Getting On The Bus

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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.

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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?)

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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.

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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.

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

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Finding Joy In Wash, Rinse, Repeat

The repetition of the beautiful can feel more like repetition of the ordinary.

The let dog in let dog out days of in and out of the washer and dryer she adds a load, changes it out, and tries to mix it up.

She sees the ordinary but strains for the extraordinary of the cycles of life. The make the bed and wash a load and empty, re- load the machines that wash the things that are dirty hums its dull hum.

And the check the mail and fluff the pillows and call a friend and go to the store and wipe the counters again drills go on and on and on.

But what if she sees a nuance of change and a strain of the beautiful in the repetition of the everyday.

And what if she began to lace the duties of life and living with prayer and praise and songs.

Taking the sheets of music to the bed as she folds the sheets. And raises the window to hear the birds as they serenade the cycles of living. The daily fringed with songs of grace.

And what if the breathing of the home she holds dear begins to sound like the breathing of the family that will walk in soon in need of nurture, both of the soul and of the body.

So the wiping of the counters begins to look like a prelude to an act of love, of service.

And the mundane looks like a view through a kaleidoscope when she shifts the view, turns it slant to see, really see what’s hidden behind the veil of the daily.

And “viewing life through a lense of grace” breaks out anew from its cocoon of hiding and is reborn.

She sees the grace of life. She sees the joy in wash, rinse, repeat.

She reframes her ordinary with extravagant love and wipes the counter with a cloth of dripping wet grace, in the living, grace in the everyday.

And He does make all things new. In the moments of the everyday everyday.

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So she turns it on its head until the blood rushes in and shakes and spins it round and round. And when the day gets turned right side up it’s flush with living, flush with the flow of blood all through the living breathing it.

The life has rushed back in and the life flows strong and bold through the day.

The turning, flipping bring shades of new, shades of the life-blood show, shining through. And it blushes with crimson, tinges of life-red.

The stale looks fresh, the old looks re-born and the mundane places are fired-up with the electric new.

She views life through a lense of grace.

And all the things on life’s pendulum, swing to the beat of a recalibrated heart.

And life fills her home again. And the beat goes on and on and on.

Dancing to the songs of grace.

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Joining Jen and Heather today.

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Create In Me

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We worked together shoulder to shoulder for a season and I found her wise. She, a bishop’s wife and mother of three. And she would spout gently like a mother dolphin. She’d spout jewels of wisdom and I, younger wife and mother would catch the droplets of sparkling gems.

We worked together in the lab of the creative. And we enjoyed fellowship of two business partners, entrepreneurs in a business for the home.

The words she said that day were one’s I thought I would never forget…the verbatim of her phrases of mini-teaching. I, the student she, the teacher, we workers in the field of creativity with meaning.

But I have forgotten though I have tried to remember. There are many years between that time and this. But the core of what  she said  I caught and held the heavy weight of wisdom in my hands. My heart vowing never to forget.
What I have not forgotten  is the sweet fragrance of her words. I smell the fragrant offering of their meaning.  The words she repeated often like a loving metronome, ticking off in repetition only to help with learning. And more importantly, the beautiful art she created for the home, from the overflow of her heart.

We create an environment in our homes. We create a place for God there. We create and make – environment.

And it wasn’t to justify  our work. It was to realize and recognize the importance of the work of creating. Aren’t we more like Him when we are creating, making, forming, sculpting, molding. Doesn’t He long for us to make, offering back to Him from what we have, the what He has given.

Doesn’t it matter. Our work as mothers. And the whispers from our home into the lives of others.

I look around at the turquoise and brown sofa with piles of pillow, square art on a rectangular sofa. And my daughter studying her vocabulary words there. She is comfortable and she is safe. By a fire in a fireplace with an old mantel which my husband chose from rubble or an antique thrift shop or a reclaimed wood store. These are the places he looks for treasures for our homes.

And my husband says is there anything better than this…and this was my dinner last night. I created nourishment, but it was more. At my hands I cooked up statements of love from my kitchen. It conveyed Comfort through the foods, chosen, prepared.

She was right you know. The books they speak, the art it speaks softly hanging on the walls. Each piece says quietly constantly it has a story to tell, are you listening. Of beauty, of another time, of a mother and daughter together in an embrace, a woman thoughtfully lingering in thought by a window.

We create an environment in which our families learn and live and love. And it’s important work. At and by our hands we create a world within the world. A place of peace and love, a place of mercy and forbearance. Of joy, pure joy and comfort by the things we set out and set before.

But most importantly by what we create with our words and arms’ embrace. The tenor of the home sets the stage for the actions of the heart.

All the pieces come together to form an environment. The blank canvas that was is now brushstroked by our very hands, as creatives, as mothers, as wives and women.

And our very lives, a blank canvas, wait and long for the touch of creativity to mark the white space with meaning and beauty and love.

To launch children out into service, out into a world in need of hope and mercy, in need of grace.

Our homes, a launching pad into the world. A place for recharging, reigniting, re-energizing, reconciling, rejoicing, and re-connecting. For regeneration.

First marked by His touch. First created by His hands. First breathed on by His holy breath.

Created in love by Him. Created in love for Him.

Created to create.

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A  Prayer For All Creatives

Recreating and creating daily, endless opportunity. Unfathomable possibility.

Releasing our hands and hearts and art over to Him.

But please first. But please preface all my work by making a new creation in me. Take my old and take my dull, take my tired and take my weary and create in me a living new offering to a world that needs art and beauty and newly born lives, relationships and attitudes of the heart.

First before all else, please cleanse me and re-create all that I have and all that I am.

Mold me first.

Shape me in your image.

Make me more like You.

Take me in your hands, making me pliable, moldable, shapeable, bendable.

Make me something you can use.

Before I create, create in me.

Before I offer up art and words and a gift back with the gifts you give, first.

First, change me so I reflect, more.

So first, I reflect You. So I am the servant and the artist and the creator of the beautiful message you desire.
Create in me so I can create for You.

First, make me new so that I can make new..

Words for healing, words of hope, words of  grace…because of Your creation in us, in me, in this world.

Thank you for the fabric you give, that we may give back. Thank you for the gifts you give that we can turn into art and worship.

But first, we offer all the gifts back to you.

And thank you for the canvas, our lives, the tools, your gifts, and the desire to create alongside You, in partnership with you, humbly by your side, and in Your Holy Shadow.

Amen.

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Joining Emily and others for Imperfect Prose. (So privileged and honored to now be a part of the Imperfect Prose team. Thanks Emily for the opportunity.) Today’s word prompt is Create.  Join me over there, won’t you.

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