where light and shadow join hands

There is a special hour in the autumn morning where the sun finds it's place to rest in it's celestial sphere. Light and shadow join hands, falling long and warm on the floor while the sounds of leaves and trees and birds and bees dance in the midst of them. All is calm.  I feel the eagerness of the inviting scene embrace every inch of my being as I deliberately and gently walk throughout each room, allowing the tender whimsy of the morning to weave and wrap about. My soul finds rest and relief in the warm embrace sooner than the eruption of life that inhabit these walls can come to existence. It offers but a few moments to capture my breath, to stand in awe of the silence and to wholly appreciate that each morning brings the beauty of life and the man of my dreams and children to love.  

These quiet moments are rare and they are short lived. They last but for a moment as each day is new.  Yet, I am grateful for them. I do not feel bitter for their passing because it awakens memories and brings to mind that though this day may bring fights and falls and cries and hurts we will also laugh and dance and sing and heal.  In our home we will create a world where we can bring our differences and experience wholeness, where we can bring our hurts and experience healing, where we can bring our shame and experience honor, and where we can bring our failures and experience acceptance, one that is certain and true.  I want to teach and live and believe that where there is hate and injustice and destruction, there can be celebration and reconciliation and restoration. It is there that hope has set its anchor. Trustworthy and sure.  This hope that we will experience together and extend to our family and our friends and our neighbors. Where light and shadow join hands. A place of belonging and of value and of joy and of love.

Where I met God

I recall a time when I was a different sort of woman, sitting alongside an abandoned part of a rocky beach, watching the quiet scene; a broken sort. Angry and confused and hurt. It was one of those moments where you know He exists but the weariness in your soul pulls you away from belief. I did not know what to do with Him. I refused to speak. It was hard to listen. I remember digging my toes under the sand and dust and gravel and dirt, feeling myself fall beneath the surface, immersing myself into pain, watching the chaos of the scene envelop my own.  The rippling waves crashing into rocks, bathing the coastline, splattering on shells. The only distractions were the occasional small stones I would flick out into the great expanse. Yet it was here in the quiet moments, in the darkness and brokenness, that I was able to once again hear God speak. I wouldn't open my Bible but He would penetrate through with words I had buried deep from our initial relationship. From the books of the Bible that displayed stories of broken relationships and of darkness, of healing and forgiveness. Words about the heavy hurts and insecurities I was carrying and how God was longing for me to allow Him to carry them for me. Truths about who He is, about my being someone He made and about the why and about how I was somehow special to Him. Loved even. About what He did to show me. Despite all the crazy I have seen and done, can one even imagine? It was there that hope began to sprout, where it glimmered and glowed in the darkness, where something inside became new. Sometimes I look back on that time in my life with mixed feelings; although it was truly low and difficult, it was still a turning point in my life. It was a change that I could not have done without. We must experience those moments of humility and I am eternally grateful for it. It was there that I met God.

unraveling reverie

I made a visit to the local bookstore few nights back, gathering quiet moments and hot sips of coffee between the click-clacking of keys from spilling thoughts hitting the screen and sacred spaces found with strangers. The sounds of middle-aged women with their game pieces hitting a table and of teenage giggles flittering on about a boy offered an amusing soundtrack. Without looking up, we shared a bond between these unadulterated moments, and minus the eye contact or corresponding nod, we acknowledged the worlds we were from, are in and will soon return to as foreign and yet suspiciously familial.

I smiled as I looked down at my journal and laptop and coffee and books and though I had spread them out with such abandon, they appeared interlaced with a inexplicable united friendship. I felt light and grateful and secure and whole and all those things I long to feel more often than not and I found my thoughts were unraveling themselves to mirror the gloriously messy display placed so wittingly before me. 

