Small Things Take Up A Lot Of Space

“Sometimes”, said Pooh,” the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.” —A.A. Milne

There is amazing power in the one small thing.  One small thing can create a big impact on a body, a soul, a mind, a heart, a moment, a day.

Like the last drop of rain on a leaf is enough to break the bough, tipping the scale, tipping it over.

Rippling through for better or worse, making its mark, this one small thing can impact with force.

One small fleck of dust in the eye distracts and blurs vision.

One small splinter in the finger causes pain and attention directed to the throbbing digit.

 And as a crack in the hull can sink the Titantic,  one word can start a war, one gesture can mend a wounded spirit, so one small action can really  shake things up.

I woke early, very early, restless.

What a slow learner I am.  How slowly I let lessons creep in, settle in and then stay.

I had stumbled, tripped up, been tripped up. And wanting a do-over, yearning for new-found patience, hungry for a re-written script of my narrative was surely at the root of my sleeplessness.

And a message pops up in the pre-dawn hours which changes me.  It softens and it loves through a back-lit screen.  It tenderizes the tough spots. And salves the tender ones.

A note so simple saying she just didn’t know why but she was praying for me.

A small few black words on a white background delivering hope and ecouragement.  The floodgates open and my insides want to erupt with the ripeness of the moment, hitting the bullseye of my heart with perfection.  Love crawling across a screen to meet my insomnia and my woundedness.

I receive so much from a young mother who is up nursing her baby.  She also nurses my soul.

She says that she just doesn’t know why but she can’t stop thinking of me, I am stuck in her head and when that happens she just prays.  So, she continues, “you are getting a lot of prayers.” And she says she just wanted to check in with me.

I will get to thank her today and to wrap my arms around her sweet spirit. And I will smell and touch and hug her first-born son, who is weeks old.

Because her one sweet small note to me opened up communication, I am now privileged to spend time over lunch and a new born with this precious young woman. Amazing grace. And if a note on a screen can deliver such joy and hope, I cannot imagine what time in the flesh will present to this soul.

And oh, how I want to stretch this forward to another. To go be small to someone today. To show-up in a life, to a heart, to a friend, to a stranger in all my smallness.

Don’t we long for these encounters with others.  How many have I missed.

Small opportunity.

Small invitation.

Small calls to be obedient in love, in encouragement, in offering a lifeline.

This blog is a baby.  It is a new-born by the world’s standards, months old.

As it grows up a little, I pray that God will use these pages in a small way.

But more importantly, that I will have ears to hear, and a heart to listen.

As I write, and I blog, and I listen, and respond, and dig in, and wrestle with, and process, and  tackle, and ponder and question, my hope and prayer is that it is pleasing to Him.

My sweet friend has taken up a lot of space in my heart today. Her gesture just sits there being all big and beautiful.

May we all go seek out and be one small thing in someone’s life today, delivering Joy, Hope, and Grace by the boatload.

I started my day praying for forgiveness and I will probably end it the same way.  But maybe  in the in-between times God can use this broken soul to be a blessing to another, to serve as I have been served in love and in obedience.

My Head In The Clouds

I had my head in the clouds this weekend.  Resting in quiet.  Resting in light.  Resting under the clouds and  studying their beauty.

I, student of art under white moving design.  Gallery of blue backdrop, moving exhibit of puffy perfection.  Creation on display. He, Creator God, designer of beauty.  Loving presenter of beauty. I watch them move and drift, change and delight. I grateful.  I throw out a line of love to catch the light, catch a piece of heaven’s rays, heaven’s brilliance.

The Patient one fishes. I study.  We rest.  Under a blanket of heaven.  Grateful for all that He gives, graciously, lovingly, gratefully.

Place your head in the clouds, and rest in Him.  Rest in His love.  Rest in His beauty.  Rest in His loving arms this day.

His new Mercies wait around the corner on the morning after this evening.  Gift. Bowed up in love.

Seek.  See.  Thank.

What Grace.  What Love.  What a gallery of perfection all puffy and floating we see when we look up into the light.

There Is A Place Somewhere, I Imagine

“One of the deep secrets of life is that all that is really worth doing is what we do for others”    —    Lewis Carroll

And there is a place somewhere I imagine,

where all of the small things are really quiet large.

