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Showing posts from May, 2014

The age of beauty

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I didn't know he saw me until he mentioned it later.  He had been looking in the rear view mirror as he took it all in.  "There aren't any there," he grinned.

I smile at his naivety.  Always the generous one, my husband, he never seems to see the flaws that I wear on my person, in my heart, on my sleeve.  They say love is blind, perhaps I should love myself as much.

We were stopped at a red light and I was in the vehicle behind his.  I pulled down the handy mirror and stretched tight the part in my hair.  Those wiry grays shot up awkward from my head.  A few hard looks into the separated follicles confirmed that I would be silver haired by tomorrow, or in the very least the next few years  A heavy sigh and a quick flip of the mirror ended the occasion of vanity, but the thought of my passing life returns to me again and again.  The gentle reminder speaks in the squint of my eyes, and in the quiet pain that tells me I can't move the way that I used to and expect to …

Falling flat, when you only need to lean

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I've been feeling the pull of perfection, that tight choking around my neck that makes it hard to speak, to breathe.  It's exhausting, really.  I've given that up so many times, and here I am again with my hands full of some unattainable idea.

This happens when I lose focus.  My blurry eyes can't see the whole picture of what I am here for in the first place, and I get discouraged at my lack of ? (effort, progress, achievement).

I'm driving today, and the car is quiet.  I leave the radio off because I'm frustrated and can't stand to push another sound into my mind.  My son is curled up in the seat beside me with his hoodie pulled well over his eyes.  He is silently avoiding me and my frustrations.

The thoughts are flashing past as quickly as the trees outside my driver's side window.  I'm racing through the past few days and all their memories and mistakes, and I can't seem to find the good of anything I may have done.


I do it to myself, I know.…

Encourage

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I never thought myself a poet
Nor a writer, yes it's true
Not creative or inspired
(that's what brighter people do)

So I kept these secrets hidden
How I scribbled in a book
Loving all these words I'd written
With no eye allowed to look

Then someone, they offered boldly
Called me all these things I've named
Fed that fire deep inside me
Waved up high that burning flame

So I tell you, (would you believe me?)
That in earnest you might give
Kind a word in truth out spoken
A new world that one might live



I am you, a mother

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I was you.
Young mother
waiting anxious for the day to hold a child
holding all these dreams tied together on string
bunched close in the air, high hopes
imaginings of some sweet voice saying "mommy!"

I am you.
This mother
under the pile of to-do's and laundry
counting up days and wishing they would just. slow. down.
in the thicket of a million blades of grass
tending diligent to weeds that would choke the fragility of our offspring

I will be you.
My mother
that quiet heroine with time to fold her hands
but uses them instead to call and say hello
and she notices that the purpose in her beautiful life
will never end until she does




In all things

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Always be joyful.  Pray continually, and give thanks whatever happens. That is what God wants for you in Christ Jesus. 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18


I've entered thousands of rooms, tonight I enter hers with smile and stethoscope.  That repeated question arrives on my lips.  "How are you?"
She's distressed, unhappy.  Hospitals, the sterile world of white, where people hear the declaration of nearing death and search for paths to delay.  She was here in her bed, the receiver of more time.  I am here too, as healer.
"I wish they hadn't saved me.  I wish I had died."  She looks down at her hands.
Her heart had slowed that day.  Unresponsive to the world and the nurses who were coaxing vitality back to that great muscle, but it wasn't her time.  Revived and alive she was promptly scheduled for a backup plan in the mechanics of a pacemaker.
At 84 years living, she was spry still, untouched by the usual happenings of increased age.  Mother of six, having buried…