The wind

FOR FIVE MINUTE FRIDAY:

“To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.” -William Wordsworth (XI)

I read aloud the final words to finish our study of William Wordsworth.

We have poetry mornings at our treehouse table.

It has been too long since I have last taken out paper plates and dotted them with every color Crayola Washable offers.

Handed red paintbrushes to the sons. Little green teacups of water.

Offered copy paper to draw on, to paint, to have  a moment of Art.

Today we sit together and draw what we see in our mind’s eye.

At first, the younger son draws something he doesn’t like.

The paint is running off the edges and he has covered the bird sketched in pencil.

I ask him if he wants a clean canvas.

That would be copy paper.

And he replies that he indeed does.

He looks at my drawing and tells me he wants to copy it.

I have a wavy hill.

Four blue clouds.

A dot of sun in the right corner.

And a red flower with green thorns.

The mean kind.

And the flower is dipping.

It has lost a petal or two and scattered seed.

So my younger son takes this image and paints his interpretation.

He says he wants to copy.

And yet he doesn’t.

His flower is taller.

Less thorny.

No petals are torn, no seeds have scattered.

Clouds in a perfect row.

Hill a little steeper in places, the terrain flatter in others.

Sun is yellow, not orange.

And the wind is evident.

This holds me.

He drew the wind.

Yes.

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

(STOP)

*Five minutes have passed, but let me share one more thing. The entire time I am painting I am thinking of this scripture: Luke 8. The Parable of the Sower. Especially this: “Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up and yielded a crop, a hundred times more than was sown.” My prayer today is that every seed falls on good soil. To live a life that is not trampled on, not eaten up, not withered, not choked, but yielding all the beautiful from what is sown.

There are times where we all feel like the meanest flower? Yes?

*It has been awhile since I’ve written a post for the community over at www.thegypsymama.com. Stop by for FIVE MINUTE FRIDAY and see what some other amazing writers have tapped out today. Have a beautiful weekend.

I cannot

It is Sunday.

Mother’s Day.

Pastor Jay is standing, but speaking on the horizontal.

No bumps or potholes.

No raising up toll booths of pride.

This is LOVE.

And while I feel that I love God, love my husband and my sons.

Love friends and family.

That I write “I love you” on cards and letters and even text messages.

Sunday’s message was challengingly difficult and different to consume.

It took a large glass of transparency and reflection to digest completely.

Reflection of the now.

Of who I really am.

I remember so many years ago creating a diagram of sorts for the verse in 1 Corinthians where Paul defines love.

The sons and I  took it piece by piece.

Patient. What is patience?

Kind. What does it mean to be kind?

Yet in this moment, this Mother’s Day, rain splashing hard on the roof

Grey skies breathing on small windows around us

Here is where I finally hear.

There is a reason that nothing fills me but Jesus.

Nothing feels complete or just right.

Pastor Jay lights candles.

One large one for God.

Two thin tapers for His creation, the ones made in His image.

Man and woman.

He speaks to us on the importance of the unity candle lit at weddings.

The idea is that two become one.

Completely one.

However, there is a problem usually.

Those thin tapers of life don’t want to give up much to be one.

Really they keep their own candle lit and hope that the other candle will simply add more flame to their life.

Expectations.

And when the struggle begins for who will add and who will give, problems occur.

We even take this mentality to God.

Here is my candle. 

It is already lit.

Make it stronger, brighter and better.

There is one problem.

We’ve never extinguished the flame to be all His.

He wants us to come to him with only a bare wick.

Humble and full of the potential that He has fashioned us with.

I am reading THE SEVEN STOREY MOUNTAIN.

It is the autobiography of Thomas Merton.

He writes this:

“You cannot live for your own pleasure and your own conveniences without inevitably hurting and injuring the feelings and the interests of practically everybody you meet. . . . whether you mean to or not.”

It is the human condition.

So we must find the antidote.

We take the new candle and bend to Him. 

Bend to His Light.

And we become new and wholly His.

When this happens.

Really happens.

We are filled with real Love.

The kind of pure love that we cannot give nor expect from others.

I’ve spent so much time enraged by the flaws that hurt me.

I crave Pure.

I cringe at the conditions, the performance that I feel others expect of me.

I am tired of maintaining.

I realize that, oh my, I do the same.

I have expectations.

I often withdraw when they are not met.

It slices my heart to admit the truth.

And disappointment slithers into a heart.

Reaches for the switch to turn the Light off.

