Right here

I thought I might be in Pennsylvania attending a writers conference this past weekend.

Inspiration served up in spaces full of women with laptops and hearts full of God.

I was prepared to take in the wisdom, creativity and love.

A terribly thirsty sponge sitting with pails of sparkling water.

I found myself on completely different Holy Ground instead.

Several marked places, set by my Father who sees me. 

Saturday morning I am on a field of green grass.

Marked with white.

It is shockingly cold and it wakes me up.

It is always the cold that awakens, the warmth that harvests slumber.

We sleep when we are comfortable.

It takes the cold to open our eyes fresh and boldly.

Older son is in his bright red uniform playing soccer.

The final score 2-1.

Older son kicks both goals.

Team is celebrating.

They are lifting his hands on either side and I begin to think of Moses and how his brother and friend had to help him keep his hands up.

His hands up and open to God.

“When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat upon it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up – one on one side and one on the other- so his hands remained steady til sunset.” Exodus 17:12

Moses could only win the battle when his hands were up.

We only win with our hands up. 

Our friends and family beside us when we struggle.

My eyes focus on my son with his hands up.

Lump in my throat.

I hear my own mom whisper, “I’m crying. I can’t help it Danelle.”

And I can’t either.

The soccer field, wet from evening rain, God is there.

Can I kick off my purple Toms?

Is that Moses waving from the burning bush?

I need to take off my shoes in this moment. 

Saturday afternoon is raking orange leaves .

Sons making caves of leaves.

They are sure they can make the impossible very much possible.

They are right.

The evening is Dinosauropoly and pizza.

And Sunday morning I drive to church early.

It is my time to work in the nursery.

The nursery to work on my heart.

There is a conversation about forgiveness, strength, and all that we cannot change in this church nursery.

I am holding a baby and holding on to wise words spoken.

I am rocking back and forth.

In the chair and in my heart.

How can you truly love someone who doesn’t trust you?

The lack of trust lived day-to-day in decisions made.

We agree that it is strength found only in Him.

To hold a head high despite it all.

Choosing love always.

I pray I can be that woman.

The head holding high can wear a spirit.

But then I remember that He is holding me always.

And the neck straining is not needed.

Sunday evening is coffee, tea and friendship.

We talk about what should never divide.

And what can.

She watches over her steaming cup of tea as I lay the mask on the floor.

Unaware that it is covering my face until I am with her.

This friend knows me.

I breathe thankfulness for the real.

Both hands lifted by beautiful friends that God has placed in my life.

I find my way back home.

Listen to Husband read BILLY’S BUCKET to younger son.

Nostalgia fills younger son like his momma.

The final words of the book help me see. .

No one believed little Billy.

His bucket really was full.

Full of the most amazing things.

Just look.

Stop.

Look.

And finally, finally, his parents do look.

Billy was right all along.

It’s full.

It’s amazing.

It may look like a simple yellow bucket, but wait until you see what is inside.

I finish this yellow bucket weekend that was covered in Holy Ground.

I slip off my shoes.

So full.

So exactly where I need to be.

Right here.

**This post is submitted to Ann Voskamp’s beautiful blog. . www.aholyexperience.com. 

Every Monday she invites all to share what they are thankful for in MULTITUDES ON MONDAYS.

I am so very thankful for my yellow bucket weekend, God’s grace in all, and friends who raise my hands high.

Have a beautiful day of thankfulness for how He always meets us right where we are every single moment.

**Subscribe to He sees me? It’s easy. Just fill out your email address in the little box and you are all set. So blessed to have you stop by my blogging corner today.

Thriving. . .

 

He held up his shirt to show me the place where the scar would forever be.

Over the belly button.

Where I gave him everything I could those 9 months we were one.

Lifeline between momma and son.

Younger son does this, shows me this scar, during our math lesson today.

We are studying “oblique” lines and we are a fitness and sports minded family.

Vertical lines are easy to remember from basketball.

Sons know what it means to improve their vertical.

It means they are growing and jumping and reaching much higher than before.

So for “oblique” I show them the muscles.

Younger son takes one soft fingertip and traces the place that has healed but never disappeared.

“Around my scar. The obliques are around my scar.”

He is so precious to me.

I ache knowing that God loves me more than I love this son of mine.

I take his head in my hands, nuzzle our heads close and confirm this truth.

Years ago a doctor told me my younger son wasn’t “thriving”.

Born with a mixture of colic, acid reflux and pyloric stenosis.

He had surgery at two months to make his pyloric muscle weaker.

He needed to become weaker to be stronger.

To thrive.

Surgery was a success. Weight began to stick on his body. Food stayed down with medicine for reflux.

But there is truth in scars. 

