His Heart

I wrote this for our 15-year-old daughter, who strives with all her heart and courage to be the girl God wants her to be. She is dedicated to that promise, but that doesn't mean life isn't hard sometimes as she wonders if someday her prince will come. These are the words I imagine he might whisper to her heart, might even now be whispering to Heaven each night while the moonlight dances across her face.

His Heart

Each morning with its new sunrise,

My young heart softly speaks your name

In a prayer-like seeking some would call

Some kind of silly children’s game.

Though it’s anything but childish

As you echo gently in my mind;

I know you’re out there somewhere

Like a precious gem for me to find.

I don’t have to know your name to know

You were created just for me,

So for now I’ll just keep waiting

For the treasure I know you to be.

I’m sure no one around can grasp

What only our Creator knows:

You are being fashioned for me,

My divinely formed and perfect rose.

The fear that someone else will come

And turn your eye and take your hand

And pluck my rose before she blooms

Is nearly more than I can stand.

I want to rush to claim you now,

But I know rushing in is wrong;

For now I know that I must trust

That God will keep you safe and strong.

I know it’s hard, my love, but please…

Our season will yet come to be.

I promise you the tears you’ve shed

Will all be worth it—wait and see.

Each moment that goes by will bring

Us closer to the day we’ll meet;

It’s hard to even dream such joy

Or guess how quickly hearts can beat.

I’m praying that somehow you know

I’m waiting for you patiently,

And I hold to the unspoken promise

You’ll keep waiting there for me.

What's in a name?

My name means consecrated to God. That probably explains how a girl who went through the craziness I did just in my first 15 years can still be sane enough to be sitting here typing this today. And while my level of sanity may be up for debate, I think it goes without saying that I have been immensely blessed. I pray that my life bears out being consecrated to God.

Our first son was named Jeffery (God's peace) Morgan (bright sea). Jeff was named after his paternal grandfather, which adds a dab of hilarity to the fact that the boy who would tell his Sunday School teacher he hated her and kick a church elder in the shin would be named "God's peace". Perhaps it is because he would need heavy helpings of God's peace throughout his life. As for "bright sea", I can completely see that image in our science museum educator who loves all things marine (as does his daughter Morgan--another fun irony).

Then came Luke (bringer of light) Steven (crown). It isn't hard to see that every moment of every day, Luke brings light to the Crown--his savior Jesus. The most compliant child I've ever known, he has grown up to be one of the strongest people I know, always shining and standing like a beacon drawing people to a closer relationship with Christ.

Jamie Lee (meadow) returned to Heaven after only 11 weeks of earthly growth.

Our beautiful Heather Rose, named for two lovely flowers, was born with Beta Strep she couldn't conquer and would bloom only in Heaven.

Next was Trevor (prudent) Joel (the Lord is God). I remain convinced that our "middle child" was placed strategically in birth order as the fulcrum of the family. Our balance beam, he is the perfect blend of strength and wisdom (which also goes back to the "prudent"), bearing out in word and deed that the Lord truly is God.

The last of our sons was born Matthew (gift of Jehovah) Gary (spear rule). While his first name was chosen because of its meaning, we had not researched the meaning of the name Gary because he was named after my brother. I find it rather comical considering his love for weaponry that Gary means "spear rule". The story behind his being named Matthew is that the day I had the sonogram where I found out he was a boy, a thoughtless parent at a flag football game asked, "You disappointed it's another boy?" I sobbed like a baby that anyone could think I wasn't ecstatic that he was a boy. I went home that day and found him a name that would remind him every minute that I consider him a gift from God.

Our last child was Rose (flower) Michele (who is like God?). She certainly is a beautiful flower who lives out a precious humility acknowledging that there is no one like our God. Not only is she both witty and wise, she is the loveliest person, inside and out, that I've ever known.

So what's in a name? A lot, I would say.

The Beautiful Ugly

It is the deepest and most wonderful of all mythic truths, unveiled in the original Beauty and the Beast, written by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont. The Transformation. A creature that no one could bear to look upon is transformed into a handsome prince. That which was dark and ugly is now glorious and good. Is it not the most beautiful outcome of any story to be written? Perhaps that is because it is the deepest yearning of the human heart.

John Eldridge 

Lately I've been pondering Ann Voskamp's thoughts on the Ugly Beautiful. When I saw this quote by John Eldridge today, my mind shot back to the way Ann describes the concept of the beast turning into a prince, the ugly duckling becoming a graceful swan. Isn't that what we all long for? Isn't that what we become in Christ?

I wonder how aware I am of the way God transforms what we might consider ugly into something we would call beautiful. And aren't we back to perception once again, with one's unseemly being another's beautiful?