And Pastor Jay says this:

“Jesus is the Only. The Only One who can love us without needing any back.”

I am compulsively nodding.

He doesn’t need me to love Him back.

Pastor continues to tell us that Jesus is “all in” even when we are not.

Yes.

Even when we’ve  struck out.

Benched with injuries.

He’s in.

All in.

God going first and not needing a response.

“I love you Danelle. I love you completely. You’ve messed up and you know it, but I actually love you best in your mess because you realize you need me. I shine in those fragmented pieces. I love you. I love you.”

This girl who cries,wears my feelings in my eyes, begins to feel the moisture build behind the eyelids.

To be loved with no strings or conditions?

None.

That is hard for a mortal soul to imagine, isn’t it?

We live in a string world. 

A tangled mess most of the time.

My husband and I leave church and climb into the car.

“I want to love like that. But I know I cannot.”

I speak the eternity that God sets in the heart. 

That longing for total communion with Love.

Husband squeezes my hand .

So thankful for this man, for his love.

Still. 

I cannot.

He cannot.

Truth settles in at this moment.

Jesus takes the scissors, cuts the strings, and sets me free.

Just this. . . “Love never ends.” 1Cor 13:8

**The picture? My son and I standing by the stained glass window at the monastery we frequently visit. There is something about stained glass that makes my soul ache. The light through all the stain. Grace of God. Love never, ever ends. . . . I cannot. He can.

**The book? How can I not love a book whose cover reads: “The autobiography of a young man who led a full and worldly life, and then, at the age of 26, entered a Trappist monastery.” And I believe I have one of the original printings. The pages are yellow and falling out at the seams. I love it.  Thomas Merton is a gifted writer. I highly recommend the book.

**The Pastor? You can listen to his sermons at www.southedge.org. He is amazing and gracious in allowing me to ruminate his words and use them in posts. I am thankful.

***Linking today with Laura at www.lauraboggess.com & Jen at www.findingheaventoday.com & Jennifer at www.gettingdownwithjesus.com and Emily at www.canvaschild.com and LL at www.seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com. Blessed to be a part of their beautiful blogging communities today.

The Pillowcase

Last night, this morning, I am spinning.

I find myself lost in my own pensive, such as the one that Albus Dumbledore keeps, all shining in the blue light of memories.

For the last few months our sons have been playing competitive soccer.

Older son is 10 and he is having to catch up to the others skill level after years of church league ball.

It is isolating for him.

It is difficult for him.

This team has been together for a while, they know who to pass to, who can score, they have developed friendships.

All good things.

But terribly hard on the son who is most like his momma in one particular way.

The language of love that speaks to his heart the most is words of encouragement.

And when you are a lover of words, your heart breaks, stomach aches, when you feel you are not approved of by others.

Last night we came home after practice.

Older son wasn’t picked by either team to play in the final scrimmage.

Is there a person alive who doesn’t long to be picked?

We hang there on vines waiting for the  precious disconnect from our solitude.

And this practice so unlike the last when he finally scored two goals and all those high fives and encouraging words were spoken.

It is achingly quiet.

His head  down as he makes his way to us.

“I don’t think I should play anymore. I don’t think I am good enough. No one wants me on their team.”

For a moment I say nothing. It is just momma aching. The kind that breaks you.

“You’ve got to give it your all. You can’t just give up. You can’t.”

I don’t stop there.

Words keep running out of my mouth and I can’t catch them, can’t swallow them down.

All these words laced tight with fear and insecurity. 

Double knotted with pride that I didn’t realize I was carrying along.

I bring this son to my pensive and place his head in the waters of time and experiences stirred into words.

The boys go to bed.

Husband and I stay up too late talking , wondering aloud if we are the parents that we didn’t want to be.

Do we pressure the boys too much?

Do we make them feel that without performing well, we don’t love them?

What are we communicating to these boys?

Dear God.

I hope I am not what I think I am as I brush my teeth and finally crawl under the green comforter.

I don’t feel the comfort.

In the morning I try to concentrate on my devotions, but my heart isn’t connecting to the words and my mind is straying to the son.

I wake him up. Push the thick blonde hair so exactly like my own away from his forehead.

He is beginning to look like a man. This baby born so early that no clothes would fit.

“Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

He rolls to the side.

I stare at his pillowcase. The milky way galaxy. Earth three planets from the sun.

All that spinning.

I tell my son that my heart is heavy.

“Your momma is human. But baby, at the core of everything I say and do is this love that I have no words for. No words at all. I just want the best for you.”

And he smiles.