It is a visible sign of the past. 

His pyloric muscle, those words from the doctor, the surgery, the scar; they were strangling to a momma’s heart those years ago.

But much time has gone by and I see something different when son is running around with that scar exposed.

The moment that we cut the strength away from all that leads to death, the strongholds that make us die a little each day. . . and we allow  the surgery and  scars to appear. . .

Right above our lifelines. . . 

We thrive.

In Him.

Moving beyond ourselves. 

And today, as younger son moves achingly close to 8 years old I am snapping a picture of his sweet scar.

Son’s scar proof of the surgery that saved him.

May my scars prove the same.

**This post is being submitted to FIVE MINUTE FRIDAY over at a beautiful blogging corner called THE GYPSY MAMA. . www.thegypsymama.com.  The theme for today is “beyond”.

**Consider subscribing to He sees me? It is certainly an encouragement and blessing to me. Enter your email in the small box and you are all set. You can even control how often you are emailed about new posts.

Patches

I have two tree climbers.

Summer and springtime knees of these climbers are scabbed and often bruised.

My climbers don’t run and cry to me like they did when they were tiny.

Sometimes I don’t even realize garments have  been torn until much later.

We gather around the dinner table and younger son’s knee catches the eye.

I Neosporin and kiss and he just giggles.

I tell him the kiss is the most important part of the healing.

Isn’t it always?

I attempt to buy the “play” clothes and “play” shoes at consignment sales.

Realize as the days run together that those are the only clothes the boys really wear.

Clothes match the day and the days are filled with wonderful play when you are young.

Respectable collared shirts and pants make their showing for church.

Piano recitals.

And picture days.

The climbing sons have a momma who is not a domestic diva.

Yes, there have been many times I have shamelessly envied talented girlfriends.

They can sew up a beautiful purse so effortlessly.

I offer boxed brownies to the party.

But I’ve tried patches.

Head to Wal-Mart with the climbers and find the deep blue patches in the sewing section.

They are dark blue.

Like new Wrangler jeans that feel like sandpaper before they are worn in.

I take the hot iron and press them down on the old.

Climbers don’t care what they are wearing.

Pull newly patched jeans on and they ascend.

They play harder when patched.

I think it is the knowledge that what they are wearing is already old, broken and repaired.

This adds energy. Zest. 

They go higher.

Skim down roughly.

The patch isn’t the perfect color match.

But it’s preshrunk.

A momma can’t place the new on the old unless it fits.

Through washings and drying. . the patch won’t shrink.

It won’t expose skin through the cracks, the pulls.

It won’t tear away.

Never a purpose in making a tear worse.

That is never the purpose of a parent.

Human momma or Heavenly Father. 

So my climbers are what I think about this rainy fall morning.

Rising from their beds soon with trees to climb and lessons to learn.

This scripture is what we will talk about around our treehouse table while we eat sugared natural cereal with tiny marshmallows. .

“No one sews a patch of unshrunk cloth on an old garment. If they do, the new piece will pull away from the old, making the tear worse.” Mark 2:21

And we will talk about shrinking.

That what we sow into our garment, the garment of this life, must be Him in us.

Not the old us. 

He which is the “new”.

Never to make the tear worse. 

He will never pull away.

Sown to Him and in Him.

A soul that makes us want to climb higher, longer and with confidence. 

Ascending the trees.

To Him alone.

**This post is being submitted to Ann’s WALKING WITH HIM WEDNESDAYS over at www. aholyexperience.com. 

The Simple Post

It is simple really.

I am sitting at the treehouse table with my sons.

We read “Jesus Calling” by Sarah Young every morning.

I understand Sarah also has a devotional for adults,but we use the one for kids.

These devotions speak to me as much as to my sons.

This is what we read this beautiful October morning:

“Worry is the result of imagining a future without Me in it.”

The Me, of course, is God.

I believe this is the best definition of worry that I’ve ever read.

I have no idea how long I sat there speechless.

How long I looked out the window to the big trees and wondered why I would ever worry?

In my journal this morning, before the sons shuffled down the hall, I had written this verse:

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever.” Hebrews 13:8.

I wrote this without having any idea what devotional time with the sons would be about.

I will never stop being in awe of how He weaves our moments.

A dot to dot of such Purpose if  I choose to See it.

As I walk through faith.

He is always the same.

Always with me.

This is the simple post.

The walking always harder than the talking.

Letting go.

Letting God.

And remembering this definition of worry.

Worry defined and paired with this scripture:

“Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us. . ” Ephesians 3:20

Immeasurably more than what we ask.

Than what we imagine.

His Power in us.

If I REALLY believe this. . . why would I ever worry?

What is left to add to this simple truth?

