You Can't Always Get What You Want...

In all respects, I should have been a spoiled child.

I was a surprise baby (child number five), with ten years separating me and my next oldest sibling. And if you’ve ever listened to the worn out tales of babies born into such circumstances you know the expected end-product: snotty nosed brats who lug around heavy doses of entitlement.

But God chose to place me in a family that doled out love by bushels and pecks and hugs around the neck and so the only things that came to be spoiled around our house were forgotten cartons of cottage cheese shoved to the back of the refrigerator.

Because, you see, love has never spoiled anything. Ever.

But I was a child once and, as such, I certainly had my moments--moments of selfish desire and impudent behavior, of unmet longings and unrequited wishes. And, being a child, I naturally looked to the givers of good things—my parents—for the delivery of said hopes.

So, as a child nurtured by way of arms flung wide and hearts burst open, the phrase “You can’t always get what you want” was a tad bewildering, at first. Not because I was spoiled or bratty or entitled but because, for so long, my parents’ love had been enough. Love and acceptance had been the standard upon which I grew and thrived and so, I had never really felt a lack.

And then I entered junior high and everything kind of flipped upside down...

Continue reading over at Mama Monk with Micha Boyett? Join me here.

To Reclaim Is To Create

"Reclaim: From the Middle English, to call back..."

Some days I feel like old barn wood.

Solid, yet slightly bowed in the middle …

Curved in places that were once straight and narrow …

Brown locks fading to gray.

It’s heavy enough to truly recognize that I’m growing older but the image of a barn slanting westward on the roadside feels weightier. It reminds me that I am mortal.

So when I found out at forty that I was pregnant for the third time, that weathered tilt that lurks in my lower back sighed ever so slightly. This body-house of mine felt every bit its age.

And just as I might question the wisdom of, once again, using a vintage barn that has stood empty for years, I leaned into the Holy Spirit, whispering questions and what-ifs by the handful.

“Is this a good idea?” I murmured, more than once.

The rest of this story continues over at SheLoves Magazine. Follow me there?

Emerge

My arms circled round your neck

this morning 

like a garland of hope

and although I thought it better

to refrain from

pomp and circumstance

I secretly imagined that I was

knighting you with

strength and fortitude

and

ringing you with

joy and hope 

Because I know

sweet one

that you are riding into 

both

battle

and

revelry

in the days ahead

Even on good days

there is a struggle within

That inner conflict

between

who you want to be

and

who you are

and all of it

swirling round like a storm

of 

angst

But you were made for glory

you

who are so meek in heart

Here and there

I get glimpses of

the ways that

fire has been forged

in your bones

deep and hidden

It emerges

when it must

and 

your face shines radiant

from the effort

That is the image

I will carry with me

these long days

when you are apart from me

I will cross my heart

and hope

with the saints

that you will hear the song

placed inside you

when you were but a whisper

to me

The song that was sung over you

by the One

that imagined you into being

and knows you by heart

Photo credit: Swirl Abstraction by Matt on Flickr

Night Work

photo courtesy of liz west on flickr

There is that cool breeze that blows atop the blankets
so unusual for this time of year
and we keep wide the windows at night
grateful for the way it pushes away
the heavy scent of labored sleep

But the truth is
you are not sleeping much
and although I can't help myself
the sleeping, that is
I am aware that your
dark hours have cast you as a sentinel
and it makes my dreams
all the more muddled and tangled

For the moon hours
they are for renewal
and the night fairies
they are known for their gifts
of sand and ebony glitter
all of which
remind us that work
is being done in our stead

how I long for you
to lay down your hammer and anvil
if just for a night
so that you could be carried
to the other side
and so
you could wake
groggy and gritty

and yesterday
it could be but a vague memory
having been carried off
by the fay folk
and now hidden
in the mist

Turning Pages

I haven't made much time for writing lately.

It's a new reality that I am simultaneously hating and embracing. Hating, because I am always thinking, musing, lining up words and ideas, wanting desperately to pen them down, keep them fast and that is just not happening. But I am also embracing this new way because I am really here, in this moment and that last one and that other one last week where I gazed upon orange colored skies wrapped in a wide open rainbow. Yeah, that one.

But I had to stop today and remember a few things. Because some things you just don't ever want to forget.

I am growing a life inside of me for the third time but the hugeness of that still catches me by surprise some days. Such as the tiredness that encroaches upon every square inch of skin and bone and muscle and demands that I stop.right.now and rest. And so I do. I stop and stretch out upon my bed and I let myself sink into cushion and blanket and holy rest. And that baby hidden deep? He tickles me from the inside, thanking me for that little bit of extra room that lying on my side provides him. It is then that I realize that I am so very human and what is happening inside of me is so very God and I can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all.

