I just need a minute

 Sometimes, I just need a minute.

I need a minute catch my breath as the milestones whizz by

to name what is good, to name what is ending.

I just need a minute to not be in a hurry; 

because I’ve missed some of it, raced through the season without even noticing and I can’t go back but I can take a minute to notice, now.

The way he stops at the store to buy bananas for his sick brother

and that green jacket brings out his eyes, especially when he smiles at her

and his grass covered shoes are sitting outside the back door

and how he’s still home for dinner sometimes

and he filled my coffee before he went to work this morning, 

and he checked in with me, for a minute. 

I just need a minute to hold the gifts, 

One more time.

To trace over the edges, to feel the weight in my hands

To remember when the gifts were new

And small

(small enough to curl up and sleep on my chest, 

snoring tiny snores and leaving tiny puddles of drool)

I just need a minute to wonder,
When was the last time I got a “good morning” hug?
The last zoo trip? The last chapter of the last read-aloud? 

The last time I made his day by handing him a popsicle?

The last time he drove me to the store? 

I just need a minute to sit in the empty room

before I flick off the light switch for the very last time

sitting with the weight of the gift and the reality of its ending

I just need a minute, 

I just need a little time with the never-agains

before i tuck them into the box of memory

with gratitude and tenderness and thanksgiving

My hand is almost ready to open,

But not quite; 

don’t rush it please…

I’ll get there

(help me God!)

I just need a minute. 

What it felt like to be set right

 What it felt like to be set right

It felt like finding her center- she never knew she had one

(she was more like smoke before)

Dispersed like the winds, always spread thin

Blown around by the whims of others

The ping pong ball, sent flying by the slightest tap

Spinning, bouncing in any and every direction at once

It felt like being protected (finally), and planted

Given roots, and her very own soil, and nourishment for her soul

Cool waters and stable ground 

Permission to take up space, space meant just for her.

She was settled in, planted where she could finally grow

Finally stretch her arms up toward the sun

Nourished to her core; steadily growing taller 

She still feels the winds

Sometimes she bends, and sometimes she resists

And she worries about it all a little less;

her face is up toward the sun

Photo by Eldon

life on life terms at the dentist

“accepting life on life’s terms”

Sounds like riding the waves, embracing the ebb and flow like some majestic surfer with perfect balance.. and maybe sometimes it is like that.

But sometimes it’s like sitting in the dentist chair, and there is really no reason to clench your hands but there you are doing it again. Teeth scraping: THIS is life on a weekday morning and it’s just plain unpleasant. Life on life’s terms, here?

And as I sit there I can’t escape into a puddle of blissful serenity; it’s physically not possible. I have to keep some tension in my jaw or the scraping couldn’t happen;  a little resistance is required for any progress to be made. 

But squeezing my hands together helps nothing. Looking at the clock, tensing up my facial muscles or back, these are all bodily expressions of non-resignation to the moment; a futile attempt to block or hurry the process. Letting these reactions reign just makes me more uncomfortable, guarded, impatient; I'm fighting the moment, fighting reality.

Notice. Allow. Release. Surrender. 

It’s a hard dance to do in the dentist chair, or anywhere, if I’m honest.

These questions I have been carrying for months sat with me in the dentist chair:

What could it mean to live awake to discomfort without squirming to escape?

To feel the necessary resistance that comes with progress, change, or growth?

To believe that hard things can be good, that pain can be the way forward to something better?

To refrain from futile fighting, to unclench and allow the moment?

To “accept hardships as the pathway to peace?”

To commend self, life, body, moments to God on a regular weekday?

God grant me the serenity To accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; And wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful world As it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right If I surrender to His Will; So that I may be reasonably happy in this life And supremely happy with Him Forever and ever in the next. Amen.

Richard Neibuhr

to Seth on your 18th birthday

 Seth-

Remember when you used to be my shopping buddy? You were always organizing my cart, following me around so I could shop like a queen, hand you my things, and trust you to file them neatly. Sometimes I’d feel snarky and chuck something wantonly in the cart, just to trigger your lecture about categories and order and efficiency. Then I’d watch you indignantly unload the groceries on the belt, in all decency and order. At home, you’d command your brothers to unload alongside you, supervise putting away, and ensure a satisfying conclusion to the operation. And I’d say something small like, “Thanks for the help.” 

Meanwhile, in my soul, I was really learning to see you, to marvel, and to stop fighting who you are by asking you to read fairytales with me or dance in my kitchen. God was teaching me a new dance, one that went more like, “Wow, look at you, learning to embrace the person God made you to be.”

Sometimes you’d go too far, give orders too harshly, or threaten to beat the brother that didn’t cooperate. And sometimes I’d yellingly cancel all the efforts towards growth for everyone, “Stop fighting and just go to your rooms!” We’ve both had to grow so much over these years, and growing is a loud, messy process. 

Remember that time we were fighting about physics but it wasn’t really about physics, and I got teary? And you stayed calm and said, “I love you mom; I probably don't say that enough.” The universe shifted for me in that moment. Since then, you’ve had to handle more of my tears than any of your siblings, especially during our emergency trip to Michigan when Bump was sick; I’ll never forget your solid, loving presence in those days.

Speaking of tears, I cried the other day because you brought the trash up to the house without being asked. This is getting out of hand! But Your launch day is so close, your engines are revving-- they’ve been revving for years-- and every moment before the flag drops is precious to me. 

I keep thinking of Mary and how she must just really get it, this ache I feel around my sons. Watching Jesus pour out like that; doing his duty to his own harm, pulling away from home and from her, literally spilling his life blood.  “Didn’t you save any for me?” (Did she think this as his body lay lifeless on her lap?)

Did she feel the pull I feel, between the love of him FOR the way he pours out, for the duty he sees in service to others, for the manly determination and self sacrifice,  AND the desire to soften it, to save some of him for herself?

She watched him go out, away, in love and service.  And then He came back to her; He came back for real and for eternity, to her and to us, the church. 

And now we join the dance of loving and releasing; now we send our husbands and sons off, and we are wrought with pride-fear-sadness-joy as they bring light elsewhere, doing their duty, and we wait. 

On Whom are we waiting? We wait on a generous God, who takes what we commend to him, multiplies it, expands our worlds, and blows our minds with his provision. This God who comes back, who brings back, who gathers and makes all things new; He can be trusted with all that is precious. 

The generous, pouring love of our Lord lives in you, and it’s almost time for you to pour elsewhere. I’m grateful that we got to have you for ourselves, for a little while. 

Keep standing under the waterfall of his grace and letting cover you, and spill out from you onto everyone in your life.  I can only guess what your pouring out might look like: making order of chaos, tweaking systems to make them more efficient, or keeping other people in line? It might also look like being a calm loving witness to a flood of someone else’s tears, and it might sound like music,  or it could even look like putting a protective fence around a garden of wildflowers.

I can’t wait to see what God’s grace pours into your life and what flows out; may you abide in Him always. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here with the wrinkly Nana-face and the teary eyes that are marveling at the work of God, and saying something like, “WOW, look at you.”

Love you lots,

Mom