I picked up my pen and felt warm. I was eager to write again.

morning muse

The sounds of chaos meet the maddening silence in a clumsy reunion. There is a chill in the air. Breathing out a sigh that goes deeper than the bond between mother and child, the resulting steam swirls up, it's tendrils groping the air with freedom and wanderlust. The kitchen is the birthplace of this morning religion and the comfort that fills my warm cup will soon find its way to my heart, burrowing beneath the layers of chill and bone, circling outward until it has met its purpose. The sun looks down with a familiar grin, winking at the lazy routine. Every morning starts off with the same hesitation, the same timidity as though meeting a lover for the first time, uncertain of what is to come. Seeking the comfort of what was known and yet drawn forward all the same. It is accepting the madness that will transform the shy child inside, as if you know the world will only continue to revolve if you move forward with it. If you accept that what the day brings will inevitably become part of the story. So you choose to oblige with eyes closed and full acceptance until the morning smiles a new chapter to existence and you whisper grateful words to the one who anchors your soul. 

...and you are ready to start the day.

Like Notes on a Page of Music

There is something beautiful about a billion stars

held steady by a God who knows what He is doing.

They hang there, the stars, like notes on a page

of music, free-form verse, silent mysteries swirling in the

blue like jazz.

And as I lay there, it occurred to me that God is up there

somewhere. Of course, I had always known He was,

but this time I felt it. I realized it.

The way a person realizes they are hungry or thirsty.

The knowledge of God seeped out of my brain

and into my heart.

I imagined Him looking down on this earth, half angry

because His beloved mankind had cheated on Him,

had committed adultery, and yet

hopelessly in love with her, drunk with

love for her."

- Donald Miller. Blue Like Jazz.

Sweetly quiet.

The boys are out with their grandparents, and I am left alone, cuddled on a firm, but soft, dark, leather couch in their home. My hands are in love; tightly holding on to their warm mug of chai tea. Swirls of steam rise and the strands of comfort wrap themselves around my arms, making their way to the tips of my toes.

The sounds of squawking birds grab my attention and I watch as they make every attempt to escape the incoming storm. They fly off. I am left alone again. I close my eyes and sink deeper into the couch, releasing myself from high-functioning expectations, and instead coaxing them to enjoy the moment.  Just let yourself be.

There aren't any obnoxious voices ricocheting off the walls. No pitter patter of teeny-tiny feet. Listen to the lovely absence of relentless chatter. Did you notice the damaging thuds from incessant, acrobatic stunts have ceased?

The silence is sweet. 

Sip. Ahhhhh…

It's just me, my cup and an ignorant ceiling fan left whirling away.

Ordinary Greatness

Sighing, the light air chases the whispy strands of hair that have been dancing around her face. She leans over her little one, one arm restraining him from twisting and turning, the other flying back and forth, wiping and folding, preparing to cover him back up.  His "no, no, no's" finally morph into the screams she is much more familiar with, and he whips his body around.  Those little legs, kicking. Those arms, punching the air.

Exasperated, she leans back, resting on the heels of her feet. Why is this such a battle? Who knew a fresh diaper would cause such strife?  She allows the back of her hand to wipe the front of her brow, and pushes back her falling hair.  Sigh.  She's spent. Exhausted.  It's the end of the day, she realizes. She just wants to give in.

She strains her neck, searching for her other half and gathers up the items covering the floor to hand over.  Enter scene: her eldest son.  The inquisitive three-year old looks quizzically at his tantrum-throwing brother on the floor, and then rests his eyes on her.  He is holding a shiny, new gadget. Looks like a book light. Oh yes, most likely the one she had tucked away, hidden in a drawer, probably from her night stand.

She hears her husband, and returns to relinquish her noble duties.  She has it all nearly bundled together and barely misses the growing light beside her; a brilliant star shining against the black of the night.  The boy, under no obligation but his own, kneels down next to his little brother and offers him a chance at the shiny, metallic prize.  The littlest hands reach it and just as immediately as the chaos began, the calm returns.  Exhale.

