...and their love story continues...

January 25, 2018

And Gran breathed her last this morning.

Just last week, she was shopping in Walmart.

But she wasn't happy. Not really.

Her heart was elsewhere.


And the loves of her life awaited her...

When she breathed her last at last.

I imagine the bright illumination of her Savior,

Just as her new eyes opened.

And the outreached hand of her husband...

Thoughts on "Getting My Bling Back"

I just turned forty-six.

I feel better than I have in over ten years.

Is this strange?

I feel like I'm finally able to be ME again.

Why?

I dunno. I feel healthier than ever before (I've lost nearly 50 pounds from last fall). I'm making better choices in my diet, and it has profoundly impacted my mood and energy levels. I'm on a treadmill as often as I can be right now, and I actually enjoy it and look forward to it!

My daughter turned nine in August. And when she did, it was as if something shifted. She reached the age where Mommy wasn't needed at every moment. I'd spent nine years, literally at her beck and call. Just as it should be. But when she turned nine, it was clear that she didn't NEED me like she had before. At first, I was a bit traumatized. "What do you mean, she doesn't need me?!?" But it didn't take long for me to realize that we were entering a different season. She was no longer totally dependent on me. And this was a blessing.

I realized I could make time to work out, and diet, and focus on my hair and health and reclaiming all of the things that I had "let go" to put her first. And--most importantly--I didn't have to feel guilty about it.

This past weekend, Stephen and I went together so I could replace a piercing I'd had before I met him, before I got married, before I got pregnant.

The technician who assisted us was kind and considerate and encouraging.

"So...it's been ten years since you had this piercing?"

"Yes," I'd said. "Ten years."

"Well...it sounds like you're getting your bling back to me!"

And I laughed. "YES!" I said, looking at Stephen knowingly. "Yes, that's it, precisely!"

Getting my bling back.

And I feel that. In every way--physically, spiritually, emotionally...becoming the best version of me.

I'm so grateful to God for it. For all of it. And for changing seasons.

#ToGodBeTheGlory

Her, Looking at the Sea

There she is, leaning over the edge
Of the huge cruise ship, out
Like the rest of us,
To pretend life can stand still for a moment
While we enjoy a moment of peace.

I see her there, and I can tell,
That all is not well with her.
She leans over, closes her eyes,
Reaches out, over the metal guard,
Feeling the breeze...

I know her--though I don't know her name.
She is well worn with the cares of this life
Burdened with weights only she knows--
Yet I see her there, and I can tell
That she and I...we share the cares of life.

She wipes what I presume to be a tear from her face--
Or perhaps moves a stray hair so she can see more clearly.
The waters are beautiful here. And everyone but me,
Elsewhere for once. A rare moment of solitude,
If I'm not counted in the equation of it all.

She doesn't turn around until we both hear them--
Voices from behind us, shrieks and laughter,
Her family is coming to greet her.
A young girl runs to her and tugs on her hand,
A young man and her husband (?) follow with smiles.

She warmly greets them, they can't see her wipe
What remains of the tears with a quick sweep
Of her forearm across her cheek...this isn't the first
Time she's had to hide it from them.
They wouldn't understand, not really.

I see her come away from the sea, then,
Walking with the stride of the little one,
Holding the child's hand very tightly, chiding her
About running about on the ship unaccompanied.
I can tell she loves them all dearly.

But when she turns, in the midst of a stride,
To look back at the place where she was, and the sea,
I see her face--her eyes, and the look in them--
And I see the unscripted story of what was lost.
I know her, for she is me, looking at the sea.

Thoughts on Mary Rowlandson's Narrative

What she saw, what she lived to recount,
Horrifying. Absolutely horrifying.

I wondered at this pastor's wife as I read
What she experienced the night she was taken--

She watched out her window as other homes were destroyed,
Other families butchered. And then...

Her home was attacked, family members murdered,
She and her child shot and captured.

She details her days in captivity,
Travelling with these complete strangers--

Watching them revel in their "spoils of war,"
Listening to them laugh as she and her child struggled.

It is clear she comes to loathe them all,
Despise them for the way they treated her.

