9.25.23

 

                               S E P T E M B E R  25, 2023

           The hills around our house are flame- colored again, that aching color that is so hauntingly beautiful. Autumn here is such a brief season... the fireweed turns to flame, the currant and rosebushes next, and then from every hill and valley the trees are engulfed in the rich colors of fall. The leaves descend softly like golden confetti, the mornings are crisp and cool and a rolling, roiling fog covers the lake every clear dawn. So beautiful, and yet so bittersweet. I've never been good at goodbyes, and autumn spells death to me in a way that December 31 never does. The year is wrapping up. I am no farmer and my thumbs are not even slightly tinged with green, but Autumn is a harvest time nonetheless. We bring in sheaves of memories, things done and undone. Summer folds up, and the barefoot freedoms end. School begins, and I'm the teacher; how did this happen? Where has the summer gone? Where has the year gone? Where has my own childhood and youth gone? Fleeting, fleeting, mist and vapors! It is a time of taking stock, of seeing all that has been accomplished, and what has not yet even begun. All of my inadequacies stare me in the face, my shortcomings, my lack of spiritual growth, emotional self-control and gentleness seem but a distant dream. Lord, lead me! For I know not the way on my own. My steps falter and stumble. My eyes see so dimly, just haze and fog and loss and goodbyes.  Let the summer die in peace, with no regrets. Bring us through the darkness, into your most glorious light. Spring will come again, and end again! Better is one day in Your courts, than thousands elsewhere. Speak to me, gentle Father, honest Brother, kindest Friend. You are my all in all. 

Nevertheless the foundation of God standeth sure, having this seal, The Lord knoweth them that are his. And, Let every one that nameth the name of Christ depart from iniquity.

2 Timothy 2: 19

4.16.22

       I lie here in this golden room, the melting honey sunshine, Spring-bright, pouring over every sill. I lie here surrounded by my offspring, from the smallest in my womb, to the tallest, my firstborn- I only lie here because someone else gave up their freedom for me. My father, tenth child, never should have been born, culturally, economically, perhaps even rationally. But had not my grandmother laid herself on a bed of pain and birthed him, I would not lie here today. Had not my mother chosen Love over Comfort, my children would not crowd around my head, blessings each of them, even as they crowd and overwhelm me. Oh God, be it unto me, thy handmaid! Make me thy more willing servant. Make me thy more trusting slave. And the sun pours in, and the sky is large. What a good earth the Father has made for those who have the eyes to see. Father, give me those eyes. 

7.28.21

             

      

        I remember my Aunt Jeanie shortly before she died, sitting on the edge of her bed,  telling me a story about when she was young. Her family would have pasta with butter and cheese for dinner, and she remembered with happiness the pleasantness of happening upon a bite that had both butter and cheese.  Her accent sounded strangely European after her stroke, with a slight lisp on some of her words. I enjoyed listening to her speak,  and this was a good memory for her;  I could see her vividly in my mind's eye, young and hungry and savoring that pasta. There is a lump in my own throat as I remember her.

    One of my youngest aunts, and both of us hot tempered and immature, I remember several difficult encounters throughout the years. Once when I was seventeen she interjected one too many critical comments into an argument I was having with my mother, and I quickly swore at her, and she, just as quickly, threw a piece of cake at my head. We both deserved what we got, and I wish I could say we both matured and never fought again, but that wouldn't be true. I still swear when provoked and she was still throwing things on her deathbed. How I loved her! How I long to see her again. How happy I am that she is no longer sitting on the edge of that bed, thinking with sadness or longing over her life and weighing the years and always coming up short. Her God took her home to be with Him, to be his Beloved.. and I can ask no more than that for myself. Neither of us worthy, but both of us Chosen.. and we will be together, forever, in the new light of the Dawn.  

           Jeanie, I miss you. 

Through the tender mercy of our God,

With which the Dayspring from on high has visited us;

To give light to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death,

To guide our feet into the way of peace.