Pausing the task at hand, she glances up to soak in his innocent, beautiful face. "Aw Cj, that was so nice. You are one, good, big brother! Thank you."  His dad, kneels down, places his hands on his small shoulders and looks him square in the eye, "You. Are amazing." The toddler looks over at his parents, obviously unaware of his act of altruism until that moment. He starts, "well he just…" His tiny voice fades and he reaches up, his arms extending towards both mom and dad.  Completely overcome by the unexpected reaction from his parents, the sweet little voice returns,

"I love you guys soooo much."

I wanted to capture an everyday moment that occurred earlier this evening… written for this week's writing prompt: Falling at Studio 30+

Sparta! The debriefing.

WE. ARE. SPARTA!

The scorching heat greeted us as we stepped out of the car at the Blue Mountain Ski Resort in Palmerton, Pennsylvania to stretch our legs and rub our necks.  The blazing sun took but a moment to hide and we embraced the opportunity to glance up at the goliath looming overhead. We gazed at it in awe before our mouths slowly dropped in disbelief. The face of the mountain looked at us with a sneaky grin and I could almost see it snarl and laugh mercilessly as each of us took a step forward, towards our impending doom.  We came to the realization that the minuscule beings crawling at the top were actually members of our own human race.  They were participating in the very same run we were about to embark on.

THE FIRST MILE.

…"the Pennsylvania [Spartan] Sprint has long been regarded and argued as being the hardest Sprint on the circuit, something all too evident as many racers new to the Spartan Race series were to discover…"

Gulp. Wasn't that the truth.  For me,  the hardest part was the very first mile.  The clouds covered most of the sky while we prepped for the race, but the sun thought it best to peek its face right when we began.  I started to get dizzy as we started up the incline {even though I drank more water than usual and even downed a bottle of gatorade prior to our start time}. Honestly though, I think I was just not ready for that uphill battle; crawling up the rocky surface. Trying to race straight up a mountain - a ski mountain for that matter - and then through steep forest terrain was not a easy feat. There weren't many paved roads on this course. The direct heat added to our dehydration and to my weakening body.

After that initial climb, and consequently inhaling a jug at the water aid station, I was able to find a rhythm. I was determined to keep it. It was hard. There was a lot more mountain to climb {and I'm talking at a 45 degree angle} and then some more WITH a 35+ pound sandbag.  Oh yah, that's right, scaling a cliff with added weight. Thanks for that. Oh and wait, "some more" just doesn't quite capture the length of that incline. I remember looking up and gasping, "um guys, I don't see an end to this thing... how far are we supposed to go up?!! Ohgod, we are going to die … no one is going to find us." 

I felt like we were being forced to trek on, if we wanted to live, with no end in sight.

Literally.

THERE IS BEAUTY.

But there were a few sweet spots found smack dab in the middle of this suffering too.  To take those we-are-gonna-die-right-here-right-now-and-no-one-will-ever-find-us moments, and then turn them around to see the God-created beauty at our fingertips, well it was amazing. I remember throwing my sandbag down halfway up that mountain and muttering "I'm just ...going to ...sit …now."

I did. I turned around and saw all these other spartan racers clawing their way uphill and I cheered them on. I told them they were beasts. I was proud of them. I was proud of us. I was proud of me. This piece of the race was probably the hardest part for me, but it was also where I was able to just sit for about 80 seconds. I just absorbed the breathtaking picture of the sky, the rolling hills and the trees below and thought this is grand-spanking-gorgeous.

 .  .  .

How does that happen? Even in the midst of difficulty, of pain and brokenness, are we wired to still experience beauty, a sweetness of sorts; goodness? Even if it's but for a moment?

 .  .  .

Well, the rest of the climb was still brutal. I remember finally reaching the top {it was a miracle!} and wondering if labor was as difficult as scaling that massive rock.

In that moment, I honestly couldn't remember.

WE FINISHED THE RACE.

After a few more hazardous, upward challenges, we started the trek downhill. It was less tenuous but still extremely steep. I slid a few times. Almost twisted a leg. I got through most of the obstacles, which included {but were not limited to} crawling under barbed wire, swimming in a mud-filled lake, and scaling several walls.  Also, I absolutely owe the Spartan Race kings more burpees than I would like to admit.