I wonder at this, though, and cannot help think
Of identical stories where HER people were the captors.

When she talks about holding her child
In its dying moments, I catch my breath.

This happened hundreds of years ago,
But as a mother, I can connect to her.

No one wishes that moment on anyone,
Not even on their worst enemy.

I suppose her "worst enemy" felt it too,
For several women offered to end the child's life--

With a hatchet. (I guess that's the modern equivalent
Of "putting it out of its misery.")

Maybe they were trying to help in their own way.
Who can ever know?

I'm glad the story survived, handed down to us,
But so many have never heard of it...

What a Beautiful Ship It Was

What a beautiful ship it was

Hewn from native pines

Smoothed and fashioned by the hands

Of young and old alike.

Many a young man daydreamed

About commandeering such a ship,

Many a young lady longed to be

Whisked away to a dozen better places.

One could trust the captain, then

(Those were better days),

When the man in charge loved his job

And naturally embraced his calling.

Some would go to distant lands;

Others would stay nearer.

Souls would be carried over unknown depths--

With nothing to fear but fear.

Good-bye, sweet ship,

Our journeys have been sweet;

I pray there are yet miles to go--

Albeit now in sleep.

I Can't See the Bottom of the Pool: A Political Commentary

Ah, look at them all,
Water polo? Swimming around,
Laughing, brotherly elbow-jabbing:
It all looks innocent enough.

See her? The one in the middle?
They say it's taken four decades
For her to claw her way to the middle of it all
And it looks like someone's passed her the ball, finally.

And him? Oh, wow! Was that a friendly jab
In the back I just saw? (Did you see that?)
Certainly--it's all well and good, right?
They're just trying to get ahead, to win the game.

No matter what we see or what goes on,
No one cries "foul." Despite what our vision
Presents to the contrary, everyone seems keen
On disregarding the obvious issues and problems.

"No harm, no foul," that's what they say.
All they're doing all this to make the country great again.
They're standing up for (or on) the people, right?
Thank God! (Somebody needs to!)

And hear the crowds cheering them on?
Rows and rows of people who've no idea
What the rules of the game really are
Sit by the pool, animatedly calling:

"Yes! Yes! We believe you!" They cheer.
"What will you give us for believing you?"
Chime a few. "Why are we sitting here,"
Says one guy, "Why don't we get a chance to play?"

While the polo players swim, the people argue
Amongst each other. And then it gets silent
When they get on their phones and post their
Videos and rants about feeling disrespected and ignored.

The players in the water don't even hear them.
They're in their own game.
The only reason they need the masses is so they can
Camouflage the subterfuge--and hail their votes.

For the full effect, a recorded voice is played
So the onlookers think they are hearing from
The team's major players--when they are not.
(It's all a well-oiled machine, my friend.)

But what this narrator is most concerned about
Is not the disparity between players and masses
Or the utter ignorance and self-absorption of all of the above.
It's the pool itself--why has no one else seemed to notice?

There is no bottom that I can see.
The players swim and swim, and they must now,
For the floor of the pool is no longer there.
They could not stand if they wanted to.

I Know Caged Birds

I knew free birds who really weren't free.
They only thought they were free birds
Because they couldn't see their cage.
Funny, really.

There they were, basking in their FREEDOM,
Flying flags and marching bands,
Singing folk songs, playing ukuleles.
Serious identity issues.

Sure, there were days, in the past, when
One might have rightly declared them Free;
But those days have been gone for a century.
Totally clueless.

Still, they chirp about laws and leaders,
Press and rallies, votes and Rights,
(They're the only ones who haven't heard.)
Blind, these bats.

To be fair, they never saw the cage coming.
The Powers that Be brought it in,
Beyond their horizon, set it up, pulled it in.
Only a few can see the bars.

One day soon, they will debate,
As they pace their cramped cage,
What went horribly awry in their Experiment.
Their Freedom Experiment Failed.

Some will blame it on corporate greed,
Others on a large, controlling government.
But those who know, will know to say it:
We allowed it.

Yes, one day, all that we think we know now
Will be a distant memory--Why?
Because we allowed it to be so.
It's on us. All of us.