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nighttime says this ….
They’re like dominoes. Night falls. One comes down the steps. Tip toe. Stomp. Creak. Tip toe. Creak. Creak. Creak. And the bed fills up. Five times over. By the time my bedtime arrives, I’m looking for any ounce of room. It’s a king sized bed but its regal size isn’t large enough for all this kid royalty. Sleeping big kids are nearly impossible to maneuver. Their limbs all gangly and long and heavy and twitchy. Gone are the scoop and slide days. I slip and twist and scrunch to contort my grown up self into any leftover space. My body literally cannot fit if I lie on my back. It’s…
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rainy poetry lessons
Each week for the past three years I’ve had this sweet opportunity to teach a bunch of kids that I love a little bit about something else that I love – words. Once upon a time, when I was a full time teacher in a different capacity, and I taught students at a traditional school, a fellow English teacher gave me this advice: Write when your students write. Try to do the assignment you have given them. This little exercise helps to challenge me to be a better writer and it gives me a heap of sympathy at how difficult it can be to turn thoughts into words on a…
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The Story of The Hike.
Remember our family camping campaign? Well, ever since we had the idea to camp monthly and to specifically visit South Carolina state parks, Edisto Beach State Park has been high on our list of must-visits. Somehow, though, it never happened. Mainly because it’s a super popular campground, apparently. It is frequently booked and reserving a campsite has been a challenge. Which is why we were extra excited to check Edisto off our list this past weekend. One of the many reasons we had been drawn to Edisto was the description on the state park’s website about the abundance of shells and fossils on the island, as well as one particular…
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Notes From The Weekend
You know what? I have more ideas for blog posts than I have time for writing said blog posts. Seems I am always out of time lately. And that’s alright for now. Nighttime choices often determine the course of my quiet hours usually reserved for writing. So it’s very late and I am stealing a few minutes where I can. This weekend we went camping – we ventured out with some good friends and headed all the way to the ocean. There was a lot of bittersweet on this particular camping jaunt, but I think my brain and my heart can only handle focusing on the sweet for now. Mosely and…
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the only choice
Cuddling beside my boy, his shaggy hair between my fingers. It’s late and he wants to talk. I was going to offer a quick tuck in and then do some writing, some reading, some anything else in the magical quiet hours after children fall asleep. But he pressed his back against me, shoved his ever-growing, warm, newly size 6 feet against my cold feet and so I stayed. Held him closer. We whispered into the dark night about fishing lures and Harry Potter and times when he’s been afraid. “When I can’t find a family member, I get scared,” he confided. We talked about the time he was at the…
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written from the middle of my bed
Mornings are hard. The warm bed, the thick covers, the heavy breathing of my sons beside me. I don’t want to leave the bed. The alarm goes off and I hold my stupid little phone in my fist and squint at the screen to see what time it is. To determine how many extra minutes I can squeeze out of the morning to stay right where I am – ensconced between two warm, cuddly fellows and enveloped in the foggy morning mental mist that comes before the clarity of each new morning. Only those of us who have walked life paths we haven’t carved for ourselves know how much renewed…
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The Day I Went To A Gym
I don’t know why I said yes. Well. I kind of do. But, that’s probably a story for another post. All I know is on a Friday afternoon I found myself wearing some kind of black legging thing, a running skirt, a t-shirt and a confused look on my face. Mirrors lined one wall. People were sweating and I felt like the first day of seventh grade. I was in a Zumba class. If you know me, you know a few things about me. I don’t really do group exercise. I don’t actually do exercise. I have less rhythm than a telephone pole. I cannot follow exercise directions. Thank goodness…
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just enough
Spring. The Good. Sunshine just warm enough to make the shade feel sweet. Breezes just strong enough to float blossoms and blooms across the yard. The white floating petals just enough like the opening sequence of a romantic movie to make you sigh audibly. The temperature just moderate enough to make all clothing choices acceptable. The hope just tangible enough to gather in a large gulp and swallow slowly down. Spring. The Good Enough. She needs another name. Fall has Autumn. Spring deserves more.
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wait
I have never waited well. I am terrible at transitions. I abhor in-between. I want to be Here or There but I cannot abide Nowhere. And yet this season this season I wait. I sit still and I try not to pace but I feel my feet shuffling. I try not to fret but I feel my heart pounding. People ask me, “Are you praying? Are you talking to God?” And I say, “Yes. As I breathe in and out. As I drive and as I sit. I mean – I talk, except I’m not certain what words I’m saying.” “And what does He answer?” they ask. I shake my…
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just reminding myself
What My Life Is Not: a burden something I must endure days to get through rejected about me as the central figure a picture perfect plan in my control What My Life Is: a gift an opportunity a work of art poetry accepted rescued in God’s hands What My Children Are Not: my salvation a liability in my complete control victims hopeless What My Children Are: hopeful worth the sacrifice beautiful gifts incredible potential Jesus followers loved protected rescued
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sing about it
Sometimes I think of my life in terms of song titles. And, of course, the titles change in my mind as quickly as they change on the radio. Give me four minutes and my thoughts will probably shift. Right now I’m drifting back in rock history to Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb”. Tell me your title for the last four minutes of your life.
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explanation required
London has a calendar hanging on her bedroom wall. She loves to cross off the days as they are done. Big X’s across every day. I think she likes the way it looks – but for me, it feels like all these days disappearing in giant Xs. Anyway. I looked at her calendar as I was braiding her hair during our nightly routine. And there it was. Written in bold blue ink. Every Sunday for the entire month. BS. So I think this calls for a chat. What kind of BS is happening up here in this bedroom every Sunday this month? BS. I ask, “Hey girls,” I point to…
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coming home.
So we were supposed to travel to Texas. But you know – the kids got sick and fourteen hours in the car seemed risky business – so Virginia was the consolation prize. (Never a bad place to be – that home state.) You might think while I was gone our house would rest in its silence and emptiness. But you’d be wrong. There was no resting at our house. I think our car hadn’t even crossed into the North Carolina border before a bevy of people descended upon it with brooms and dust rags and intentions and lists. It was probably in shock at the deep cleaning happening between its…