It's hard to describe the powerful feeling that came over me when I threw my legs over the final 10 foot wall and fell to the earth below. I could see the finish line ahead. It was glorious. I felt warm all over {or perhaps that was from the pounding sun and the mud baking into my skin}.  The five of us just ran into each other's arms and held on for a good long few moments before we tackled our final obstacle together. We broke out into a full sprint for the last few feet and leapt over the burning rocks. After 4 point some miles of crazie {it felt like 15!} and three hours of moving non-stop; after all of that, it was such a savoring feeling to finish. To conquer.

We were a team and we had completed this mission together, through the sweat and tears and bruises. It was awesome.

MY REASON FOR RACING.

When I first signed up, I had a whole bucket full list of reasons for doing so.  A lot of people asked me why I would do something so ridiculous, so extreme.  Was I trying to prove something? Perhaps. I mean, not so much for fame and glory.  Not in the way I would have once done so.

I had mentioned in a previous post about having re-visited some parts of my past and it has been a long and painful journey.  I have wanted to quit at times, but like this race, I am part of a team, and we inspire each other to move forward, to dig deep, to push on.

Getting to the end of such a brutal race was hugely empowering for me. To see how I could set my mind to something, how I could push past the pain when it hurt the most, how I could dig deeper when I didn't have any energy left, and how I could pray when I had no breath. I could continue.  I was encouraged to see that through the dirt and the pain, there is hope. There is freedom.  It gives me assurance for the here and now, that I will one day stand up and throw my hands in the air and look back at all the mountains, the beatings, the obstacles - the crap - that I had to go through, and shout a victorious roar. I will see the finish line. I will see an end.

It will be epic.

Freedom is real. We can dream big. There is an end even when we can't see it. There is hope to cross the finish line.

I feel stronger today than I did the day before.  I certainly don't owe it all to the spartan race, but I am definitely glad I ran it and that I gave it all I got.

Starring Role of a Small Life

What explanation is there except that she felt obligated to hide behind the plastic smile and not mess up the Sandra Dee costume she so proudly wore.  In doing so, all of her failures were kept secret.

It wasn't anyone's business anyway.

Eventually those secrets and compromises became so comfortable to be around, she wore them like her favorite pair of blue jeans. If she drank too much, flirted or messed around, she was discreet and no one was the wiser.

She ignored the voice that constantly nudged her to stop. She wrestled with it a bit, and perhaps a bit too aggressively. She was enslaved to the thrill.  However, the countdown to confession was just beginning. The hushed lifestyle was starting to get too heavy, too messy, and far too big to hide.  She tried to push it back, but the deceit just bulged through somewhere else. It was only a matter of time before the swell would break.

Then the inevitable happened. The bubble burst and the sins, the scandal, the comfortable compromises that were protected and held onto so tightly for so long finally spilled out.  All those secrets that were stashed away in the darkest corners of her deepest closets were suddenly laid bare, item by item, on the largest billboards of the busiest highways for the entire world to see.

What could she say?  Everyone saw her plainly. Everyone could see she wasn't who they thought she was. Her family, her friends...

...her husband.

She wasn't who she had claimed to be.

. . .

Once upon a time there was a girl who was graceful and charming, playful and unique.  She was someone everyone wanted to be or wanted to be with.  Her reputation flourished and her pride grew with it, where sex and alcohol and glory were much more alluring, where she was convinced she was something she wasn't, where in her heart she felt empty and alone.

Yes, she was a star. Except, she played the leading role of an incredibly, insignificant and small life.

...written for this week's writing prompt : Swell and Unique at studio 30+

Rain Therapy

Ahh…the sound of rain. Right now, the kids are asleep, the house is quiet, the sun has finally gone down for the night, and a sweet breeze is kissing my face.  The window is propped up and there are those oh so beautiful sounds streaming in: the whispering wind, the pitter patter of water droplets, the approaching cars sloshing through our road.