“I know.”

The knowing hangs there in the moment.

Perfect gravity.

And then Jesus fills the space as we talk about not giving up.

Even more important, not waiting for others to encourage us before we give our best and keep trying.

It is easy to relate my own life to his world of soccer teams and young boys.

He knows that I love writing and feel called to write.

He knows that my very closest friends have rarely if ever encouraged me in my writing.

But I say to him, I speak to him, laying there on that blue pillowcase, planets flying in orbits. .

That I can’t wait for their encouragement.

That my encouragement has to come from Jesus alone.

He is the beautiful enough.

A lesson I continue learning as I am speaking.

As the better words are finally leaving the lips.

The lesson that takes many semesters and exams to begin to understand.

It is not in the instant, it is in the growing.

And isn’t it amazing how God shows up that way?

“He is also there on that soccer field, shin guards on, right beside you baby. Mary wrote his initials in permanent marker on his soccer ball. . . J.C. “

Son giggles.

“He is whispering that you can do this, don’t listen to anyone but Me.” 

“He is with daddy, walking down the halls of his school after someone tells him that he has done something all wrong. Jesus shakes his head, whispers to daddy that he is there because that is exactly where he should be.”

“And me. Jesus finds me on the red couch or at my computer. Feeds me with words. Sun streams through the windows and I know He is there in all.”

Son rolls over again.

We discuss how hard it is to grow up.

My eyes find the pillowcase again.

All that spinning.

When will I rest in Him completely? Trust in Him completely? Unload the pride tote bag?

And that pensive?

Can I pluck the string of this memory?

Store it there in the blue light?

That pillowcase, all those planets, all this spinning in this one moment.

When I was 36 and my son was 10. . .and we pondered together how hard it is to grow up?

How very hard.

**Sharing today with Jennifer at www.gettingdownwithjesus.com,  Jen at www.findingheaventoday.com and Emily at www.canvaschild.com . Have an extra moment? Stop by these beautiful blogging corners and be filled.

Reflection

The sons and I are circled around the wooden table.

Wordsworth’s words are read.

We soak.

We read again.

The title of the poem is “The Present and The Past”.

I tell the sons that this is a “Prelude” and do they know what that means?

Before.

Yes, before.

And the word reminds me of my mother’s old Honda.

The Prelude with the bucket seats.

I rode in those buckets, sunken in to the fibers of that cloth, for most of my early childhood.

But now I am moving through this poem with my own sons.

I glance at the illustration.

It is a young boy peering at his reflection.

Why this picture?

I ask the sons this and the older replies, “He is seeing his past.”

No.

Not his past.

I shake my head.

His present.

Reflections show the present.

If you were to look in a mirror and wink, it would wink back instantly.

Not before the wink.

Not after the wink.

In perfect timing with the soft open and closing of the eyelid.

Reflections show the present.

They simply can’t be anything else.

Wordsworth describes this as “holy calm.”

Holy.

Calm.

It is those beautiful moments,  as Wordsworth says, “I forgot that I had bodily eyes”.

Yet a soul chooses the tracing of the past that Wordsworth refers to in this same poem.

But tracing is difficult.

The paper must be transparent.

Clean. Unmarked. Perfectly clear.

Even if such a paper can be found, I may miss the mark. 

Stray from the path.

Smudges of the forgotten.

And I wonder how my 10-year-old son is already imagining the tracing instead of the reflection.

We discuss the poem, the picture, and it is time to clean up the breakfast dishes.

When we are finished I walk to the bedroom.

I  brush my hair and place the brown headband on the top of my head to hold back the pieces that fall.

Today I want to really See.

I peek at the mirror.

God’s grace fills the mirror perfectly as I stand before it.

See me.

Here.

Now.

Reflection.

This poem is God’s whisper to my heart today.

A way to begin again.

By being still and Seeing.

Forgetting what Wordsworth calls “the bodily eyes” for the Better.

My buckets are brimming.

The emptiness of late makes the water that much more refreshing and beautiful.

So I am not surprised when I tap “reflection” into the dictionary app.

What is a reflection? Really?

“The return of Light.”

***Maybe I am back? Maybe? Thankful for these words to write today. Thankful for each of you. **Today’s bible verse? He sees me indeed. . . . “Be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10

Sharing today with these beautiful blogs. . Jen at www.findingheaventoday.com & LL at www.seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com &Laura at ww.lauraboggess.com. Also Ann at www.aholyexperience.com and Jennifer at www.gettingdownwithjesus.com. And with Emily at www.canvaschild.com. Also with some beautiful souls at www.suscipio.com. A lot of sharing. Thankful for the privilege to do so.