LUKE 1. 78-79

3.27.21

 

             At fifteen I worked for a little while for a florist at a flower shop at one of the sprawling, cream-colored hotels on the Kohala coast. 

    I remember the arrival of the fresh flowers for the day, their wet leaves and broken stems scattered on the floor as they were unpacked, trimmed, and placed upright in containers of water; the smell of them, their soft petals cool in my hands. Music of every beat and shade  pulsed as the flowers were neatly and cleverly arranged by the young florist's capable fingers. Full trolleys of fresh flowers were wheeled along the halls to decorate the main lobby and for each event happening that day. The surf pounded under a blue sky, always a blue sky, and the hotel grass was short and spiky beside the tidy pathways, the aching hot sand shining in the sun.  Torches were lit in the quick dusk at the end of every day, and I wish I had the chance of living at least one of them over again, to fully savor being young, to rest in my restlessness and to enjoy each moment as it burned out swiftly against eternity. 

           Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them; While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain.....

       Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.  Ecclesiastes 12: 1-2 and 6-7 

No Greater Love

 

                                                                    2.15.21

          

        Christian lies beside me, his soft body warm in the darkness, his small breathing the only sound to break the stillness. Yet another blessing to add to the list- yet another gift, priceless, timeless, and given as all the others were, through pain and sorrow and suffering. But what a gift, what richness, what a treasure beyond measure he is! Eighth child, fourth son- numbers do not diminish one jot of his uniqueness or the special space he inhabits in our family. Was he a planned child? Yes, most certainly, but not of my or his father's planning. None of them have been, but the evidence of a greater Plan looks out of each pair of dark eyes. God has been at work here; crafting with such subtle nuance, such boldness, such grace, even as I have wept and trembled and shaken in fear of yet another pregnancy, yet another foray into a 40 week wilderness. And for what does he work? For my earthly pleasure? For my pride? No, for his own glory, and what a gory glory it is, the way he rides roughshod over my preferences, over my comfort, over my fears! And yet, is not this what he promised me long ago? Because I live, you also will live. He lived, he feared, he sorrowed, he wept in a dark garden and whispered, "Father, let this cup pass from me". How human he was! And yet immediately- Not my will, but Thine be done. How long it takes me to echo that swift and humble submission. So often it takes me the full 40 weeks, the last sleepless night, the final bed of agony and I'm staring into those dark eyes again and I can finally say, Not my will, but Thine, be done. Never my will, Lord, for it is shortsighted and selfish, concerned only for my comfort and the praise of man. Your will, Lord, your good and perfect will. Be it unto me, thy handmaid, and may I have that greater, more perfect, love. 

Greater love hath no man than this, than he who lays down his life for his friend.  John 15.13

 

Prayer for a H U S B A N D

 Prayer for a H U S B A N D 

This man for me that thou
Hast given.
A good gift bought by blood, and shriven.
Bless his rest
And bless his waking.
Bless his giving
And his taking.
Him thy servant
Thou his good,
Bless him in his servanthood.
In your image
Wast he created,
Bless him as Thou art celebrated.
Thou O Father
Him thy son,
Bless through him now everyone. 

A U T U M N 2020

                                                    A U T U M N  2020

      I love the ocean. The vastness, the ever- changing color, the restless crashing of the waves as countless thousands of gallons of water are weighed and measured upon the sands. The birds skittering on the beach and dipping and wheeling above the waves. A lone whale, cavorting just within view, making us feel like all of creation was made to be enjoyed.
Which it was. 

   What a heartbreak for the Father to see the things we've done to it, and to ourselves.
   While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. 

While we were yet sinners? I'm still a sinner. All of the heinous and most grievous sins I've committed against both God and man were committed after accepting Christ. How can he have been so gracious, and continue in it? How can he have seen the future of that seven year old girl and yet still welcomed me with open arms? How can he keep taking me back when I hardly feel him before I turn away again? What sort of a God is this... to be so humble? 

