Waiting On The Super Moon


Blue Moon HMM



Waiting On A Super Moon

She came at the dark like
A mad woman
Chasing it with a frenzied pent up
Mother bear
Mother hen
Don’t mess with me
Mad at the thief
Who steals the light

Righteous indignation

Weary from her spinning round
She stopped to catch her breath
And caught a glimpse of
In the end

It was there
She rested in the Truth

In reminders
Of Creation’s dazzling
Super Moons and super Hope
And raging alone in darkness
Would be
No more

The brightest Light could douse the flames
Lapping at her feet
Would drown the darkness
And the thief

The dark could never win
And she could finally sleep

Until the next time
She would come at the dark
Like a mad woman
Chasing it with a frenzied pent up …

By the Light of the Moon



How I Am Learning One Size Doesn’t Fit Most Or All

rope hammock chain rain mcvl

We find ourselves living in another new normal again. And it’s okay. It’s more than okay. Because we are being washed in a torrential outpouring of grace.

We are learning in the stretching. We tore down some of those self-imposed walls. Or were they man-made? I don’t know. I just know they are crumbling down a bit. The rigid, concrete walls which keep out change. The ones that conform us to some preconception, some loose ideal whose origins we do not know.

We seek to lean into God ‘s will and plan. And to bend without breaking. Yet welcoming the pruning shears. To stretch and grow. And break free of shackles that bind. To let Him mold us, shape us, lead us, change us. The heat from the fire refines us. The molding reshapes us. We hope that we are beautiful when we come through the tumbler’s wheel. More beautiful and stronger than before. But more than any superlative or standard or ideal, we hope to more like Christ.

And I am learning in the deep recesses, the places that like to tuck away and hide the false, the myth, the half-truths. That one size doesn’t fit all. And that even the one size fits most isn’t always the right fit.

Because the God of the universe created with an eye on originality and uniqueness. An unfathomable ocean of possibility and endless beauty in the physical world. Mountains and months of snow blanket the earth, no two flakes alike. Endless variety. Infinite variation.

I word searched “normal” in The Message Translation because it matters to me how scripture sees and views “normal”. It’s not a precise study in theology nor a tool in stating a case. It simply gives me pause. There were nine “hits”. Some how that seems infrequent for the whole of scripture. And I long to know why.

And I am seeing that God’s highest and best, it may lay outside the cookie cutter ways we write paradigms for our lives. We are looking at new paths and ways to live out this life for our children and ourselves.

My lens on this life sees beauty in different ways of doing and making art. Of writing. Oh the myriad of writing styles there are to ingest. The cup is full to overflowing with poetry and prose of every imaginable style. Each sip satisfies with it’s original beauty.

And doing church is going through some transformation. We are hungry and thirsty for community, fellowship and teaching. A shift in our life is shifting possibilities here too. The world, our world, our very lives are changing. And there may be another new normal on the horizon for us. I am learning to break the lens of tunnel vision. And to replace it with a lens of grace. Grace for us, our children, and throwing out stale ways of seeing possibility.

One size fits all is too small for a God this big. And His love is too grand to squeeze us into shoes that don’t fit as we run this race of life.

Our new normal feels more beautiful everyday and we are starting to settle into our new skin. Just in time for the new new normal that waits with open arms around the next turn in the road. We travel with a spirit of expectancy. And we walk by faith covered in grace.


Getting On The Bus


The phrase stepping off the curb. These cliches are wearing me out. This one I have heard hundreds of times. I have grown weary of the phrase. And yet, there is a thread there that I am pulling at, yanking at for understanding.

It requires an act of the will and movement of some kind. Sometimes I’d rather not. Because I risk getting run over or fatigued or stuck in the middle of the lane unable to cross over or I might change my mind and there is no turning back or the curb may cry the siren’s song for me to please come back to her.

The curb is rounded and safe and protective. Yes, the curb calls out comfort like a womb.

There are strange things to find comfort in as humans. Sometimes it’s routine, the familiar and quiet. Sometimes it’s being surrounded by a false sense of safety and controlled variables.

And then came the buses. For me they were and are some sort of metaphor on wheels. They are rolling worlds on wheels where I am not in control. The bus is moving whether I like it or not.


I got on a bus last year and rode with a group and my daughter a thousand miles or so. You can read about it here and here. It was part of the Art Bus Project. When I got off the bus I cried. The experience branded me, marked me and changed me.

When has the act of stepping off ever left us unchanged. When has walking into uncertainty left us untouched by experience. When has deciding to trust not at least held the potential for an increase in faith.