Then there are the moments when I realize that conversations with my two boys have started to include subjects and topics that stretch beyond Legos and Iron Man and Hank the Cowdog. They are asking bigger questions now, questions about relationships and current events and sex. And every time we close out those talks, its as if I'm turning pages of their childhood at a faster pace and I can see how the paper is curling and yellowing, as if we are coming dangerously close to the end of a chapter.

Surprisingly, I realize that I am okay with that. I'm excited for new chapters and story lines and plot twists.

But then the aforementioned tiredness will, again, wash over me and I am reminded of the return to babyhood that is imminent. And I sigh. Will I remember how to do all of this? When I slow to the pace that mothering an infant requires, will I end up sputtering to a tragic end, like my old Nissan? How will I manage to stay connected to the boys that are growing taller by the day and reaching further into the future than I can see when I am totally consumed with free flowing breastmilk and piles of laundry? What does bridging that huge gap even look like?

And then there will be a moment. The ones I have by the handful now.

Yesterday, as I sat in my chair, the baby deep within was alive and kicking and I called Aidan over to place his hand on my belly. I've tried this before but we always managed to miss the opportunity. But we tried again.

And there was a kick. I quickly looked at Aidan and he jumped in place and hollered that "HE HAD FELT IT!" and his smile--his smile that would soften the hardest heart--it shone glory and his eyes danced with pure joy. And in that moment, we were all connected and alive and in love.

It was then that I realized that there is no gap too wide that love can't bridge and that, sometimes, what brings the world to its softest place, the place where heart fires are kindled and hope is born, most often, is a baby.

Linking today with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Tilting towards joy

It came
while sitting at the table, writing
that shudder
cloaked in folds of warmth
and
pulsing light

a triumphant
twirl
that claimed
my body
for
life

And I felt you

Until then
I certainly knew
of
you

For I had been
carving out
space
in my deepest places
where your
heart
might find its rhythm
and
your limbs could make
silent ripples

But
it was in that moment
that the universe tilted
towards joy
and I smiled
knowingly

And now
there is this
swelling
rising
fantastic
growing
And you are always
before me
now

My walk is a bit slant
these days
proof that the angels
touched my hip
and I am
overcoming

And my face splits
with grace light
as I create
with God

Yes
I know you
little one
You are mine


-------------
Photo credit: swirl by Ben Salter on flickr

Comfort

You were ready with love bursting when you met that handsome young man in the uniform who spoke like a farmer. You walked with an elegance that defied your age and your words dripped honey sweet from your mouth and I'm sure that, in the end, that is what did him in. You ran away into the night, hands held tight, wishes trailing from your tailpipe, desire flooding like pools of joy. And on the other side of that day, you were One.

And soon you were three and four and five and six. The years would stack like so many dishes and several moves would have you settle in different houses, different states, even. You would leave your beloved South-land, with its Camelias and Finch's BBQ, its red dirt and turnip greens, and you would walk bravely into cities whose edges turned sharper and whose winter's blew colder.

And all along the way, you crafted joy. You danced jitterbugs across linoleum and slapped your knee with every hearty guffaw. Your animated storytelling enraptured neighbors and strangers alike and your ability to connect with people endeared you to everyone you met.

My arrival was a completely unforeseen surprise, tacked onto the back side of an already well lived and very full life. I'm sure my entrance was cause for many deep breaths, or the wringing of busy hands, or the prompting for many prayers thrown heaven's way.

But the most amazing thing?

I always felt like the most desired child in the world.

Never once did I ever question how very much I was loved and cherished and adored.

Never.

Even in my more adolescent moments, like the one captured in the picture above, where you are sitting at a picnic table, smiling at those around you and I sit, in the background, gazing at you. My smug expression is not the truth of that moment. What looks like angst and resignation is really me just trying to take the all of you in.

And I continue to want to take you in. The all of you.

Because I know that, no matter my age or station, no matter the day of week or what year whispers from the corner of the calendar page, I want the all of me to house all the glorious parts of you I've gathered.

Because I've been collecting them, you know. These parts of you.

The ways you cuddled and caressed, the ways you embraced and enfolded, the ways you bore all and believed all. The myriad ways in which you loved--whether it was through story, or coffee, or grandkids, or fried catfish, or Carol Burnett, or fireworks.

All of this? All of the beautiful and mundane, the fascinating and trivial, the whole and the half?

It's part of me too, now. Tucked away in the obvious and secret places, planted in soil made rich with your love and care for me.

And I pray that one day, when the pictures are pulled out and the chronology of my becoming is on display, the one thing that will have leaked out all over, dripping from the corners of my eyes and the edge of my smile, is the amazing truth...

that I was loved by you.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

This post was inspired by today's Five Minute Friday writing prompt however, I, in no way, stuck to the rules.

Sometimes, I like to break the rules.