   The moon, a golden glowing apricot moon rises over the dark pines, the wind tossing them back and forth like shadows... and the sea thunders. 

Thus far shall you come, and no farther,
and here shall your proud waves be stayed.

O God, you are my God. 

March 2020

 

      The more I see of life, the more I see it is filled with uncertainty and powerlessness at every turn. God is in control, but every time we attempt to snatch the reins away we don't get any farther than just swerving off course for a little while.
      I have had trouble submitting to God as a married woman, and I have had  trouble submitting to God as a single woman. I have trouble being patient and trusting as a married woman...and I had trouble trusting and being patient as a single woman. It seems like there is no escaping these things, somehow we are just supposed to plod forward, wrestling with him all the way, perhaps, but in the end, bowing down and worshipping, all crying Holy, Holy Holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come!

Worthy are you, our Lord and God,

to receive glory and honor and power,

for you created all things,

and by your will they existed and were created.

         R e v e l a t i o n   4. 11

S E A S O N S

S E A S O N S

                                                     
   When I feel unloved and unwanted by my husband, when I remember the countless times he was unfaithful to me for the first seven years of our marriage, I have a hard time believing that anyone can love me, even God.

      When I remember my dad, always absent even when in my presence, when I remember his unfaithfulness to my mother and his eventual desertion, I feel like that is also who God is; unfaithful, untrustworthy, and just biding His time until he will abandon me forever.

      These are lies. GOD IS GOOD. God is merciful and just and holy and God is faithful. Jesus is faithful. The Holy Spirit is faithful.    Yet in the darkness, in the loneliness, in the mire; I do not feel what I know is true. I am alone in the darkness of my mind, and see no light.    And yet, is the Light not there? Perhaps my eyes are closed too tight to see Him.

    God, grant me eyes that want to see You and only You.    Help me to cling to what I know to be right, even when I feel completely alone.

Fifteenth Year

Unpublished Sketch by 

Susan Kobzev

   

Spring

Spring by Elysia

Spring

 Summer   

Autumn 

                                 Winter 

6.18.18

                                                      J U N E 18 2018 

    June is here at last, and that sweet elusive scent of bluebells and the soft warm scent of ferns.  Silver vases range across the mantelpiece and countertops, brimming with wild bounty.
      Flowers, flowers everywhere and all to be had for the taking. Thick sprays of chokecherry blossoms in a thick crystal vase, so tall they brush the chandelier that hangs over the dining table.    Small bunches of wild roses, their rounded green leaves pointing up and out and everywhere, the yellow stamens in stark contrast but still perfect unity with the rounded pink petals, proving once and for all that pink truly does belong with yellow. Dandelions like tiny, forceful suns crowding their way down the hill and into the lawn, and Naomi crouched in the long grass, her golden head like yet another ray of sunshine. The lupins we transplanted three years ago are finally growing like the beautiful,  decadent, glorious weeds that they are, their blue spears thrusting towards an even bluer sky. 

   Oh God, to see you as my King- that is what I long for. Not just my friend and brother, not only  my Creator and my savior- but my King. 

     Summer is here, and it is full and rich and good. May we enjoy each moment to the brim.

The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are set aloft.

                        Proverbs 18.10

A Christmas Tale

A Christmas Tale 


         Once upon a time there were two little girls on Christmas Eve, pulling their white nightgowns over their heads and wishing and wishing for a horse of their own. They fell asleep wishing, and dreamt of horses, horses with flying manes and tails, foals with big wondering eyes and delicate legs like young deer, horses standing in long stables, softly whooshing their breath as they contentedly munched their oats and nibbled at their Christmas hay.      
  It's a glorious thing to dream of your wishes, and never more so than at Christmastime. 
          They woke early, and pelted down the stairs to the landing window,  their heels twinkling below their long white gowns as they ran. Perhaps, just perhaps, one of those dream horses was a real live flesh and blood horse, standing on the snowy lawn, or waiting at the gate of the tiny stable (which looked very like a garden shed, but as anyone knows, a garden shed is just a stable waiting to happen). 

