Let’s Go Out To The Porch

We disuss this piled in family time.  Time with families.

We plan, we mothers directors of the play, contemplating our moves of time, like pieces of chess.

And we lift up this pilgrimmage to the porch where memories of babies and children and heart talks seep into the boards like the battleship gray stain.

Life is marked here.  This porch.  This memory repository for us.

Why do we long to go there.  What is this siren’s song calling us to come.  The breeze off the waterway calms and soothes and rustles up the past.  It stirs the heart to release here in this place.  Dump burden, dump worry here.  Its a sanctuary for pain.

Is it the sleeping porch knows how to rest the mind and the spirt.  Bibles stack here and start days here.

The palms billow like sails and whisper their rustling sound to the burdened soul, the tired soul.

She has seen weddings and witnessed crashing in of conversation.  This porch, like the matriarch tested through trials and tears.  She has wiped them, caught them.

We know to carve out time here, we momma planners.  We memory holders and keepers can tell stories of belly laughs, wicker rockers crazy rocking and generations piled up on laps while the world stopped here.  Stopped for us.  To catch up with ourselves.  To catch up with each other.  To fill the storehouses of life with story.

And we know that the giver of all good things, Father God, has more for us.  He always does.  So we carve out time and make time.  To start scavenger hunts here, to dye Easter Eggs with grown and semi-grown children.

Time to generation huddle.  To brush off the day in story.  The fish caught, the shells found, the sun burn worn like battle wounds of days battling the surf, the sea, the salt. The dinner bell rings and we feast on food and more.  We feast on life.

And we know as mommas that stories linger and die to be told.  The ones of love and life.  Dragonflies frenzied pace win the title of fastest moving creature as we linger.  And stars may fall or stars may stay pinned to the sky.  Either way we witness.

We pick story out of black dark night and early morning still.  We rockers and readers and dwellers in His word.

We launch boats into the sea with children here.  We welcome home the ones caught in the storms that blew in, from the sea, from this life.  We embrace them on the return.

The porch calls us to come here.

She calls to the weary to rest.

The joyful to celebrate.

The Glad of Heart to testify.

The discouraged to find encouragement,

The sea-seeker to delight in the salt of life.

We long for this respite place.  This stage set for living.  This place where laps are filled with friends or children, doubled up and rocking.

Where laps hold babies and bearded off-spring of the womb too.  The never too olds to call for mommas.

The laps hold promise and encouragement.  They hold tender touch of word and hand.

This porch for us says come to me.  And talk of Him.  And all He’s done.  And all He’ll do.

And bring your baskets, your eggs, your treasures.  But prepare your hearts for the more than they could ever hold.

Let’s go out to the porch this day.

Pausing Our Buttons

We had some of those moments .

The ones the momma’s heart wants to pause.

Marinate in, soak in, stay in.

Pace teases.  Tempts.  Tortures.  Too fast.  Unfolding lives and life.  Growing up and out.

Speedy time moves,  is spent, evaporates, dissolves. Shore bird stick leggy fast.

It goes  mist steamy, up and out. It goes  kite tail spinning  heavenward, into the blue haze. In the  fog of living, friendly fire takes down the good with misfires.

It goes forward , need for pause or reverse or rewind  ignored. The mommas heart uses all available tools to record.

Rewinding the heart, rewinding the times of these lives. Rushing back when others are moving forward.  Slow to proceed.  Slow to catch up.  Resting on words , phrases and memories that need me to pencil draw them on the memory, the mind. They plead, please jot down.  They beg please take note of us.

A look, a glance, a phrase, not coming in the singular, but the plural.  The multiples, the paired, the groups like flocks of birds.  These moments and transactions of life.

Butterfly net swinging at dizzying speed, the mind sets out to capture the elusive.  Capture the beauty on wing like Monarch migrating through.  Trapping phrase, glance, tone.  Netting the moment.

Living in family, where lives cross paths like crowded landing strips , take offs and landings , schedules , plans, zipping and jet-speeding out and in.  One ill-timed flight pattern, then crash and flames.

Banter back and forth holds keys to life.  No one notices.  Only the mommas heart hears words like clues to future.  Clues to the heart plans, holy grail important. Ignored and almost left for dead.

Slowing down offers hope.  Preserving saves for later.

Resting in words of life saves some casualties.  Recording gives life support to memory.

I rock these lives, slow like baby after nursing for nap.  Slow and steady.  Smell memory. Hold life.

Swinging hard, swinging fast the net of the heart.  Crying out for a pause.  Heart hoping for freeze-frame.

Easter new bring fragile eggshell time.

Easter new bring time in the shadow of His sacrifice.

Easter new bring nets of love in the celebration of His Resurrected Life.

Easter new restore.

Easter new, we thank you for it all, the end all, the be all, the He gave all, looking long in His wonderful face and receiving it all, with gratitude and grace.


Counting gifts with Ann, at A Holy Experience dot com

*Easter planning in the details with a friend

*Steps forward, steps of growth with a son

*Having a sweet sweet comment in my inbox which I am wrapping my heart around with re-reading

*Lab puppies on the maybe horizon

*The end of some sports, the beginning of others


*Holy, Holy, Holy Week

*Glimpsing heirloom eggs at The Fresh Market, going to seek them out

*New Neighbors

*New growth coming back from last year, not expected, offering surprise

*A positive email from the school of the one who’s trying harder