A Saturday Caesura
Wind weary we are. When normal prairie winds brush across the land, we put on a hat or tie our hair back and get on with life. But when big weather systems start jousting for territory, winds become aggressive, blasting, relentless. And we become weary. Weary of the moaning and blowing, of the whip and lash of hats and hair and jackets and snow and branches and shingles and siding. And our wind-weariness bleeds into our other weariness of all the Stuff and Crazy and Chaos, and we just want the only wind to be the quiet, steady breathing of our world and our lives at rest.
So when we are weary, what do we do? How do the windblown walk without listing and faltering? How do we, the world-weary, live without being torn from our roots and flapping twisting breaking crashing?
We keep showing up.
We keep doing what matters, even if it feels ragged and frayed. The doing becomes more than itself. When we keep creating and working and learning and praying and loving and caring, our roots find purchase in deeper soil. When we keep showing up for each other, our words of respect and encouragement become sturdy windbreaks behind which beauty and grace can flourish. We can breathe here, together.
So here’s my advice to myself at the end of a wind-weary week: when everything is big and blustery, find the small and calm. Show up there. Enlarge those borders where you can. And if you can’t enlarge, fortify. Small doesn’t have to become big, but it does need to be wind-resistant. ▫️
A Saturday Caesura
Make space for stillness.
Attune your ear, yes, but especially your mind and heart and hands.
Eschew all enticements to wander off beyond focus.
Steel against conclusions prone to back-flip over beginnings.
Resist fixes and platitudes which run rough-shod over love and grace.
Offer a whole presence though it may feel too easy and too hard and never enough.
Choose a heart posture that allows stories to breathe vent weep groan gush stumble spill sigh trickle scream…
Catch them. Hold them. Just hold them even if they leak between your fingers and feel sticky or heavy or slippery or awkward.
A Listener carries stories that aren’t meant to be carried
A Sunday Doxology
How do I express gratitude enough
to You, the Joiner of two-into-one,
for the gift of a life-companion who
loves Your word,
loves Your world,
and graciously loves me, too.
Thank you for shared laughter
and peace-finding, problem-solving
commitment and forgiveness
and days and years
and months and minutes
of fellowship so precious.
Grace upon grace.
A Sunday Doxology
Praise God who welcomes all children
and gives grace to all their mothers.
Who knows the depth of love and pain
that both mom and child may carry
and in that knowing, offers peace.
Who knits and creates in the womb
sons and daughters to call his own.
Praise you God for your open arms.
When peace like a river attendeth my way
Oh what joyful delight flowed the day you were born
When sorrows like sea billows roll
And then. That day flooded with deep, deepest despair.
Whatever my lot, You have taught me to say,
And today. Your birthday. With waves of emotion leaving me worn,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
but oh so grateful for all the days we could share.
*”It Is Well With My Soul” lyrics by Horatio Spafford.
Today I extract the memories with care
Perhaps this year they’ll be easier to share
vivid and valued
fragile and fading
precious and painful
But once they lay on the table before me
adequate words to express them simply flee
So I enfold each one in love anew
and tuck it gently away from view
There is a place deep inside
where these treasures will always reside
A place where grief and grace meet
the rhythm of this mother’s heart beat.