     The two girls, Clara and Emma,  pressed their noses against the cold window panes, their breath making smudges against the glass. There were no hoof prints in the freshly fallen white snow, and the garden shed still looked sadly like what it was. Their hearts fluttered with sadness, but the stars were shining bright, like handfuls of diamonds on a dark velvet blanket. It was Christmas, after all, and there would be other Christmases, and perhaps with enough wishing one day it would come to pass.
     They continued down the curving wooden staircase, the glow of the Christmas tree casting shadows against the walls. The tree was a small one this year, fat and round and jolly,  with long loops of red cranberries  they had strung themselves, and peppermint candy canes, and glass balls as delicate as soap bubbles, every color of the rainbow, and small glass animals quite crowding every inch of the little tree.    The girls felt the familiar happiness bubbling up in their chests, remembering the presents they had tucked under it the night before, gifts that had been long in the making, small things, but crafted with an uncommen love, for they loved to give gifts and always had half a dozen in the making at any one time.   

       Clara  untied a tiny package from one of the branches and handed it to Emma, her outstretched hand a little shy, as is the manner of someone giving a small piece of themselves away on a Christmas morning. "Here, this one is yours- I made it for you. Merry Christmas." Emma  unwrapped it, also a little shy, as is someone receiving a piece of someone else. 

 A little box fell  from the gilded wrappings and she opened it, turning it round and round. It was just the size of a matchbox, and Clara had painted a  winter scene inside, with a little lake made from a broken piece of mirror, and tiny figures cut from cardboard skating on it. The blue snowy hills had been painted on in watercolors, and gold stars twinkled in the sky. Flecks of golden glitter twinkled around the frozen pond, looking very much like candles for a skating party, as they were supposed to. 
    Emma cupped it safely in her hand, "I love this- Thank you," she said. They smiled softly at each other and then both turned again to the tree. Something gleamed, brown and shining from beneath the branches.  A brown china horse was grazing from a painted china feedbox, a red halter on his finely shaped face. His neck arched and curved,
and on his back was a red and gold saddle. The girls took turns holding him, looking at him first one way and then another. One of his back hooves was a pale pink, like the inside of a shell, and his eyes were deep and lustrous.

      Around his neck was tied a card with a silk ribbon; "To our dear girls Emma and Clara- may the dear Father in heaven always smile upon your dreaming. All our love, Mama and Papa" 

 He was the most magnificent toy they had ever seen, and they hugged him to themselves, exhulting in his beauty. The day passed in a happy blur, the gifts all given and properly exclaimed over, the Christmas feast a success, and the goodnight kisses given and received. 
   The china horse was put to bed in the playroom, the little china manger put close by him in case he should feel a little hungry in the night, and a cream pitcher  borrowed from a doll's tea set was pressed into service for his water.

     Again the two girls went to bed in their long white gowns, and again they slept, deeply and sweetly, this time about a horse with a red and gold saddle and eyes dark as chocolate. 
   Again they awoke early (but perhaps not as early as before), and remembering the china horse they again ran eagerly down the steps and around the corner, this time to the playroom, Emma (who was littlest,) bumping into Clara as she stopped still in the doorway. 

    They heard a soft whooshing sound, and a low gentle nickering. Papa was there, and beside him was a horse. Not a painted china stallion, but a real live horse, looking old enough to be wise with children but young enough to be a friend for many years.  The girls still stood in the doorway, breathless; "Don't you even want to meet her?"  said Mama, coming smiling down the hallway, the fullness of a Christmas miracle quite shining out of her eyes. "She's for you.. She's yours!"  Papa said, laughing at their still startled faces. 
    
