Days Like This

If you love poetry get this beautiful piece by Laisha Rosnau!

If you love poetry get this beautiful piece by Laisha Rosnau!

This morning I felt the way a coffee cup fits perfect in two relaxed hands.

I listened to the children have a conversation about what colour is more beautiful in the sky, how the snow was uninterrupted, how they could hardly wait to traipse across it, leave a mark.

I sat with poetry open, the perfect black pen, a journal itching to be filled up.

wpid-2014-11-22-08.53.58-1.jpg.jpeg

The blue sky peeled open, the sun rose all pink and fired up to blaze.
Me too.

DSC_0286We rambled into the woods, let’s be the first explorers shall we? Notice the way the crystals blow from the tree, hear the squeals from the sled behind us, feel the wind in our hair. Notice the way that sun broke the trees wide open, as if it was a gift just for us.

DSC_0297

I should be scrubbing the floors, folding the laundry, washing the windows. I could be out visiting, returning important emails, writing a grant application. I could…but. I am glued to this seat by the weight of what feels like quadruple the gravity of a regular day on earth. The man asleep on the couch, the dogs napping at my feet, the children building snowmen outside. I am stuck by the beauty of this sun on my back, the words on the page. There are days we produce and days that produce in us. We must be wise enough to know which one we need and how to notice the chance for either one.

Of Blue Skies and Moss

You sense the smell of your newborn child as absolute proof of God, and six months later the sleep deprivation is irrefutable evidence of the curse. Life is always and ever both.

This summer I sat on the banks of Shuswap lake. If I could’ve flown like the crow just over that mountain, I would be at the place where I lost my second baby. Just there in that bay. By now her body  has turned into moss, a tree? I was certain that was the end, no babies for me. And then… There I was, watching my children play in the waves…on the moss. It is too much. I cried and I smiled. There is no gratitude like this without a loss like that.

I was sitting in the corner of the dining room on Tuesday, my back against the wall. I am watching my little girl open an art studio. She is painting and selling it. Then suddenly she is gone and is back with a handful of dolls whom she seats, she is trying to teach them the Highland Fling. Meanwhile I am pressed up against the wall, dog in my lap, there are sometimes decisions to make and you know in advance that none of the outcomes are good. But still, you look up as the marvel and heartaches mingle. You look up.

image

image

I was driving this morning, thinking about friends who are sick. I was praying for restoration and healing. My eyes started welling as they do, and then the sun started rising into the crystalline blue, the grass along the roadside bending with the weight of frost diamonds, the children started to sing. Life is always the balance of our open eyes, our clenched and clinging fists.

This afternoon I will walk in the woods, under the blue sky, over the moss. That is the miracle of it. How in our aloneness, we are not. How life, it just goes on.

If the church is a body…

body-of-christ_c+-+Copy

Here we are…Compensating for each other. Pulling to the right or the left when there is a strain, when someone isn’t pulling their weight. The hand must patch up the knee that is bleeding from the stumble over sin. The back that is sagging from the the age, from the burden bearing; the core muscles have to toughen up to bear the sway from being too great. That hand that stopped typing, let those with the the golden tongue encourage. The vocal cords, let them sing, let them praise.

I wish I was a part of the spine. Strong. Holding things together.

Or perhaps an important part of the brain. The medulla. The frontal lobe. Practical. Wise.

I would not mind being a muscle. Those with the strong arms who do the heavy lifting. Those that serve without any fan fair.

Or even the heel. Calloused enough to walk the hard road. Though, lets be honest, perhaps the church has more than it’s fair share of heels. Mostly we need to be softer.

But no. My only hope now, that I am just a tiny bit of the heart. A single cell perhaps? A piece of the valve that blows open when the spirit shocks. The one who hears the sudden whoosh and makes it poetry and art. The one who whispers quiet in the night when things seem dark and all hope it lost. Keeps the rhythm of the maker. I want to be the one stilll finding all the beauty there in the dark. Find me in the blood and the gore, the mire and the muck. Find me in my own brokenness still naming you saint.

Love Is Long (Five Minutes With the Word Prompt LONG)

wpid-wp-1402380720500.jpeg

It was past midnight when he found me, cold and frustrated, by the side of the road. He was from Iran. The minister of health. His wife? A chemical engineer. Both of them tricked. His heart-broken by children who do not love well. His money stolen. After awhile he shut off the meter, would not take my money. When I got out of the car I said,
“I will be praying for you peace”. I have been. I am. There are times when loving well lays itself before you. You know exactly what love is. Sometimes being heard and being loved are so close to the same thing that most of us cannot tell the difference.