My perceptions of beauty have been changing slowly over the past month. It is no coincidence that this metamorphosis has bloomed as I have counted gifts and given thanks in everything, for everything. As my journal fills, so does my soul with gratitude for every breath and everything my life holds between those breaths.

Only He, by His grace, can make beautiful the ugly of our fallen world.

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

(Gungor)

The Best Gift

The list continues, counting in the hundreds now and always seeking, always looking for a well. I write this evening in solitude, alone in the house for a time while the family is busy elsewhere. They bustled out only an hour ago, me tucking herbed chicken into Ciabatta just out of the oven, wincing at the heat and quick-wrapping sandwiches while Dancer waited at the door trying to be patient at the delay. I was worried they'd be hungry.

I am hungry, always hungry, but it isn't a craving for sandwiches. Fresh, soft, warm bread is a good gift, but this is a longing for more of God, for more awareness of His presence, for more gratitude for every good and perfect gift from His hand. Always for one more thing to number among the others in my gratitude list journal. How glad I am to have it always close at hand.

I don't want my family to have hungry tummies, but I do want them to hunger after the Bread of Life, to always be aware of Him, grateful to Him, in love with Him, seeking to know His heart better with each moment alive.

That kind of hunger drives me, drive us all, to keep reaching and noticing and thanking. It is well with my soul. My very soul is a well that can only be adequately filled with His spirit, His purpose, His love flowing from me outward to all whom He loves. To simply love is a very big thing. The best gift of all.

 

131. Heather Roemer, for sharing Ann with me
132. Computer fixed by amazing friends
133. Love notes left for me to find
134. Homemade teriyaki chicken with broccoli and green beans, green & red peppers, mushrooms, and red onions over rice
135. Dishwasher humming
136. French vanilla coffee, very sweet
137. Ciabatta fresh from the oven
138. Homemade chocolate glazed donuts
139. Homemade chocolate icing, right out of the bowl
140. Coffee sipped from my Dick and Jane cup
141. Warm February days
142. New tap shoes for a beautiful dancer
143. My beautiful friend, Giselle
144. My husband's arms snug around me
145. Gold bracelet and watch, gifts from Mama
146. There is always a well. All is well. (Ann Voskamp)
147. Dance costumes in colors bright, sequins, bustle, hats, nets, sparkles, shoes...and the ability to alter and embellish where needed
148. Pats taken that I thought were mistakes
149. Note to my daughter from one of her friends: "You are the serenity in my life."
150. Moments to calm and focus on peace deep down
151. Cookies
152. Italian meatballs in sauce with shredded Mozzarella on fresh Ciabatta packed with love in husband's lunchbox
153. My "I love my mommy" pencil cup
154. Places of discomfort that open our arms (and hearts) to God's comforting
155. Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra

Scribbling In the Sand

Does a life ever run out of words? Could I ever run out of things to write? Sometimes I feel like there is no ceasing. I write in my head all the time. All the time, the thoughts rush through and dance around my face and through my hair daring me to catch them. I love catching them.

I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I smile at the way my mind wanders and races and slows to ponder and weigh out a thought.

Ann’s words are sometimes too much to measure at once. I read a paragraph, a few sentences, a singular thought and my mind screams, “Stop! Don’t go on yet. Savor. Read again. Understand.”

And so I do. I take the time, much longer than it has ever taken me to read a book, and I quietly pray that God will show me everything He wants me to see. It’s so much more than just me seeing. It’s me sharing. It’s me sowing.

And the mind wanders to how they might have found me. “We found Mama sleeping in her chair, her hands stilled and pale and her writing staring back, the breeze blowing off the Gulf and all the words she had caught and arranged so carefully now floated past where we all as we stood numb.” I grimace at the morbidity and then grin at the whimsy of being an artist and with an over-active imagination.

I can’t imagine not writing any more. Odd how that is harder to imagine than not living any more.

I sit here in a little copse of palm trees while Matt and Rosie tan on a quilt a few feet away, their laughter and playful banter breezing back at volumes going up and down. A friend told me on Sunday that he loves how our family loves one another, that he wants that for his own family—to love like we love. His observation could not have blessed me more.

Tiny granules of white sand accumulate near my computer screen, and I drape my jacket a little farther over it for protection. I can’t help but be a little bit amused at the sight I must present, seated in a chaise lounge under the trees, white sand all around and waves lapping the shore a stone’s throw away, clicking away on my keyboard in dotted sunshine. My mind takes in everything as I grasp at wording it all, feeling rather pitiful in my attempts as the fronds sway above my head and the gulls yawk and screech.

“Are you writing a book, Mom?” Rosie asks me.