Absolutely, splendidly, nothing.

Rejoicing in all that He is.

Maybe one word to add?

Amen.

**So very thankful for His Word. So very thankful for morning devotions on the red couch and later around the treehouse table that point my family to  Him. So thankful for you visiting this corner of the blogging world. Most thankful for a God who will never leave me, who covers our worries with His Presence and His Love. Always.

**Submitting this post to MULTITUDES ON MONDAYS over at www.aholyexperience.com.  Please take time to read Ann’s beautiful words and check out some other amazing writers who share the blessings God has revealed in their lives.

**Subscribe to He Sees Me? Simply enter your email in the subscription box and you are all set. New posts will be delivered  right to your inbox. And please know that you have encouraged me while doing so.

To throw and catch

I can strive.

I can push so hard that plates of life fall and break around me.

And the broken, jagged edges of those pieces cut.

Often I don’t feel that pain until much later.

The way glass can slice the skin and the blood that trickles the first sign of the wound.

A devotional spoke wise words to my heart just two mornings ago.

I learned a safety measure, a proactive way to avoid the messy wounds that can slice a spirit.

Reading Isaiah and the words tell me to wait.

In waiting, not forcing, I exchange my strength for His.

His strength. In me.

His strength which is truly the only way to live, create, love, forgive.

And when I throw all the weight, the saddlebags that exhaust a soul to Him.

He catches it.

Smiles.

The strong ball that he throws back feels custom-made for the gloved hand.

Feels weightless. 

But strong.

Strength. Authentic Strength.

It holds me, nourishes me, comforts me.

As He is always the only Strength needed.

His yoke always easy.

His burden light.

And I read these words two mornings ago.

Sitting on my red couch, pup at each knee.

“But those that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength.” Isaiah 40:31

To throw is to trust in the “renewal”.

In Hebrew the word “renew” means to exchange.

And I exchange it. 

No receipt is required. 

The striving is gone.

Real strength is given for the journey.

*These words are being posted at THE GYPSY MAMA for FIVE MINUTE FRIDAY. If you are visiting from that beautiful blogging location, thanks for stopping by. I pray you are encouraged today.

**Please consider subscribing to HE SEES ME. It is free. It is easy. And it encourages me so much to know that these words are finding their way into your inboxes. Just click the box, enter your email address, and you are all set.

Heels

It deserved a standing ovation.

So we stand and clap and I lean on him.

I’m wearing heels.

I am the girl who has never quite mastered the fine art of heel wearing.

I desperately want to throw them off and slide into my slippers.

I follow Husband out the side door of the Fox Theatre.

We never knew a side door existed until Saturday night.

Cool air and mobs of theatre patrons all around us.

It’s a long walk back to our car.

We parked at least three blocks away.

My feet are pinched and aching.

I say to Husband, “You are going to have to walk slowly. I am in pain. How do women wear these everyday? I can’t even wear them one night!”

Women in every direction are walking by in tall, skinny heels.

Several are wearing sequins.

Somehow their hair isn’t blowing in the wind like mine.

I feel a bit out-of-place. 

A consignment girl shopping at Neiman Marcus?

“I’m sorry.”

And I am.

Somedays I do wish I could be a little more than I am.

“You’re beautiful. Now take off those heels and hand them to me.”

“Ok.”

I say this to Husband.

Shocked that I do.

I slip one miserable heel off then the other.

My pants scrape the ground now.

I don’t  mind this either.

Husband smiles at me.

“Do you really think I can do this? It’s a long walk.”

Georgia concrete cold on the toes already.

“Absolutely,” Husband says.

He pulls me close.

One arm twisted through mine.

The other hand carrying those heels.

I hear him say, “What was you favorite part?”

And we’ve seen WICKED before.

It’s a favorite.

The seats this evening were fantastic.

But I look at the man I am walking down the streets of Atlanta with.

It’s cold.

Windy.

Dark.

Late.

My feet are only thinly veiled by stockings.

Arm securely held by him.

And I want to say. . .

“This is. This is my favorite part.”

But I don’t.

I tell him how much I always love the  funny song, “POPULAR.”

And tonight, especially, “FOR GOOD.”

The song describes the way Glinda and Elphaba have grown together.

Sharpened the other.

Challenged the other.

14 years ago my husband and I met in a class to learn how to be good teachers.

And no one has ever taught me more.

And I see God so very clearly on this early autumn night . . .

Not sure that I have ever felt more beautiful. .

Or more thankful for all that God has given me

When He gave me him. . . .

**This post is being submitted to A HOLY EXPERIENCE for MULTITUDES ON MONDAYS.

Always thankful for a husband that loves me so well and the multitude of blessings he brings me in the “everyday” of  this small life.