another launch

 I didn’t get a goodnight hug on the last night he slept at home

but I didn’t even notice

we dropped that ritual years ago

we traded it in for long walks through the neighborhood and talks about life

and the way he’d refill my coffee cup when he’d come to say hello in the morning

his car won’t be leaving oil stains on our street anymore

his boots are not on the stairs

he took his piano books

and I took his name off the chore list

his brothers are all upgrading their bedrooms

and everything is being cleaned, reimagined, rearranged.

it’s that familiar dance: 

releasing what was

embracing what has come

letting the world shift and expand

“thank you for your service” we say to the clothes we have outgrown

send them off- let them bless someone else.

“thank you for your service” to the season that is ending

send him off- let him bless someone else. 

i send him off with more tenderness

and an expectation of meeting up again. 

we will schedule time for walks through the neighborhood

and he will refill her coffee cup in the morning.

come see this

 Col 3: 2 Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. Yesterday I carried the question: what lasts? what will remain ‘above’ when there is no more ‘on earth?’

“Mom you have GOT to come outside right now” my17yr old insisted as he was about to drive his brother to a thing for me. GLORY- sunset- bright pink skies and a son who KNEW i would appreciate just staring at it. He makes a goofy face while I take the photo; I pray for their safety as they drive off and I keep staring at the clouds.

That sunset didn’t last. Fear in watching kids drive away, flashes of accidents and broken bodies? That won't last either- part of the dying earth and will someday be totally gone.

But God displaying beauty? Definitely part of eternal life together with him. There will be more sunsets. Enjoying beauty with others- telling each other “you have got to see this!” I expect that will be part of the praise and glory as well- likely with more singing, and maybe even some skipping or even dancing about it.

potholders

I scoffed at the raggedy old potholder you could see through, “Mom why in the world do you still use this?”

“It was my moms,” she said.

I teased her. “Does getting burned every time you use the oven help you honor grandma somehow? I’ll buy you a new potholder, for heaven’s sake.”

I didn’t get it, but I'm starting to. 

I feel small these days, with these blooming young adults around me,  all healthy and beautiful, eyes looking outside of this house where all the life is…

the anticipation of launching is just so loud, the futures are so bright

I don’t want to add even a little gray cloud with my unspoken question 

(what about me?)

so I cheer them and i smile

and I feel a little threadbare, 

like a used up old dish towel

(Am I still precious? in this state even?)

and l know in my teenage life

I’d walk past my mom like she was a potted plant 

with my eyes out towards the future

and one day as I’m folding socks and heavy with thoughts of change and shifting seasons of laundry I suddenly understand why the see-through potholder kept its place of honor in the drawer.

we love our people

and time gets used up

and we miss so much of it while we live our own lives

so we keep the potholder

and we hold it tenderly when we can’t hold them

because worn out, worn through 

any little thread of connection 

any tangible memory we can hold

is loved, 

precious, 

because they still are

and they always were

Lorraine has that silly picture I painted years ago hanging in her living room. And this year I hung up their old thanksgiving decorations in the hallway, construction paper crafts and finger paintings, remembering when they were bursting with pride over these offerings. They roll their eyes now, and that’s ok. 

Seth wanted to go to coffee with me and as he talked I couldn’t stop seeing the way his jacket brings out the green in his eyes full of hope, and the way he’s nervous and ready and asking “do I have what it takes?” and he let me see the fear and the weight for just a tiny beautiful second. I want to pause this whole thing before I have to see those eyes cry when he says goodbye to a grandparent (or to me.)

and today everything is lit up with glowing preciousness, 

every human around me

the new and the shiny ones with the future all ahead

and the quieter threadbare ones too

I saved the box with grandpa's handwriting for as long as i could, 

and I still have grandma’s tea set.

The teacup burns my hand when I use it 

but I use it anyway. 

--------

Will the potholders and the people be made new, reborn in the way of Jesus?
Is there hope down this way, down through the tunnel of stripping and letting go and getting smaller? 

Is there more life down here, down this way that feels like death?

Could it be that these joys, released with tears, are like seeds planted that will grow into more beautiful fruit than we can imagine?

I hold both memory and hope in my burning hands.

For now, we wait. 

rest, softly.

The first time I took a personal retreat I was falling apart; the duct tape I had been using to uphold the pace of my life was no longer working- so at my husband’s urging, I headed to the woods. I packed a small library, all the comfort things, and determined,  “I’m going to rest SO hard!”

The hours went quickly; I sensed them passing the whole time as I read and walked and wrote and prayed; I did everything with an awareness of the clock ticking, a subtle urgency to get it all in so I could be put back together again, patched up in a way that would LAST as I returned to my busy life.

I learned a ton. I stared at the water. I cried and let God see all my sore spots. 

And I let him see my fear that it wouldn’t be enough. 

- So what if it isn’t? 

What if you have to go forward, still fragile? 

What if it’s time to hang up the super-suit and accept that you have limits? 

What if it’s time to set down the hustle and learn a new, gentle way? 

This year, when i took my (now) annual trip to the woods, I packed less. 

I still brought questions and sore spots and unfinished work,

but I asked Urgency to stay home this time.

I didn’t go to “stock up” on extra peace and grace, with the illusion I could come home stuffed and sail through December without needing more. 

I went so I could breathe, and look up. 

Rest, softly.

I learned a ton. I stared at the water. I cried and let God see all my sore spots. 

And I let his presence, for a moment, be enough. 

- Thanks, Father.

- Anytime.