 Clara reached out gently, slowly, touching the soft velvet nose, running her hand under the warmth of the long black mane. They took her through the house and across the snowy lawn,  heading towards the garden shed that now looked more than ever like a stable, with a bucket and rake leaning up against it, the fresh smell of new hay coming out over the half door. 

The girls never forgot that morning - the first time they they saw a wish and a dream, living and breathing before their very eyes.

12.23.17

        I found myself sitting in the floor, wrapping gifts with squabbling children and muttering quietly under my breath, "I hate children". 
Then my husband came home after working late, and everyone treated him like a waiter at dinner and I heard him mumble, "Oh I hate children." 

     We don't usually say this kind of thing. God has blessed us with a large and ever-growing family, and we love our kids, love sharing our lives with them, and we love Christmas- the lights, the music, the cozy times reading, the Christmas baking and visiting. 
But this year I keep hearing a whisper in my ear; "This is empty. This is worthless. This has no meaning." 
Only in the last few days have I realized how often I have listened to that whisper, and how I had begun to believe it. 

      Advent is a waiting time, a waiting for the light to burst into flames in the darkness. But the advent of Christ, his lowly birth in a stable also heralded weeping and grief as the mothers of babies had their children torn from their arms, as Herod sought for that tiny, lovely king-baby gifted to a Jewish virgin. Satan has always hated children, and stops at nothing to snuff out their life, their breath, their very souls. 

      The celebrations God ordained for his chosen people always centered on remembering Him; remembering what He had done for them, what miracles he had performed, what feats of daring and mystery they had witnessed, what laws should be upheld and obeyed.  And always the proclamation, "And ye shall teach them your children, speaking of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.

     As a Christian, celebrating light in seasons of darkness ought to be
second nature. Giving gifts thoughtfully chosen in memory of our true Gift  should be a joy and not a drudgery.  But I kept hearing this low, mocking voice as I pick up my Bible to read from Proverbs or the Christmas Story out loud to my kids. 
"This is empty and meaningless and worthless. It is all worthless." 

       It is not worthless! God came down and clothed himself in our flesh and bone- he nursed,  he slept, he grew and cried and laughed. He was full human. He was full God. 
      Our earth was hallowed by his first footsteps to his mother, and his last footsteps towards the cross. Our earth can have joy and sorrow side by side, as we live in the light of his life. 
The things we do have meaning, they have purpose, and one day we will see all the threads connected, glorious, spread out like golden stars across a dark blue sky.

Merry Christmas, and this joyful, sorrowful, holy Season's Greetings.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

James 1.17

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counseller, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9.6

11.1.17

                               Wednesday, November 1

        Driving through the fog yesterday I was listening to a somewhat somber song by John Michael Talbot, when suddenly the music changed, and with an exultant rush the chorus almost shouted, "On the third day! On the third day! On the third day, He rose again!"  Such a feeling of joy and sweetness filled my soul and overflowed down the edges. There are seasons of waiting, like those three days in the tomb when most of the believers faltered in their beliefs. There are seasons of mist and fog, and gray days, and stumbling. But because of that third day, because of Christ rising and ascending from the grave and then into heaven, the sun is always just around the corner.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth.

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber.

Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

The LORD is thy keeper: the LORD is thy shade upon thy right hand.

The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.

The LORD shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul.

The LORD shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore. 

Psalm 121

October 19 2017

                                               October 19 2017

       This house hums loud in the quiet dark of a Thursday morning seven o'clock. I lie in bed awake, remembering my evening prayers;  I asked for singleness of mind, gentleness for my children, and the ability to stay present in my daily life. I don't want to check out of reality any more- clicking and tapping away, a blank, black device obscuring my face from my children. Kyrie Eleison. Christe eleison. Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.

          In the last few years I have one by one checked out of most forms of social media- first Facebook, then Instagram, then slowly but sadly deleting each hoarded Pin Board.   