Sloshing. What a strange word.
I think I like saying it more than anything else. Sloshing.
Sloshhh.ing.


Okay it's out of my system. Just ignore all of that.

Sooo, yes I know I've mentioned before how much I adore the rain. Thunderstorms more specifically.  I find it to be almost therapeutic. Some of you know what I am talking about.

It can be a beautiful experience.

I know, I know, the rain can be a pain at times. It's not always fun to get through (J and I should know. We have lost more cars in the 'watch-for-flooding-spots' - where apparently we weren't, I guess, watching), it can be a bit inconvenient (especially if you just had your hair straightened. i'm serious.), uncomfortable (you try walking through wet grass in high heels) and chaotic at times (let's face it, no one seems to know how to drive in the rain).

But it offers something new. From bleak skies to beauty all around.
A clean slate. A fresh start.

An opportunity to grow.

Something about it reminds me that restoration doesn't just come without some pain or effort, even hurt. It can be miserable and uncomfortable and inconvenient and chaotic….but when we get through to the other side, sometimes we can look back and knowingly smile at the process. It's when we are in the midst of it, that it's hard.

It IS hard. It's okay to feel that.
To say that.

Not everything is easy peasy.

But then I like to be reminded of what redemption looks like and how beautiful it is when we realize where we are going and how the journey is a big part of us getting there.

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Kudos …to me!

So I received news that I am featured as the 'Member of the Week' over at Studio30+ and I'm pumped!

I mean, I could be all bashful and say, aw you shouldn't have.  But honestly, I'm so thrilled! Thank you! It's nice to receive encouragement, and I'll take it in whatever form it comes.

Especially when it is from a community of writers that I truly admire.

I appreciate creativity - in all its forms - and I find writing to be just one of many artistic avenues to participate in. I don't always do it perfectly and it isn't always the best stuff out there on the entire world wide web, but I enjoy it and am glad to share it with whoever is inspired to read. There is so much beauty to be found in the creating process - in the here and now - not just in the masterpiece itself.

I just read another blogger encouraging us to celebrate in times like these {emphasis mine} :

"... you can celebrate what you’ve had the courage to put out there. And the point is not to get it picked up. The point is to put it out there in the most honest, true-to-you way possible, and it will connect. So if you haven’t put it out there, please, put it out there. Don’t be afraid. Don’t wait until it’s perfect.

The trolls will always be trolls, but there are so many more beautiful and generous people who will receive what you give, whose heart will break because of the beauty of who you are and what you’re willing to pour out."

So true. 

…and thanks =)

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Robbed of Innocence

She leans forward and hums an unfamiliar tune, perhaps one that she mistakenly overheard. Her legs are crossed, her pale dress refuses to hide the arch of her knees, and her short black hair falls, covering her pretty face. Her voice fades as she picks at the loose thread that has come undone from her mattress. A creak in the floor causes her body to tense up and her heart quickens. The thread falls limp, her gaze frozen. The awful voices outside her room grow close and her heartbeat intensifies.  She holds her breath, anxious that the thump-thump rising from her chest will leak through the walls and seep into the anticipation of their ears.  She fears the dreadful touch of the unknown.  As they pass, she barely allows the exhale to leave her lips. She waits.

They are gone. Timidly, she looks up. Her gaze is listless, her dark eyes empty and lost. The softness of her face portrays her youth, a face where a smile is a stranger. She knows hope is absent and that evil is not too far away.

Her dreams may haunt her, but living awake is worse.

.  .  .

Sitting in the comfort of my home with my legs crossed, I feel the fibers brush gently against my skin, and set the warm brew poised below my lips.  I inhale the aroma, letting my fingers clasp tightly around the comfort of my mug.  I glance at my phone briefly, allowing my thumb to scroll through the current headlines.  Images capture my eye and stories are told. There are children robbed of their innocence and I'm exposed to the existence of slavery even still.  I am left speechless, watching the pain unfold, breaking with each word. 