“I think maybe I am.” I hear myself answer. And then I think about that. Am I? Steve has been asking me to write one for years, but I always assume it’s just an extension of his love and support of me. He has always celebrated who I am.

Not long ago when he mentioned it for the thousandth time, I quipped, “Ann already wrote it.” He leveled a glare at me and I dodged his playful swat.

And then I started thinking about the writing of a book, and could I do it, and would I have anything to say that others would want to read, particularly enough to want to pay for it in book form. And then I thought about what my “message” is, my approach. What would I write about? Then I thought about how Ann wrote her book on living fully alive every moment, and thanksgiving being the basis for that full living. What do I want to say? What do I want the world to know that is uniquely mine to share?

I’ve been thinking hard about that.

Counting up to a thousand and beyond...
101. New hair growing in where the old falls out
102. Mattie putting away clean dishes
103. Reading to my daughter, then talking about current events
104. Sharing Ann's writings with people I love
105. The way Andrea thanks God for everything--EVERYTHING--all the time
106. My old trooper of a computer that is hanging tough and is getting a rebuild from good friends
107. Britt hanging out and chatting
108. My new friend Vicki @ A Wild Notion
109. The sweet white-haired angel-man who helped us unlock Luke's car in the store parking lot
110. Found the tickets!
111. Steve rubbing lotion on my feet
112. Rosie started her own 1,000 Gifts journal

113. Sharing OTG with Lindsey
114. My new book club friend Amy
115. Skyping with Trisha
116. Ellen's Chocolate Ecstasy recipe
117. Mattie will be home tomorrow for three days
118. You make all things new
119. You let us ask why
120. You write things through Ann and Bobby to show us how to distill the moments in our lives.
121. Your Word
122. My blankie
123. Awareness that everything is Yours
124. You chose me.
125. Scars that remind me of places you have healed
126. Jim and Laura
127. A peaceful heart
128. Beach with teens
129. Writing and reading in the warm sunshine on the beach in February
130. Seeing friends' faces from far away

Making Sense

“Somehow, in the midst of our mourning, 

the first steps of the dance take place.

Somehow, the cries that well up from our losses

belong to our songs of gratitude.”

--Henri Nouwen

As has become common of late, Ann's blog inspired me again this morning, her words reaching in, intriguing, drawing out wonderings and questions that delve into the mystery...for what? answers? or maybe just for thinking. Maybe it's all for the thinking and the thanking and the dawning of some semblance of sense out of things that have happened in this life.

I'm finding that more and more things make sense when I slow down to thank Him for every tiny thing. Because I'm starting to wonder if maybe the "sense" it's supposed to make isn't the kind of sense I once looked for.

I'm wondering if maybe this is yet another facet of the paradox that is God.


In my questioning, have I always wanted His answers, or what made sense to my own limited little human brain? Have I sought after His will, His plan, His unfolding of the Mystery...or just some earthly explanation that fit the mores and the preconceptions of my own finite understanding?


I cannot understand God, but I can understand that He is God and I am not.


This is important, I think.

No Small Thing

"  It is no small thing
when they, who are so fresh from God,
love us."
--Charles Dickens

I have always loved children. My own, other people's, familiar, strangers, it doesn't matter. I see a child and I love him or her, effortlessly. This does not make me special. This makes me grateful that I have been given the opportunity to love some rather amazing children throughout my life.

In the spirit of noticing the gifts in every moment, I've been thinking a lot lately about how my children are no longer children. This is new territory for me. I've been a mother for 30 years, and it's only been the past few that I haven't had young children running around the house. I find I really miss that.

So I smile at all the kids in the grocery store and exclaim over the cool toys they are holding or the light-up shoes they are kicking in furious tantrum (which almost always stops them mid-fit, much to the relief of their parent) or tell them how epic it is that they are being so helpful to Mama while she shops and how lucky that mama is to have such a great kid. Yeah, I'm a total dork but at 47 I have not only come to accept my dorkiness but to embrace it. It's part of my irresistible charm. At least that is what I tell myself.

I will always love those who are so fresh from Heaven, whether or not they carry my blood in their veins. So fresh from Heaven, they must still carry a bit of gold-dust in their hair, and it's lovely glinting when the sun catches it just right.

You never know what these angelic creatures will say or do. Once when Trevor was two, he prayed, "Dear God, thank you for...five, six, nine." I'm pretty sure God smiled. I did, too. My little prayer warrior is now nearing twenty and as I type is playing a screaming guitar solo and melting all our faces off from the rehearsal room. Now he prays and leads worship for hundreds at a time, still fresh from Heaven and delighted to lead others to the throne in praise.