     Many of the perceived connections that I thought were so valuable proved empty, the relationships carefully stroked with picture comments and exclamation points proved hollow.
   I don't regret it.  And yet, always temptation beckons at the door, and idolatry is always ready to meet me more than halfway. EBay and Amazon can be just as alluring, the promise of a package in the mail just as exciting as the old red notifications in my FB inbox. Shopping fills a void. .. for a moment. 

The moment passes; the void is still there. 

       Oh, to run to God the way I've run to material things! To run to Christ the way I embraced my sexuality as a means to security! If only I could be as fervent in the Holy Spirit as I've been fervent in finishing projects- always finishing, finishing, rushing towards the final step as if it will complete me. 

         Kyrie Eleison. Wake me from my complacency O God. Wake me into your holiness, your living, breathing, satisfying righteousness.

        Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;  While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain...

       ...Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. 

Ecclesiastes 12

9.18.17

                                   September 18,   2 0 1 7 

          The hills are green and golden again, and the  gray autumn skies that seem to last forever make the blue ones even more incredible by contrast. The leaves fall, quickly, thickly, and the sound of winter hovers just around the corner.

        David falls asleep on my chest, his hair soft and sweet against my lips. He is such a precious boy, and I love to see his serious little face occasionally break into the widest, most delightful of grins. The nine months of waiting for him seemed to last forever, and the two months since his birth have flown by on wings. I can't get enough of him, and am always rushing through my tasks in order to be with him again.
   
       I am so grateful to God, who blesses me beyond belief and knows always what is best for me. May I remember Him, even on those dark days, dim with uncertainty. May I remember always, His love for me has never, and will never, fail.



                                                             

April 2017

                                                   April 2017

          The grass of our lawn is the pale golden brown of Naomi's hair; spring grass.   We bring in bare birch branches, and I fill a tall gold vase with them. The tiny, furling green leaves at last come forth, forerunners of the green that has yet to appear on the trees outside.  Naomi runs in small circles, laughing as the still-dry grass tickles her feet. She's in a blue-green dress, and her sweet daintiness reminds me of a forget-me-not.
       Robin races back and forth across our small yard, his puppy heart contented as he leaps eagerly for the bubbles the kids are blowing off of the deck.
Apple cake in the oven for tomorrow's breakfast, and Tony is almost on his way home.
 A long and peaceful day, the honey-toned sunshine lasting hour after hour and the goodness of God so open, so unashamedly good.

12.23.16

It comes back to me slow.
I remember first the long cold and the black dark, glowing city street lamps lighting the way. Bells must have tinkled when we pushed open the heavy glass doors- it was that sort of store. A Christmas place... sweet smelling, with crates and bins full of tiny ornaments, and tree after tree, brightly lit and shining. My aunt took me there, one of my mother's younger sisters, dark-haired and vivacious and her nails were always done. She had winter gloves with fur on them, and her apartment was peach-pink, apricot and rose, full of femininity and  loveliness.  I loved looking at her things, and caring for them. Somehow when you care for something, you love it. She took me through the dark cold night into that beautiful place, and I'll spend a little of every Christmas trying to re-create some of that magic for my own children. A little brightness, a little warmth, it's cold outside and here, we're warm. God is in his heaven, and in his earth- one day all will be right with this world.

Merry Christmas.

Late September 2016

                                           Late September, 2016 

         Mist every morning, clouds of thick mist wafting over the lakes, and then the sun coming out, turning everything pink and gold and blue. The lake gets calm and still, like a mirror, reflecting a soft blue autumn sky. 

      Elysia asks me for the extra bread dough from dinner, and all the kids make miniature bread- Anthony a French-shaped oblong, Eleanor a bobbly mound,  Chloe a braided wreath with little dollops of dough in the middle, and Elysia-- a nest. A beautiful bird's nest, and she runs back into the pantry to get a bird-shaped cookie cutter to make a tiny mother bird, for the three small eggs in the center.  I see the artistry pouring out of all of them and I immediately feel so guilty- I was annoyed at them, I rushed them, and what if all they ever remember is me, rushing them, rushing myself, while the golden days, the dull days, the dark days, each translucent moment is slipping by unrelentingly?  