If you are coming from one of these beautiful writing corners, thank you so much for stopping by today.

Subscribe to He sees me? It is so easy. Just enter your email in the box and you are all set. You can even control how often you are notified of new posts. 

Taking a Break. . .

I am reading.

I am praying.

I am journaling.

And when the tides change and the reading, praying and journaling becomes the writing again, I will be back.

Thankful for you all and your constant encouragement.

Bonsai Trees and Mustard Seeds

We picked out a bonsai tree for our anniversary.

I found the smallest plant in the smallest black pot and the small felt right.

It sits on our kitchen window sill.

That window a vantage point toward the tall trees that surround our house.

And as I placed it there, I didn’t look out to the towering treetops.

I gazed at my sweet little bonsai perfectly green.

I took a paint pen and wrote the date on the back in my high school script.

I dotted the numbers to make them look whimsical.

It was a beautiful Saturday.

And the next day, Pastor Jay gave a sermon on the parable of the mustard seed.

I sat in my chair, pondering why this seemed to be the weekend of  small.

Questioned why such truth is in the small and yet the reaching  endlessly continues for large.

Sunday night I am sitting on our red couch.

Sons have gone to bed and the house is quiet.

Husband comes out of the shower and worry fills his eyes.

He taps computer keys and it is so quiet I can hear each tap.

I question the taps.

Is he ok?

And he replies that it is Kim.

A teacher that is dying of cancer at his school.

My husband is a middle school principal.

And he is visiting her the next morning and the end is near and what is he going to say?

What words to give a staff of teachers, parents and middle school students who have risen strong with prayers and love  to support a woman who inspires such strength?

And I think of the mustard seed, the nearly invisible that blossoms so wide on top of soil.

The mustard tree is strong and sturdy.

The almost unseen becomes the refuge.

I whisper these thoughts to husband.

Maybe the mustard seed?

And we talk about this for a while.

It’s a conversation with lots of comfortable silence.

I pass these moments holding my cup of coffee like a prayer .

Kim passes away two days later.

My husband emails me and tells me that he wrote words for his faculty and would I read it?

Proofread it?

So I share this part of my husband’s letter with you:

“ It is written in the Gospel that our faith should be that of a mustard seed. As my wife and I were reflecting over the last year with Kim, my wife connected not only Kim’s faith, but her strength to that of a mustard seed, and I thought it was a beautiful association.

A mustard seed begins as something of insignificance and can even go unnoticed as it works invisibly under the soil to grow and strengthen. As it grows, the mustard seed becomes something of great significance, and grows big and strong enough to be a refuge for others.  Kim’s strength began unnoticed and insignificant, but as she walked this last year with cancer her strength sprouted, bloomed and multiplied.  Her strength wrapped itself around all of us. .”

I peer into his words and see beyond the windowsill , past the lava rocks and jar that hold my little bonsai tree upright.

The view is a mustard tree filling space

Filling the empty with Him. . . . . 

**Sharing today with Ann at www.aholyexperience.com for WALKING WITH HIM WEDNESDAYS and Jennifer at www.gettingdownwithjesus.com for GOD BUMPS AND GOD INCIDENCES.

One March Evening

What to do when you are sitting at a soccer practice.

Older son is curled with his back to yours on silver bleachers.

Curving outwards from my back instead of in.

He’s that age.

He sits there reading THE HOBBIT and tells me the dragon is about to be killed.

He has just  a few more pages.

He reads faster than me.

Sometimes when I am around fast I wonder if it is real.

But he comprehends.

He drinks words in the tallest glasses with the jumbo straw, no swirls or curls.

And the younger son is on the field.

He keeps kicking. Keeps turning the ball.

Keeps turning his glances my way for approval.

I give him the thumbs up. Smile. Nod encouragingly.

And it is warm.

The sun is setting, but not yet.

And for some reason, that holds me.

The sun setting.

But not yet.

It is this incredibly full, empty moment.

The shining and the setting.

“The greatest use of a life is to spend it for something that will outlast it.” -William James

**I am joining The Gypsy Mama at www.thegypsymama.com for FIVE MINUTE FRIDAY. Five minutes of tapping words on a subject prompt. This week:Empty.

**Thank you for being here today. Thank you. Your words of encouragement fill me as does your presence in this blogging corner. Want to subscribe to He sees me? It is easy and free. Just fill out your email address in the box and you are all set. You can control how often your receive notifications of new posts.

