Weak and Loved

I am from tomato plants and petunias and drinking out of the hose parakeets on the porch named after flowers Lilac and Sweet William I am from a chestnut tree I can still climb with my eyes closed in my child body I am from the shadow of leaves on the pavement and nightcrawlers caught for the bait box I am from a two wheeler with a banana seat riding to John Ball Zoo running up the slide feeding the ducks and skating on the pond I am from the Sacred Heart of Jesus who watched me from the wall near the drinking fountain Faith, fear and uniforms a rosary and a first communion dress I am from the smell of bleach and coffee ashtrays in the sink beer cans and pop cans and deposit refunds Strawberry Shortcake and Rainbow Brite  Jump Man and a Commodore 64  I am from the dance floor all to myself chasing the light in circles and belting oldies while mom cleaned the bar during the day before dad opened it at night. I am from holidays where everyone is talking and hugging and eating an...

Corn rustling in the wind makes me feel at home now. Yet this flavor of home began in my late 20s in Indiana. It crowded into my heart right next to Lake Michigan and the smell of pine trees. In our new house that has never been her home, as her first year of college ended,  I happy-cleaned her space, got out some of her old things, and tried to create a sense of “home;” to make her brother’s room look a little more girly, a little more like she might make it.  (Happy cleaning before the grown kids come is one of my new favorite things. It gives direction to my excited anticipatory energy, and then I get to follow it up with sappy cleaning after they leave.) She has no memories of this place, she has not been with us much as we have begun to set down roots here.  Is there a way to make an arrangement of a space say the things I want to say?  I see you. We are so happy you are here. We hope you feel at home here.  Remember our connections in other spaces?  ...

These are the days when the porch is open again, when I get up eager for the sunrise, sipping my coffee and watching the beauty while the birds sing and the leaves open slowly. I still marvel: do we really get to live here? My potted flowers seem as happy as I am every morning, and I love checking on all the veggies growing in the raised beds we installed this year. I am glad we have a huge driveway at this house. Current vehicle count-8! The van, BZ, and Nana’s old Lexus for us, Agnes’s Fit, Marcus’s Saturn and Audi TT (Purchased from Seth), Eldon’s 4Runner, Peter’s Rav4. These are the days when everyone needs Josh for something. He comes home from work to a slew of projects related to all the cars and the house, too. “Dad, can we order parts?” “Dad, can you listen to my car?” “Dad, can you help me with taxes?” Campfire season, Eldon pulls his car around so he can sit in the back, with his best dog or his best girl, depending on who is here. Peter brings his guitar out and he’s easin...

1 Forget what is past, they say, but why should I forget  how it felt to have a baby cheek pressed up against mine and barefoot walking through the green yard, pointing and naming,  signs of spring, signs of life, when everything was new and young and delightful? 2 My hands remember. As a child I had my own patch of garden in the back yard These hands planted dusty millers, marigolds and petunias Was there blooming or neglect;  did it get mowed over? If there was much blooming, my mom must have helped while I was busy climbing trees or drinking from the hot, plastic hose. 3 My hands, with over 40 years of memory now, still love the feel of freeing flowers from crunchy plastic containers making room for cramped roots to expand settling them home. 4 Amidst the vibrant green and bright colors, the dusty miller spreads its delicate branches receiving its water in the cool of the morning like a snowflake that doesn’t melt, reaching quietly upward in gray-white aliveness. 5 I w...

  He gave me the warmest smile when he saw me on the dance floor like he was proud of me for doing the electric slide like he was glad I had accepted the invitation --the invitation to fun, delight, and joy-- the one that he was constantly offering with his trumpet and his jokes I remember watching him singing German hymns he didn’t really know,  there in front of everyone, getting the words wrong, laughing “You don’t care if I make a mistake! Why should I?”  and his wrinkly smile spread to all our faces He walked through life with a grateful smile as if he felt the very air he walked through as a gift, surrounded by grace, and delighted; he made me want to join him there Sometimes he slept through my husband’s sermons; the Word just echoed around him and he rested inside of it he was held by it and I think he’s resting there now. I will look for him hereafter on God’s dance floor and he will give me that smile again  when I join him there. In loving memory of my fri...

How many times were we nourished here, form this altar, with this church family, abundant mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, shoulder to shoulder around the communion rail in this place?  With my babies in arms or underfoot, or with my teenagers looming over me,  showing up hungry, being fed, sent away with blessings,  because that's what Mothers do  I’m not the only one embracing my kids these days. Was I ever really? Even on the hospital day of their birth, other arms received them, too Is this just how it goes? Will our families just keep expanding and expanding? With my grown children I realize this has become a shared-custody situation Mother Church has a bigger reach than I do--praise God-- She has better gifts, too. I hope they received a foretaste at our table,  and I hope they keep showing up at Hers hungry and receptive long after mine is out of operation. ----- Good Shepherd, feed your sheep, tend your lambs

  When they were little I got to curate experiences of controlled risk, to gently nudge their growth, and to put them down for naps when it all became too much. The world is not so kind as me, I think. It doesn’t care so much about their limits. It doesn’t care that one of them will forget to eat; that one will have floods of deep cynicism that will blow over like a raincloud if you just wait a little; that another simply can’t be asked to concentrate when there’s a mysterious ticking sound coming from a distant room. It doesn’t care how desperately each one wants their dreams to come true. The world is not afraid of breaking their hearts. Was I hard enough on them, in my gentleness? Was I gentle enough, when life was hard? Today, if they need it, will someone else give them a snack or a nap? ----- Jesus.. follow them out there, in the wild where I cannot go. Know them better than this mama heart, and love them better too, and tend to them.