I think "that could have been me" but for some reason she is there and I am here. What can I do? How can I rescue her…them?  How can I reach her and tell her that she is loved, that there is freedom, that she was made to laugh, to dance... to play? 

A wild blend of rage and indignation rise from somewhere within and I don't want to read any more, I can't. Then I do. But it is too much. It is too heavy; too much of a mess for me to make sense of. The scene outside my window displays a world continuing on, unaware, unmoved.  Blissful ignorance collides with grief and I want to scream, and yell. The cry catches in my throat and cannot escape. It is stuck in the depths of this dark reality.

I squeeze my eyes shut and just listen to the hum of the coffee machine, the giggles of little children waking, the sounds of life.  I'm reminded again of where I too have been. Awareness leads to action. I will choose to believe. I will tell the world who she is. I may not be able to remove her hell but I will tell them her story and it will be told again, and again. She will no longer be alone. Her life of evil will be exposed and her darkness may collapse and perhaps she may see hope and experience love. Perhaps she will be free. Perhaps she may even dance.

.  .  .

I finish the last word of my post and the click-clacking of the keys ceases. The sun is beginning to peek through the clouds. I gulp down the rest of my coffee and place my mug in the sink. We may live ordinary lives but I am convinced the supernatural can happen when we move. I pause, and reflect for a purposeful moment before my almost three year old peeks his head around the corner.

"Momma!" He runs into my arms. I kiss him and hold him for just a minute longer before I let him go. 

I am featured on Studio30+ !

I mentioned before that I just joined a community of writers over 30 online at Studio30+ and this morning my post was featured!  Check it out when you get a chance and let me know what you think.

Click on the studio30+ banner to read!

{ If you enjoy writing and would like to meet other talented writers and read a variety of writing styles and pieces, consider joining too! }

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forgotten puddles

I've joined an online community of writers over at Studio 30 Plus {a social media site for writers over 30} and I am really enjoying it over there. It has been challenging for me to read and write and venture out with a little more courage. I like that. This week's prompt was 'if i were to do it all over again…'

she hesitates. not knowing what to expect, she reaches out her hand. it lingers. alone. he walks out the door.

the bitter rejection feels cold. a sharp pain shoots to her heart and it aches.  she retrieves her hand, slowly, deliberately, as if any sudden movement will startle and cause her to run away. 

she sits quiet. staring at the black nothingness. she feels the weight press against her as the verses, the lyrics, the words pour out from her mind and piece together a melody as melancholy and despondent as the damp scene outside her window.  the angry rain pings persistently as they slide down the glass. slowly. miserably. they are rejected. 

the same way as she. 

she adores the rain. she wants the days to stay as beautifully dreary as she. she understands its pain.  unwanted. cold. damp. gloomy.  dreary skies with gray backdrops, bored trees and quiet neighborhoods. the occasional passing car sloshing through forgotten puddles. 

her heart aches for him. for the pain that she herself inflicted.  she is torn. torn because there is no avenue for her to take with him. she can't step in and console him or run to his aid; embrace him or even erase the hurt because it was her….her very breath, her own actions, her very existence that became the weapon to pierce him over and over and over again…

'if i were to do it all over again…' she thinks. the lonely life she is all too familiar with, the destructive path she has left behind, would it really have been different?  perhaps. 

or maybe not.

...written for this week's writing prompt at studio 30 plus

feeling imperfect

Ah, the craving to be known. A desire to be understood. The need for relationship. I've read that it is utterly human yet absolutely divine as well. I find it interesting that somehow God uses dead ends almost disguised as a means to bring us all longing for relationship with Him.

Most are often too busy mulling about their own business, their own solitary lives to take the more-than-a-minute they need to find out more about another. Okay, wait. I take that back. Not everyone is like that, but I certainly live in a society where maintenance is our highest priority.   Where we make sure everything sits in its proper place, everything is in order and is oh-so-pretty on the outside before we take the time to reach out our hand to help another who may have fallen down.

