's 30th birthday with friends and family and red, green, and white, and meatballs with sauce to dip the bread in and stories told and laughter ringing and memories woven with bright future-hope.

The dough is ready for shaping, and I shape it into four pieces, each a small uniquely-shaped loaf to rise. I snip along the skin sides of the next round of bacon so it doesn't curl vexing in the pan, thinking back over a thousand mornings making breakfast for my family, each morning a gift of its own. Every few years, there is one less to cook for. Some mornings even now it is just Steve and me. I miss the bigness of our family being here at home.

I miss the crazy schedules and Little League and high school football games and park days and driving Jeff to work with gobs of kids in tow, everyone singing along with "This Beautiful Mess" on the radio at the tops of their lungs. I miss the chaos.

I haven't forgotten how tired I felt then, how unnoticed. How futile. How some days it was all I could do to push myself forward and do what came next. I didn't think my life would ever calm down. Now it has, and I feel lost.

So I write. I word the everyday, ordinary things of life as though they might mean something to someone in some time and place. And every few lines I stop to turn the bacon, or shape the bread, or find my apron, or bring out the cream cheese for the Chocolate Supreme that a far-older-than-he-should-be boy prefers as his birthday "cake". I would make him a cake of the moon if he asked.

Steve breezes in, exclaims over the aroma, picks up some bacon and the daughter and they breeze out. Phone rings, middle son, "Mom, I need a power strip for the gig I'm playing. Got one? Can I come by for it? And can you test it for me? You're the best!" and all is quiet again, save for the hum of kitchen appliances.

Coffee mug steams from the candle warmer on my desk, and I sip and I thank and I remember.

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.