Hand-to-Heart Moments

Rain falling on the final morning of summer, I feel the impulse to reach out and cup it in my hands as if any gesture might allow summer to be saved. What can we do on summer’s last day that could make permanent summer’s freedom?

When I speed through my days, life changes at a rate that is incomprehensible.
When I am present and breathe the moment in, life changes at a rate that is miraculous.

I do not ask for a life that is only the latter, for the former allows for life to thrive and for bodies to move and grow. But I do ask for a few moments every morning when I can stand still and see, as if from a distance, the coming and going, hunting and gathering, nurturing and sending, dismantling and creating, connecting and separating of our days. We live days as if they will go on forever, but the meaningful moments ping within us the reality that they cannot. Continue reading

My Cup Overflows

: photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/val-er-ie/14343350693

These days are full. My desk holds more piles of tasks and needs than I can tackle in a lifetime, nevertheless in 30 hours each week. My children hold more needs for their own flourishing than I could ever provide them, even if I quit my job and gave each hour to the labor of mothering. My grandfather lies in a hospice bed an hour away. His sons wait upon him as he approaches his final hours. They watch his fragile frame and listen to his breathing. He holds more needs than his body can fulfill any longer, even if the drugs and the care continued.

There are limits to who we are and what we can do. Continue reading

Time: My Forgiveness, Its Blessing

The host led us to the back of the restaurant, through the swinging doors, and to the immaculate white-linen table in the midst of the chaotic kitchen. Chefs, line cooks, and servers bustled around us. We were celebrating a belated Christmas gift – a four-course feast right at the “Chef’s Table” in the heat of it all. For three hours, we watched the often-hidden mystery of how decadent culinary creations are frantically created in a complex system. Under the bright lights, loud clangs, and orders shouted, exquisite plates made their way out to quiet dining rooms to hushed conversations over candle-light. Busy, efficient, and beautiful, the kitchen staff raced around us like we were but an invisible feature of the kitchen.

There are times that this year has felt just like those three hours. Away from work, from our community, from our home, we wait as time goes on around us. I spend my days alone with our boys as I shuttle them to bus stops, preschool, and appointments. I orient my hours around nursing an infant, fitting in school work, picking up the house, cooking dinner, welcoming my beloved home, and preparing lunch for another day. My parents visited this weekend and as I waved goodbye to them at the airport, I couldn’t help but feel like it would be an eternity until I saw them again. And yet I returned to our sabbatical home knowing that these five months still have something yet to teach me. The year is not done with me yet.

TIME eludes me – slipping out from my hands, laughing at my attempts to hold it steady.
TIME contains me – measuring, ordering, and claiming me in its passing.
TIME slays me – cutting my stride at the knees when future thoughts cause me to assume that it is passing faster than it is. Continue reading

What Time Is It?

To discern what time it is has become seemingly my primary task. Having undertaken Duke’s Doctor of Ministry program amidst my sabbatical year, I am constantly asking myself – What time is it? Is it time to read, think, write, or edit? Is it time to close my computer and work on a puzzle with the younger one tugging at my side? Is it time to insert myself into the quibbles and squabbles of two brothers acting out the day’s exhaustion upon each other? Is it time to persist in cleaning up the day’s mess? Is it time to surrender to the fatigue of carrying this nearly-grown human life?

Is it time for productivity?
Is it time for presence?

Life in the Pregnant Pause

The life is known: baby brother, boy #3. The name is close to being known. The items have all been retrieved from storage. He moves and kicks, perhaps even practicing prenatal yoga. And yet now is still the waiting time. 13 more weeks. It is too early for him to burst forth, breathe this common air, and join this human pilgrimage . His presence may be growing more pronounced every day, but we are still living in the pregnant pause.

The life is known: a return to Louisville for the next chapter. The jobs are secured. Our home will return to our possession next summer. Our minds leap and jump and stretch. We imagine the ways our life will return to “normal” and the ways it will feel as an all new beginning. The year cannot be rushed nor the days counted down. The days prescribed have too much to teach us. We are living in the pregnant pause.

Temporary Time

20 days until we drove away from our home with belongings packed or stored.
28 days until Drew starts his fellowship.
40 days until I begin a new educational endeavor.
57 days until first-born enters kindergarten.
146 days until this baby boy is due to enter the world
391 days until all is returned home.

All the days feel exposed and vulnerable for their temporary status. To live in the temporary is to live exposed to time’s quick short-hand, the tick-tock sound ringing constantly in my ears. It keeps the beat as the counted moments go by.

The Pile of Threads

thread-mess

Piercing the tapestry of all that has been of our lives for the past ten years, the winnowing fork does its work. The Divine Hands rake the winnowing fork back and forth, over and over, pulling out the threads of the tapestry that has been. Threads loosen. The tines of the fork carry out the threads that remain intact. The threads that have snagged and disintegrated fall to the pile of scraps. It is the baptism that Jesus promised – the kind that does not just immerse us but promises to eternally transform us.

Oh, it hurts. The tugs and the pulls.

The process of dismantling the tapestry that has been in order to prepare for the tapestry that will be has been one of the most difficult ones to endure. There have been times when I tried to cling to the tapestry that has been in order to protect it from the winnowing fork’s work. But each time, the Divine Hands waited in persistence until I realized my efforts were from fear’s taunting. Fear tries to keep intact that which should be dismantled. Each time, the Divine Hands paused the process to pass on enough trust so that I might move aside and the work might continue.

January

Change always seems to feel most palpable in January, right at the same time as weather draws me in and keeps me contained at home. It’s all part of a wider pattern. I see it as I look back, like the waves behind a boat reveal the way only after traveled. The first month of the year comes and it brings with it a time of rest amidst a season of restlessness.

Change feels most threatening in January.

But its mercy is powerful in equal measure.

New Year, Old Promises

A new year begins here. While boys sleep and the light rises outside, blue gray winter skies promise another year. Routine is adjusted with a later alarm but it is all the same. Cereal, eggs, coffee, quiet.

365 days stretch before me, all named by 2016. Some of them have already been claimed. Work trips. Wrapping up. Saying goodbye. Moving. Kindergarten. Beginning again. Birthdays. Anniversaries.

Many are left untouched, awaiting life to fill them and grant them their greatest desire – purpose.

Forever and Ever

Forever and ever.

The scripture’s haunting words have stuck with me this morning. Like a taunting whisper, they echo throughout my mind.

The house sits empty across the street. The one who loved it most is no more. Mr. John died this past week. A solitary man, he kept to himself. No car. No close family. He was independent, talkative, and kind.

They carried his body out yesterday. The package that sat on the front steps for the whole week should have given it away. The smell of death spilled into the street and I can’t quite shake it. The house his parents called home is all that remains. But the image of mother, father, and son reunited redeems even an empty house and lingering smells.

Forever and ever. Continue reading

pause.give.thanks

the practice of paying attention

Grappling with Time