Rewinding Joy

We are on the expressway.

Powerful five words to begin this post.

I am sipping water with lemons floating on top and listening to the imperfect tense.

“Bam, bas, bat. . “

And the instructor on the video is telling those of us in the white mini van

Speeding down the expressway;

That the imperfect tense is the tense to describe what is ongoing.

Therefore not complete or “perfect”.

I am the imperfect tense. 

I think this as I hit the turn signal and take a turn to leave the fast road and head down the slower roads.

We move to new vocabulary together.

Younger son wants the video paused.

“You know that word “pabulum” that means “food for animals?”

Yes. I do.

“Well, I know I am always talking about dinosaurs. But, anyway, maybe we get the word “pebble” from “pabulum” since dinosaurs are animals and sometimes they eat pebbles?”

Hmm.

I say “maybe” hidden behind a small smile.

Usually they do well with derivatives.

I am not at all sure about this particular one.

And then I remember, as they hit the “play” button again, all that I have to “do”.

The boys start chanting.

I start listing.

Piano lessons. Library. Home to finish school. Dinner.

Turkey sandwiches again? I must use my crock pot more often.

Soccer. That will be Husband’s to handle.

Bible study. That is mine.

I need to clean.

Defurr the red couches. Vacuum. Dust the tables.

The bathroom needs attention.

My hands prickle with anxiety.

Do dinosaurs really eat pebbles?

I must look that up soon.

I feel the weight begin. The lungs tighter.

I hear the Latin DVD end.

Older son hits “eject” button.

He asks to put on Toby Mac.

We switch Latin for Toby in a quick exchange.

The chanting leading to rapping seems paradox.

Old to new.

Quiet to loud.

Studying to dancing.

Me to Him.

I turn up the black volume button.

I want to dance.

“One World” begins playing.

And I start to dance in my seat belt.

While driving.

Laughing.

Singing.

Stop light.

I turn around quick, hair in my eyes;

“God says: What is the dealie with the silly I see?”

I sing it loud with Toby as I look at each son of mine.

Tickle them.

Younger son is all animated.

Dancing. Eating peanut butter and strawberry jelly.

That look on his face that Husband gets when he’s lip synching rap songs.

Super awesome-cool boy of mine.

“One world. Rewind.”

Music, laughter surrounds this moment.

Stamps it soundly in my scrapbook.

“I’ll look out for you, you look out for me.” 

Older son’s voice joins in. 

He smiles big and giggles.

It will all get done.

Or it won’t.

I remember that I am the imperfect tense.

Not finished.

And I can handle that.

He can handle all.

But I must choose not to resist spontaneous fun for the illusion of control.

This moment is what they will remember.

Me too.

What we will rewind.

We pull into the library parking lot.

Finish the song.

Why rush?

The van is shaking with our movement, the volume and our laughter.

The music ends.

I feel lighter. Lungs breathe free. Relaxed.

And I slide open that back door.

Sons eyes meet mine again and it is the miracle of time and tense.

The choosing of joy.

“Worship the Lord with gladness; (put down your lists, your anxiety) come before Him with joyful songs (and make memories worthy to rewind).” Psalm 100:2

Sharing today with Ann at Multitudes on Monday(www.aholyexperience.com) , LL at On, In and Around Mondays(www.seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com)  and Jen at Soli Deo Gloria (www.findingheaventoday.blogspot.com). Jump on over to these beautiful writing corners that always inspire me.

Beginnings

Our love began with a vitamin.

You walked across the classroom.

Fifteen years have passed.

“That was a good lesson on Vitamin C. Really good.”

I was packing up my shiny new book on education.

The book fell into my bag as my eyes met yours for the first time.

Our first class as emerging educators.

Learning how to teach.

And we still laugh about this.

Those first words that you ever spoke to me.

Words of encouragement to a lover of words.

I’ve probably told you too many times how I danced to my car.

The thawing process began.

You.

My Spring.

We became friends.

We would study “A Simple Heart” and finish “The Awakening” together.

And I admitted to you, over paper cups of cappuccino spit from that machine;

That I was in love with our white-haired professor.

You just laughed and winked at me.

You knew.

And I started the revelation.

I revealed myself.

Stripped layers.

There is all of this.

Is that alright?

I toted lollipops for energy and watched mirrors for security.

You noticed all this. 

Finally, gently, you wrapped your arms around me and I leaned into you.

We spent evenings by that lake.