-

A man I work with died this fall. I liked him very much. He was one of the sly and quiet empire un-settlers. He planted rogue gardens that went against master plans. He helped me collect cigarette butts to make a display about second-hand smoke because he hated what cigarettes did to people. He had tried to quit for years…cancer took him in the end.

I want to be like him in the ways he steadily and quietly did what was right for people, despite what the bureaucracy would suggest. Despite his own best intentions and worst outcomes. Let it be so in me. Most of the time, loving people means our own weakness is publicized, there is no hiding flaws if we are loving with all of ourselves.

_

It is funny to me, the ease with which we speak about love, describe it like it is a simple thing, like we understand it at all.

What is love? The racing heart? The sweaty palms? The lust and the hunger? The sticky sweet voice? The hugs on your approach?

No. if mothering has taught me anything it is that I love the same with the stern voice as I do with a whispered I love you.

Love is in the patience. Love is not rushing a heart that just needs to catch up. Love is not looking around you, past you, through you. Love is in the waiting for you no matter how long it takes you to approach, how far off the prodigal might be. Love sits at the bedside of the dying, of those who don’t get better- are never healed.

Love is kind. It does not speak in acid tones but in encouragement. Love does not leave the other alone in the pain, love sits in the middle of it, moves in, digs in stiletto heels.

Love is not in the envious, the boasting, the pride. Love does not make you feel “less than” in its presence. It learns the art of confession, of apology. Love is not demonstrated by the insecure, love cannot exist when we are trying to prove ourselves.

Love is not in the push for self, or any agenda. Love flexes and moves,shapes itself around you. Love is in the way it forces itself into the jagged cracks, the broken pieces.

A heart can spin like a bottle but still end up pointing the right way and you prayed for this…but then forgot. Life is tedious in its unfolding and we don’t have the patience for a plan that looks more like eternity then a lifetime. Because Gods heart beats with the rhythm of forever while we force the beat of dying flesh. Because love…sometimes…means we just keep showing up, bringing all of ourselves. Love is long.

OH HI THERE! Joining with the five minute free write community…just to get the words flowing again!

First Days: E in Grade 1

image

 

An interview with Emily on the first day of grade ONE

My favorite food is: “PASTA and CANDY! (and I think you can guess that one)”

My favorite colour: “Blue and pink”

My favorite toy: “I don’t have one”.

My favorite TV Show: “Barbies Dream House and other than that my second favourite is Garfield”.

My favorite movie: “Frozen”

My favorite thing to do outside: “Relax in the hot tub”

My best friend: “I have lots of different ones but not one. Jaida, Zaire, Leah and cousin Meg”

The coolest person in the world is: “Daddy and Mommy and Owen”

My favorite sport is: “Mini golf and soccer”

My favorite animal: “tigers and cats and dogs’

My favorite thing to do with daddy: “Going on daddy daughter dates. And go to Scandia and get slushies”

My favorite thing to do with mommy: “”Girl time”

Favorite place to go: “Energyplex and our house”

When I grow up I want to be: “Dog trainer”

My favorite snack is: “Apple chips and pickles”

I LOVE to…”PLAY”

My favourite thing about me is…”I’m FUNNY”

This year I want to…”I want to learn about Ears”

 

<

image
image

The Least I Can Do

wpid-wp-1407254503272.jpeg

I am certain,

Someday when I rock a chair with my weathered skin, my worn out body,

that I will rock to the rhythm of these days.

That old chair, will click with the memories of bare feet on these plank floors,

the steady and predicted tick of irrigation running,

the anticipated sun on their eyelids as it rises over us,

the ebb and flow of the waves on all the lakes we have sat beside this summer.

All these memories will rock me to sleep, help me keep the peace.

But there is something else in me too;

I am terrified of these luxurious days.

In a world where bombs fall on schools and hemorrhagic fevers rage;

Where planes just fall from the sky and vanish,

is it still okay to spend an entire afternoon searching for the perfect swimming hole?

Am I part robot, all callous, if I can’t read another article about Syria but instead

read a poem by Wendell Berry as the sun rises, Annie Dillard as the sun sets?

I don’t know.

I make an offering of the huckleberries we picked.

A ceremony of the found fruits I hold and wash.

I celebrate the things that seem whole in a world so dreadfully broken.

Each one is a prayer for my friends in the midst of the rage.

To begin, I make all the peace I can.