I am one of them; they are me. It's a lonely existence.

To be freed from loneliness, from despair, we need to leave our safe little corner of the world in search of a caring community.

But... I do know what it means to live in an authentic, caring community.

Over the last few years, I've begun to embrace the reality of transparency and leave the pulpit with theory. It's a life of vulnerability and true exposure. A life where I embrace the emotional. One where I have allowed the walls to come down so I can be known.

But it's still second nature to get caught up in the nitty-gritty. I still want my perfectly trimmed lawn, a spic and span kitchen and my kids to be wally and beaver cleaver.

I come undone when I see how far I am from attaining those "dreams". I feel imperfect. It's a dead end.

I'm being reminded of who I am, where I am, and that there is One (who actually is perfect) that still wants to be with me. This perspective allows me to see that there are others who also need a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, someone to care... And I can be that someone for them.

So yah, I'm not perfect. But then on this planet, no one really is.

My Sibling Speech

So yesterday I wrote about this amazing weekend we were so blessed to be a part of, (my brother's wedding) and as mentioned, it has just been crazie around here. As exciting and as special as a wedding can be, there is always so much to do, especially when it comes to your own or family. So, as you can see from the lack of posts over the last two months, we have been busy, but joyfully so!

When it came time to do our sibling speech at the reception, my brain was fried, and that is such an understatement. I don't often get tongue-tied in public, but I did there. I wasn't nervous, but I just had a flood of thoughts and emotions and I felt pretty unsure of what to say next. I'm sure I had a meaningful moment up there all the same, but there were just so many things that I wanted to say and I didn't. I felt that it was just tremendously unsatisfactory.

So, though this is most certainly for him (and I have told him so much so), I wish to announce it publicly, so if you would rather close the window and come back tomorrow, no worries. Otherwise, amuse me if you will:

Once upon a time, there was a happy-go-lucky scrawny, little toddler who I called my brother (although he was often confused to be my little sister because of these overly-grown yet beautiful, rich curls). Mikey, you were always up to trouble, but in a cute, fun sort of way. When I see my Cj go from being wickedly destructive tohandsomely and utterly adorable, I can’t help but think this is how you must have been.

I thought that one day you might grow up to be a scientist or even a magician (or rather, you thought you would be one).You definitely wanted to be like me, and you even joined choir and would jump into any musical-type opportunity that you could; whatever instrument piqued your curiosity: between the drums, and the clarinet and even the baritone (who plays the baritone?!) and I’m sure there are one or two I’m missing in there.

But you were a smarty-pants for sure. I could never win anything that was too intelligent a game with you. Whether it was chess or some math-saturated-puzzle, you always held the upper hand. I do appreciate the opportunity to be exposed to sports and having a tom-boy-like childhood since it proves to help with having two boys now. I also enjoyed not being so girly and have always had an adventuresome streak and so, I have you to thank for that.

You were a trusting little brother and I have heard the story of my leaving you in the cold, winter snow saying I would return within a minute to only have you come in an hour later seeing me covered in a blanket with hot chocolate in my hand, time and time again. I say you exaggerate a bit. I would never desert you like that. Although I think that particular instance really did happen (so sorry!).

You argue too much. I always said I would never marry anyone like you because I would never win. Then I married a lawyer. Perhaps you were just preparing me. Again, thank you.

You used to be scared of the dark. You used to sit and talk with me about life, love and other mysteries. You used to love to sleep...I mean, you could sleep anywhere, standing up, sitting down... (oh wait, you still do).

Obviously, there is no one else in this world who is quite like you. There are maybe only a few who come remotely close. When I look at you, I see a being created to shine in a more brilliant way, more than anyone you know. You stand out. People see it and they are drawn to you.

I have often said before, and will continue to tell you, God created you to be a unique treasure for the people in your life. I’m convinced you were specifically pieced together and placed here for this generation. 

