I sit at my computer,
desperately adding hours to my log,
busy, concentrating,

and then
I hear soft whispers,
clinking,
and I wonder.

is there trouble?
are they naughty?

minutes pass
I log time

then two girls enter
dressed for party
or something

and instead of naughty
I find nice

they lead me

through one door
and short hall
eyes closed
we bump ankles
but I open to find

this:

a table decorated by two

like me.

Tonight is pizza night, but I think we'll be eating on better than paper plates.

Visions of Messy Sugar Plums {Christmas is No Time for Perfectionism}

 Peppermint Patties

Twas the day before Christmas, and my cluttered kitchen

filled with cookies, goodies, boots, coats and mittens.

The sugar's out on table, in red, green and white

I do not need to tell you, by end, it was quite a sight.

You've been there I'm sure, it's a messy tradition,

we set aside tendencies to decorating perfection.

Sugar is everywhere, the cookies are messy

But every last goodie tells it's own happy story.

Spoons covered in frosting and finger licking elves;

I look at it all and laugh in spite of myself.

The kids had their fun, made their own version of pretty 

To control their fun would have been really silly.

So in your holiday traditions, keep this in mind,

there is no room for perfect, I think you will find,

much peace love and joy in more "good- enoughs"

so please take perfectionism off your Christmas list of stuff.

For what fun is a mother who gripes and controls 

how the cookies appear, I would hope that she knows

that perfection is costly and everyone works gaily

when a mother lets go, and redefines beauty.

 

For this is the season of upside-down things

of a God come down here, in a manger a King.

For the broken and messy, a star shines through the night.

May you find Him this Christmas, He's the way, the truth, the light!

Pen Scratches

He sits with pen in hand,
and lined paper notebook.

How have I begged
and pleaded for scratches
of his?

A discipline
of the creative mind
held back
by the fears of the hand.

"You can't."
he hears.
"Not good enough,"
he thinks of his labored
left-handed scribbles.
And so he fought
and refused to write.

What changed from then
to now?

Perhaps the subject?

He thinks in battles
and loves stories
in the sky.

I think the story in his head
the words
and descriptions
and battle
fought to come out
and had to be written,
finally.

And so, in scribbly scratches,
words scrunched together,
he pens
his first epic.

And his accidental writer-mother
grins.

Because she knows.

Once begun,
an author
never ceases
picking up pen.

School in pjs today and prose at Emily's. Join us?

Faith

The unknown looms near.

Waiting breeds fear

when not checked by

faith:

being sure of what we hope for

but cannnot yet see.

Minds create scenarios,

fictitious, short-lived peace,

as if we could really know

or tell God

what God should do.

Faith is not hoping

in our own ideal dreams

but trust

that what He gives

is grace.

Content to wait.

No fear.

Whatever comes

is from the hands

of a Father

in love

with you.

with me.

Imperfect Prose today 

for Emily

and those who gather 

to share heart expressed, 

a bleeding of fragrance

to our Father.

This Season

 

 The wind rustles the dead stalks as they bang against each other. The clatter is quiet, yet the air fills with the sound. Though the earth is wet from rain, they are dead. Their season is past. They defy the life of the water.

They give their life for the harvest.

The leaves too, give a last shout, in denial of what is to come, a red and orange and yellow party as they fade to brown. They served a purpose and the shade they gave is gone. Their death has come too, leaving a skeleton. Rain, the cleansing tears, breaks the last  thread clinging to what was or what they planned to be, stripping all away to the ground.

A certain kind of death comes to us all.

Seasons come.
They should.
They will.
It's good.

But sometimes it feels we are just a skeleton left standing bare for all to see our nakedness and life is a messy pile at our feet.

Then the snow comes, the horizon is shimmering, blinding whiteness, against our black thin form. What we are is revealed against His glory, and there is a broken beauty in the barrenness.

And if we don't let go of what was, or still focus our gaze on what is right now,  we will never see the vision of what is to come.

 One stubborn bloom on dead wood in autumn

Spring will come. Rain will bring life once again. The wind will blow promises. And the autumn and winter of soul will be but a memory.

Take heart friends.

This is only a season.

Sharing today for Bigger Picture Moments and Imperfect Prose.

The Real Church

A people meets

and stands side by side

a family

lifting up broken hearts

in praise.

Songs and voices and hands are lifted

and tears flow down

as grace washes

clean.


There is no judgment in this family.

We know each other

well enough

to know we are not alone in our brokeness.

And that itself is a healing.

When broken but made whole

reach out to the still open wounded

there is no doubt God is Alive.

He moves within.

He moves without.

His forgiveness

enables ours.

And we are free.

Free from the ugly

that could have been.

Free to stay family.


A people meets

and stands side by side,

a family,

lifting up broken hearts

in praise.

Songs and voices and hands are lifted

and tears flow down

as wave after wave

song after song

line after line

hug after hug

of grace

washes clean.

Dedicated to my church. Where people are real. Where God is Real. And where God is real to His people.

And sharing after the fact (forgive this once?) with Tuesday's Unwrapped. 

Unwrapping a moment in church where her tears brought mine. Because I remember.  But I forgive too.

A Dear Faithful Friend

 Otherwise known as a poem in which I use the word poop.

Once upon a time
there was a little boy
whose great grandma won a stuffed duck .
The boy got the duck
and the two formed a bond.
not with grandma, but the kid and duck.

The boy had a nuk
that he liked to suck too,
he was happy with nuk and duck.
The funny thing is
Boy pulled silly duck's fur
and formed an unusual habit.

Boy loved on that duck
as he pinched all that fur
in small tufts which he placed on the nuk.
Then into his mouth
went the fur and the nuk,
and soon fast asleep he would fall.


Next morning he woke
an unusual find:
Duck's hair had come out in his poop.

Now poor duck is bald
That old sad ragged toy;
Mitchell loves that bald duck still.
His friends tease and laugh
but the boy remains true
to his dear faithful friend, the duck.