Where the Indiana night would hang cold and I could see your breath as we talked of our future.

It would become dark and late.

The clock tower of our university chimed.

Keeping time.

I am in love.

Completely in.

We began our “student teaching”.

The students did teach me. 

 A new love is birthed in chalk and eraser dust.

You nodded knowingly. 

You already knew how love paints a glow on my face and you recognized it.

And you were a coach.

I “helped” by chasing junior high kids around the track each afternoon.

I watched you teach on distance and short sprints.

Catching time on your stopwatch.

I trained with those teenagers. 

Keeping time with you.

I sat on the field and graded papers on ANIMAL FARM.

Dreamed in maxims.

And you packed up the helium filled balloons for me.

The leftover cookie cake of my final day.

And when it was all safely inside. 

I turned.

Completely.

You held me.

And we began. 

**Of all the ways that I know He sees me. . . my husband’s love is the most constant reminder. We will celebrate 12 years of marriage on March 10th. This post is a little early, but I woke up from dreams of our beginnings and wanted to type out the pictures in my head today. Thank you for journeying back to my days of finding the love of my life.

***Today also marks the one year anniversary of this blogging corner. Thank you for being here, for covering this writing place in your prayers and encouragement. Thank you.

Doors and Boxes

He wanted to stay.

We are standing in the balcony.

Mary is pregnant with the Holy Spirit in the stained glass ahead.

Gypsy son asks me to bend.

Whispers the question.

“Who is that?”

And I tell him.

He loves stained glass. 

I never knew this.

Thankful that he sees the beauty because so do I.

Light flowing through the stained.

The stain itself making the light colorful. 

Begging the “adjective”.

It is quiet.

Smell of my childhood Jesus surrounding me.

A monk is at the altar.

“Momma, is he the pope?’

I stifle the giggle.

We aren’t in Rome.

This is Conyers, Georgia.

“No baby.”

My heart fills and feels tight and loose.

I am dizzy in memories.

I must bend again.

“Are any of those guys popes?”

Precious child of mine.

“No baby, just one pope. He is in Italy.”

We walk to the stained glass again.

He presses his nose to the royal purple, the blues of motherhood.

I want the stethoscope again.

I want to hear the hearts of my sons as they beat in this moment.

As we leave I dip a finger in the holy water.

Forget where to put it so I cross my head.

“Help me Jesus. You’ve never changed. It’s me.”

And we open the wooden doors to walk back outside again.

The saints are all pictured in books with the faint yellow circles of the Holy Spirit around their heads.

We need Him there, don’t we?

And I have the holy water on my head.

The cross.

I want a picture.

Sons peek back into the different and beautiful.

I want to cry for a moment in the middle aisle of my grocery store walk with Jesus.

But I click the camera instead.

We walk to the middle of the green grass.

A circle of new and old friends come together today for encouragement but also to pray.

“When pain and distress is overwhelming.”

“When the healing process goes slower than hoped.”

The healing process.

Slower than hoped.

Is it ever faster than we dreamed?

Do we ever heal completely?

Tears.

Salt of the earth presents itself in a stream down my cold cheeks.

“Lord be close to give your comfort.”

That is the response.

Our response.

These prayers. This circle.

And the sweetest woman sings as the prayers end.

She is starting her battle with cancer.

The church bell rings.

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow. . “

We sing with her. Voices joined.

And I walk with a beautiful friend I’ve loved for seven years to feed the hungry ducks.

We go down the hill.

Tearing bread.

I walk with gypsy love.

My walk always seems different from others, but in that is the truth of my heart.

It is bible study night.

“What is your denomination?”

The question asked.

My faith has no exact value or size.

I am not a category.

“She lives on the edge, don’t you Danelle?”

Amen.

May I always live there.

Truth?

The edge is where we are most easily touched.

And Pastor Jay on Sunday?

“God won’t fit into your box. He’s too big.”

He blows the balloon.

The box explodes.

He opens it.

A perfect cross.

I remember the way the door to the chapel closed so slowly that you must walk away on purpose.

I whisper to my good friend.

“Do I need to shut it?”

And her reply.

“No.”

Doors open. Never closing.

Boxes become crosses.

My Jesus.

Yours. 

**Sharing my heart here with you today. Sharing with the following beautiful writing communities as well:

www.michellederusha.com  & www.lauraboggess.com & www.seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com & www.findingheaventoday.blogspot.com and www.aholyexperience.com.

Find your way to these communities if you have another moment. They always inspire me so very much.