You possess these characteristics, these qualities, these pieces of knowledge and creativity, of kindness and of strength. 

Of truth and of grace.

You are sincere and honest. You do all you can to be transparent and true.

You have resolve. You have an inner strength within you that you display at times, and at times, few ever see. You have questions that few ask, you consider thoughts that less think.

You are good. You are blessed to own a way of seeing and understanding things that only extraordinary people can. You touch people in a million ways: whether you are on a stage or sharing in an intimate heart to heart. 

How can one be so influential and yet so willing to listen at the sametime? Your gleaming smile provides a gateway to the warmth and love that inhabits you. Your actions are big, your heart even bigger. 

You have a way about you, a capability to capture attention, to bring smiles back, a competency to turn things around, an inspiration to show lost joys where to be found. 

Few people possess such a gift; God saw it fit to give it to you. 

Sometimes life is hard and you appreciate that. You see it and you don't run. Even if everything in you may want to run, you have displayed a trust In Him that everything will work out. You allow God to take the playbook and hand the plays over to you no matter what they may be. 

It is that eagerness to see Him work within you that is so encouraging, that willingness for transformation that is so inspiring.

You exhibit all these things, and all so naturally.

Your existence is absolutely not by accident, perhaps even more so than any one of us. You were made to be extraordinary. Otherworldly. 

Moving Mountains.

Don't stress the decisions. Whatever path you take...
He. 
Will. 
Use. 
It. 

He made you.He isn't about to waste this life. 

You are a miracle, a blessing, an amazing gift...

…and Sarah is truly one of a kind; a woman with purpose who loves you and is beautiful and smart and fun and real. She works hard. She loves even more. She has a true interest to serve. Her heart is for the oppressed. She desires that they meet a God of freedom, of righteousness, of justice....of Love.

You both have shown a real attention and determination to live your life for the ultimate glory of God. So, just know that He’s got big plans for the both of you in doing just that, and I hope we get to play at least a little part in it.

I'm encouraged by you. 

We love you.

....

Sorry for using theblog-mouth-piece to say all these things instead of using the microphone providedto me at your reception =)

Rain...Rain...don't go away

Like most mornings, the whimpering cries from Cj's room find their way into ours and slowly but surely, disrupt my morning slumber.  An unexpected coolness invades the air, and I am a little more eager to start the day.  I slip out of the bed quietly so as to not wake J, and take a quick glance out of the window on my way over to get my little prince.  The gray skies and the rain-soaked drive are unexpected, but relieving in a certain kind of way.  I ecstatically retrieve Cj from his room and head down the stairs to start my morning coffee. I can't wait for us to sit by the window together and listen to the robust hammering of the rain & watch for the flickering lightning as its thunder rumbles and roars around us. 

:: sigh ::

I am powerfully drawn to the summer rain.  I love a good thunderstorm. It's just relaxing and engaging; it feels so refreshing, so invigorating and at the same time, it can be so awe-inspiring and mysterious.  The soothing downpour contrasts with the heat and humidity that our area has been subject to recently and right now, the whole house feels cool and clean it its wet embrace.

The low soothing growl, often transforming into a crackling clap or thunderous boom, plays with my emotions. At any moment, I could close my eyes and whole-heartedly welcome the sub-bass of a delicate rolling thunder rumbling through the clouds.  The lower bass can get so deep and it adds such great depth; it's a natural, three dimensional audio experience.  It adds a comfortable charm that makes me want to cuddle on the couch with my coffee in hand, a good book {or macbook} on my lap and just disappear.

So yes, the whole thing fascinates me...and not just me, apparently.  Right now, as it pours outside, Cj and Tj are busy watching and playing by the windows so that they won't miss a beat. I like that I can most certainly relate.  We all seem drawn to it in the same exact inexplicable {though I tried my very best to explain above} way.

It is an auditory exhibit that reminds me of how small I am, yet still very much part of a powerful, amazing, and awesome creation.