 "He has shown you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?"

           Chloe and I are memorizing Micah 6.8 and how I wish I could blazon it across my soul; sear my heart with its truth, the utter simplicity, the utter difficulty of it.                        Humility does not come naturally to me; insecurity perhaps, but pride and insecurity are flip sides of the same coin, and are the exact opposites of humility. Humility means finding your security in something greater than yourself- in Someone greater.                       Mercy doesn't come naturally either;  I want to do things right, and I want everyone else to do things right. In me I find no mercy.      
       And justice? Justice goes hand in hand with holiness and peace. Justice doesn't gasp with frustration as I flare up in anger while dealing with childish altercations on a Friday afternoon at the end of a long week, feeling like if I could  have one moment, only one moment alone, I would be okay. Justice is always just. Justice doesn't make excuses. 

      I know that truly, truly, love is all there is; love is all that matters.  A  mother has the unique task to show the love of God to her children- to mirror the compassion and comfort, and to echo the discipline. How continually I fail! How hopeless I am when I forget where my hope comes from!        

    Without Jesus Christ breathing into my
deadness I will never walk a victorious path. With Him,  anything is possible, and miracles and mountain tops a beautiful reality.

  Thus saith the LORD, Stand ye in

        the ways, and see, and ask for the old
       paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls.       

- Jeremiah 6 

August 12 2016

      

                                                             08.12.16

     Rain drops slide down the windows, all the earth crying, sad with sin. A storm of emotions compete for mastery; fear, sorrow, anger, embarrassment.   

I thought I was his. I was his!  I belonged to him.   

                     

You belong to Me.          

 Sunlight shafts through a rent in the clouds, warm on my face, a brilliant warm from a bright, grey sky. Peace feels warm and alive, peace says, I'm sorry- forgive me. Peace explains. Peace, like a river, even if only for a moment, even if only long enough for a fresh beginning.            

Two lakes, blue like blueberries under that same, grey sky.  Naomi's hazel eyes, round with wonder, her cheeks dimpling deliciously and her pure, bubbling laughter. Tony's love, in its proper sphere. If only I could wash in this sea of gratitude every moment of every day. If only I could feel things, clear and warm and new, moment by moment. 

 Christ lived his life full, completely abandoned to the pursuit of holiness, a moment by moment, realistic, mystical, self-sacrificing life. 

Only He will make me unafraid of the storms of life- unafraid of my own and other people's success or failure, unafraid of death; unafraid of life itself. Maran atha.

And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.

 In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.

Revelations 22 1-2

                                                      July 16, 2016

     The evening blue of the sky sifts down into yellow,  then deepens into a hazy peach at the horizon. A few whispers of cloud hover over Mount Susitna, our Sleeping Lady, and there are clouds heaped up in billows over the far ranges, golden light spilling out behind them, every shade of peach and gold and lavender lovelier than the one before it. 

     Naomi falls asleep on my chest and Eleanor is still buzzing around the room, busy as a bee, full of energy from her too-late nap. I do a rough sketch of the mountain and lakes with a purple watercolour pencil,  Eleanor bumping in and out to watch and exclaim, and I realize how much as a child I used to enjoy drawing; and then I remember the day my enjoyment in it died. Perhaps as I learn to forgive one person, I'll learn how to forgive everyone that has ever hurt me; perhaps I can also see more clearly how much I myself have been Forgiven. 

     It's eleven o'clock, and as I dip a tiny paintbrush into a silver cup of water and brush it over the sketch, there is an elation and happiness in my soul, and a hope both wistful and sure. 

And seek the peace of the city whither I have caused you to be carried away captives, and

pray unto the LORD for it: for in the 

        peace thereof shall ye have peace.                 

Jerimiah 29.7