Where one small word has the power to change hearts.

Where one word of gratitude changes perspective, forever.

Where one apology heals the broken and restores love.

Where  a word of encouragement mends a fence between a mother and a child.

Where a small meal is like a feast at a banquet when family gathers around.

Where one phrase spoken in love and compassion brings healing between friends.

Where one sign of hope restores faith.

Where one moment of silence can restore peace in the soul.

Where one small prayer uttered in faith tethers the heart of a believer to her God.

Where one simple thing in all the world points a searching world to God’s Grace, God’s Mercy, and God’s Love.

How A Bird’s Song Can Lighten The Heart Of Man ( And Other Gifts In The Mix)

Answering Ann’s call at A Holy Experience dot com after reading her book One Thousand  Gifts, A  Dare To Live Fully Right Where You Are, today I am counting gifts of the week.

In a prosey sort of poetic sort of my own weird way.  Just writing gratitude.  Just writing words of a grateful heart.  Just diving in with thanks.

Because when we are up-close pressing hard against the store-front windows of this life, nose cold, nose pushed down with a bit of pain, the focus is a blurry kind of not quite right. Sometimes just too raw in the moment, present yes, but needing a freshening of perspective.  Stepping back.  Looking back.  Past the big window pane of the right now, into the sweet days back. Looking back for gift counting.  For today. And then thanking for this day.

We sit together after the curtain has come down on the stage of his work day.  Club chair facing club chair, mano-a-mano, but not really.  And we are still.  Cracked open wide window, spring air wafting in, and he says, “Do you hear that?”  “She or he is doing his repertoire for someone.”  And we listen mesmorized by the mockingbird running through all that she knows and all that she’s learned and all that she can give– one delightfully perfect song of something in her world after the other.  She mimics baby birds, and he laughs.  He is tired and he is very gray and the day was long.  But the mockingbird singing like baby birds brings child-like wonder to his face. “Do you hear that, now she’s doing a song bird.”  And whatever has transpired in his day in the before this moment, pales beside this moment of wonderment.  Of resting on birdsong.  And she is so loud.  And she is so very determined.  I listen to him listen to her.  I study his face while I listen to her.  He says it may be a male showing off for a female.  And the romantic in me measures the sweetness of how invested he is, this bird, in this moment.  How such volume can come from a creature so small.  And it is oh so simply sweet and then its over.

It is quiet and he is worn out, both bird and man.  I wait hoping this is a much needed break and that he will return with the second act of his beautiful performance.  But it is night and he is tired and he has run through at least once, all that he knows and delivered it, performed it, with all of his power and might.

But he reminds me that we will have all summer with this mockingbird.  I am grateful.  We will park our tired selves by the cracked open window again and wait to be sweetly entertained by one who pours out his gifts and talents with reckless abandon. And the baby bird imitation will always be my favorite.

And I am grateful for this child who took big steps this week farther into his life as a man.  And for his interview next week.  God knows His plan and it will be good and it is a gift to watch Him match up a career to a young man’s heart.  A man who will need provision for a wife and children in the one day off.  Who loves home and nesting like the male mockingbird.  Singing loud after life, about life. Always turning up the story of life with passion on the dial of life.

I see a child sweetly nurturing friendships after desert times, and dry seasons in this arena of his world stage.  Broken and busted up times in the past, healed with the sweet balm of good, kind friends.  Walking in all happy strided after the fellowship.  Calling to report that he’s just being with them.  Learning how to be a good one and invest in others.  Bending an ear to the need of them.  His little tribe, his little community.  Grateful.

Grateful for washing dishes with friends after a luncheon celebrating a community bible study.  The drudgery of dishes and sink and wet sloppy washing can take on new meaning when there is community and there has been such sweet laughter and roasting in love.  Flowers, and fellowship and food and celebration are justified rejoicing–we know God and His word deeper and different after this season of study, of community dwelling in His word.

Today will write her story as she unfolds.  And it will be good.  With its surprise, and mystery and delight.  Its twists its turns, its delightful birdsong.

The bellowing out and proclaiming will be done tonight, looking back on today. The nose pressed  against the glass, looking hard at this today. And counting gifts………

Listening for the birdsong, listening for the JOY. Wrapping it in a word of gratitude.