My accountability partner is going to Haiti in a few days. I thought I was going too. My heart was prepared last fall. But I am not on this team, not on this trip, no flying into the Caribbean blue for mission work.

I am going to Disney World. There is a part of me that says is this a good time to get all four of my wisdom teeth extracted because that would be less challenging.

My achilles heel, my vulnerable place, is a sleep-deprived me. I am vulnerable when I am exhausted, worn out, tired, and foggy headed. So I try to live in a place where I am armored up. I strap on the heavy metal of clear-thinking and rest.

And I seem to think that I can tackle the world guns ablazing when I have had the sleep I need. But what if in my weakness He is made strong. What if when I am most vulnerable He has room to move and shake me from my slumber.

What if when I am wounded broken sleepy lamb He is Shepherd with a strong crook to steer me and guide me.

So I signed up for Dare To Do Disney In A Day with my growing up kids’ youth group. We will board a bus at 10:30 at night, drive all night, arrive at The Magic Kingdom (why do they have to call it that) when it opens, and leave when it closes and drive back all night and arrive at home on Sunday morning. Ok. It makes me tired just to say it and write it.

I am not going on a mission trip to a third world country. So I cannot ask you to pray for me. I would much rather you pray for my friends from church who are going to Haiti. But wait. I can. I will be chaperoning a group of middle school girls. Yes, yes, please pray that God uses this time and blesses it for good.

I have a friend who is deathly afraid of clowns. I wonder if buses are my clowns. I wonder if I will run from all future conversations which involve getting on a bus.

Or will I run, flying off the curb and into the arms of the big bus, waiting to take me off to a place of discovery, adventure and pure joy.

I am trusting the driver. And releasing the white-knuckled grip. At least for a day at The Magic Kingdom. (Why do they have to call it that?)


Please pray for safe travels up and down that road on a bus. Eighteen hours of driving.

And that there would be Joy. And laughter. And that they teach me, these children and that I hear it and get it. And that I would have something for them too. That we would use every minute to learn and love and live fully.

We have to laugh a little about the differences in our travels, H and I, my confidant and accountability partner. My prayer partner and keeper of all my secrets. She will be going up a rocky road to La Gonave, Haiti and I will be on a Charter Bus to sunny Orlando to spend a marathon day at Disney.


Funny thing about God is He will be in both places. Touching children, touching lives. And changing a 53 year old women who likes to stay home. And building memories for a mother and a daughter. I won’t be assigned to my daughter’s age group for the day. And wisely she said, “Mom, you will love being with those middle school girls.”

I seem to learn most of my most important lessons in life from children. I am going into the classroom on Friday night at 10:30, a big rolling classroom of kids. And yes I am packing ear plugs for use maybe on hour eight of the drive.

And maybe in some small way, I am being refined and changed for my “one day” trip to Haiti.  Or maybe like Abraham, the Lord just asks me to be willing to serve there. Maybe He needs me to ride a bus down I-95 instead. And be with my daughter and her youth group friends.

And hang out at the other Kingdom.

The Fear Of Forgetting, The Art of Remembering

heart bright in woodShe recalls the smallest detail from years ago.

She recalls the long ago.

And she forgets the half a moment away.

Mystery in the mind, mystery in the aging

of memory.

A life gets blurred like watercolors on a canvas.

Color present, color faded, lines and detail run away and off the page

Until a version of  blurry new is present in the present.

And what will I recall.

What will I remember.

Will the written anchor memories of each, of the three, the best, the challenges

I dream a dream of  capturing it all in bell jar, lid light,

In marked detail , the love and laughter

Growing up at my feet, at my bosom for years

If you add them, all the days between the three

It would make one old child, but they are three

And will the words help bury memories, encase them in a time capsule

Just in case the mind and memory fade as it does and as it did for her

She says remember when you and how could I, barely I do, I barely recall

I the child she the mother of this obscure event, no event is unworthy of recording

All are worthy, all are worthy.

If I write and when I write may it be a doubled effort to recall

The smallest moments in their, our, this life.

Branding, blazing all the breathes in ink, in stone, the sacred ones

The what He gives, the what we take

No it is what we receive, and remember and  offer back

By recording, all the moments in an effort

To remember.

She remembers the smallest detail from long long ago.

May I remember the smallest details from long long ago.

And begin to see through her eyes, a glimpse, a slant of how

She saw and how she sees

That is grace.


Joining Emily at Imperfect Prose for her one word prompt this week…Mother.

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