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