His Hand is as BIG as the SKY

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(Click on pic for a larger image.)

He is Risen

Lift your eyes to the heavens.

He is risen.
He is RISEN indeed.

Swing Me Home

"Momma, I'm getting all talked out right now." Her last underdog push into the big blue sky has waned to no effect on the endless chatter. I heave, push, again up over my head as I step under dangling legs swinging wide. Swoosh. If long swishing pushes and conversations the shape of forever could sustain a person I think Jane would give up eating altogether. I stop at the slide, sip a warm mouthful of coffee.

She senses I am drifting, "So mom, you should probably put a lot of energy into answering my questions, because I don't want to have any during nap." {Sigh} And here I though I was going out to tend the garden. Another underdog push and I wonder what fields of ideas we have yet to plow through.

Write Them on Your Gates

So keep my words in your hearts and minds. Write them down and tie them on your hands as a reminder. Also tie them on your foreheads. Teach them to your children. Talk about them when you are at home. Talk about them when you walk along the road. Speak about them when you get up. Write them on the door frames of your houses. Also write them on your gates. ~Deuteronomy 11:18-20 (NIrV)
























"Are we gonna do that?" She's looking at our gray fence. I'd paused long enough for another question to edge in between paragraphs of scripture. She's matter of fact: There are the words, there's the fence, grab a pen! Am I really thinking, Oh well, He doesn't mean that? And, what does he mean? We are Christians, not bound to the legalism of the Old Testament, but I am drawn to her boldness. A conundrum.

"Honey, it's sort of just a way to train ourselves to know God. Sort of how I sometimes give you treats when you do something hard, but just to help you learn." She takes this in. "Do you think we should do it?"

She smiles, hand already poised to present. "Well, maybe we could write it on the gate with a marker or with paint so it won't come off when it rains." All of the sudden I understand why my dad said yes to displaying a six-foot kid-made cross in our front yard when I was ten (to commemorate Mr. Big Toad, of course). My weak dribbles of faith sustain me bland as toast. And I pray to be so bold.

Resurrection Clothes

My children wore their Easter clothes to a funeral today. Resurrection clothes, I guess. Plaid and flowers hand in hands we munched over stodgy spring grass up a neat sidewalk to the funeral home. Inside my children's wide eyes absorbed black ornate rugs, soft and deep as quicksand, solemn faces, and I suppose, the knees of a lot of suits. Janie carried our handwritten card as a matter of rank. Jack held my hand.

With friends and relations we marked the passing of a friend of a dear friend. While people shared, I realized the shadow of this man was far greater than the man himself. I was struck by the indelible mark he's left on lives close to him. Funny, if the lighting is right, we are so much more than the sum of our parts. Isn't influence like this, a shadow cast far out beyond our feeble attempts at greatness. It's almost as if it sneaks up on us, piled up in small gestures, simple moments around a table passing the potatoes and carrying on about deadlines and raises and dessert. Suddenly before we know it, there behind us is a shadow quotient of all those days ironed out in a perfect silhouette of character. I was honored to come today with my kids.

I savored up mismatched moments of Jack and Jane racing over the front lawn, a flurry of watercolor blue and chestnut brown tangled in a game of tag. Race to sidewalk, race to Momma, lob a Cheerio in Lulie's mouth, refrain from tagging to the ground. Base! One of them grabs my leg.

In the end I left, shadows trailing behind. Each day I pray my face will be warmed by the light of my Savior that my shadow may rise up and honor all it touches.

Sick Day

These are the children who doted on their sick puking momma these past two days and then finally coaxed me out into the yard this morning.






















How have I never see Janie's gift to serve? Full-hearted and without expectation she made me the apple of her eye. Between pillows and blankies, tuck-ins and gentle pats, errands and undivided attention, I captured a glimpse of gentleness in this fierce daughter of mine. "Are you sure I can't get you anything else, Momma? Maybe another little pillow for right here?" pointing to a gap in the blanket. She is already puffing another in place. Jack was all hugs. And hugs and hugs.























Lulie ate a boxful of Cheerios and thanked the Lord for Daddy.
Me too!

Whorls

So here we go embarking on the task, the privilege, the mystery of patching a perfectly good eye until the child is eight or so. Who knew our elegant brain takes eight years to learn the expanse and breadth of the eye? I wonder what splash this obedience of patching will make in our path.