Tell Me Again (of shadows and faith)

Last night, in a charming bid to avoid bedtime, one of my three-year-olds asked me, "Where does shadows go?"  I stood in the dark doorway explaining about darkness and light until they seemed satisfied.  Then, when the other boy woke at 3 am in a soaked bed, my little imp asked me to tell him again, in a less charming bid to avoid sleep, where the shadows go.  That time I told him to go to sleep, we'd talk about it in the morning.  But when I got back to bed, the question tickled my imagination and in the morning this poem was found in the question's fading shadow.  Enjoy! 

Now faith is . . . the conviction of things not seen. (Hebrews 11:1)

"Tell me again, Mommy, where does the shadows go?"

By morning’s light, my love, as dawn creeps

over the mountain, I roll them up tight, every shape

that echos an object.  Soft like velvet, slipping smoothly

through my hands, I gather the night’s shadows,

tucking them into the far corners of your closet

and behind the attic door.  All day long they wait, 

deepening, exuding the smell of the rich,

dark earth, of damp caves and mushroom spores. 

When evening descends and you’re busy with dessert,

I roam the house, stretching shadows out again,

smoothing them flat across ceiling or floor,

these soft shapes of remembrance, the dark reminders

that what you cannot see does not cease to exist

when the lights go out.  Shadows lengthen, like faith,

as darkness descends, reminders of things unseen,

until morning's light reveals what was always present.   

Linking up with Unforced Rhythms of Grace and Playdates with God.

Morning Devotions

Kneeling on the cold stone

hearth each morning,

facing yesterday’s ashes

cold and gray as death, 

ignites a necessary humility.   

Today’s fire must be made

from what lies at hand -

life and heat coaxed

from pages of an old newspaper, 

kindling and a match

placed just so and the one log

that sits in the wood box, big

enough to snuff it all out. 

Dare to try, for you must

face this possible failure

again and again if you wish

to stave off the chill, to warm

the house before the children wake

in their innocence unaware

of this wrestling with wood

and flame, the effort it takes,

the faith. 

Linking with The High Calling for their community gathering on the topic, Create Good.

Gathering Mystery (a poem)

Eggs arrive 
one-a-day,
like manna.  

We run 
to check
the nest box,

Israelites leaping
at first light,
hands open,

to gather
the mystery
of provision

from 
unlikely

places.  

Photo Credit.

Linking with Playdates with God and the Unforced Rhythms community.

All of the Things of Fall

 

All of the things of fall
are as beautiful in their dying
as they were in their birth,
as if it were a farewell party,
a last hurrah, a riotous wake.

May I also be beautiful
in my surrender, fading
from green to brilliant
orange or red, and may
the moment of my letting go
be as precious as the leaf 
that falls, unnoticed, 
to the ground
that catches it.   

Still, there always remains
those few leaves that cling
and hold on, withered brown
in their stubbornness. Refusing 
to fall, they face the stark white winter 
alone while, below, the others return 
to that from which they came; 
returning, as it were, to home. 

Photo Source.

Come Rest With Me

 The cornfield across the street preparing for its winter nap.

The only way I can get my three year old twins to nap is by joining them.  

It started last week, the day after a horrid night of fevers and chills that kept the littlest one and me up until well past one a.m.  The fever broke by morning, but we were all haggard with a chest cold that refused to let us go.  I don’t remember how we made it through the morning, but by afternoon I had only one priority: sleep.

My boys gave up napping last spring and since then we’ve instilled a daily practice of “quiet time” which is routinely loud and filled with interruptions, arguments, loud crashes and the daily dismantling of their entire room.  The other day I ventured upstairs to investigate an alarming racket and found one boy hammering the pine paneled wall above his bed with a giant metal hammer.  

Most days I flee to the kitchen during the “quiet” hour, the room from which I can hear the least.  One day a few weeks ago I laid down on the kitchen floor and took a nap on a small rug, right there beside the sink and cupboards; I curled up like a cat.

After lunch last Wednesday I announced my plan – we would be napping, together.  The boys were excited, curious.  Where would I sleep?  Would I have a sleeping bag?  Would we really all be in the same room?

I tucked them in with their blankets, curtains closed, lights out.  They watched me stretch out on the thin wool race car rug with my pillow and a fleece blanket. 

“No talking,” I said.

I lay still, sleep settling like a fog and listened as they each sat up to peer at me as if to call my bluff, but I stayed silent and still and one by one they took it as truth – we were going to sleep.

Isaiah was first to give in and I listened as his breathing deepened, his body relaxing into a restful rhythm.  Levi tossed and turned, fidgeting, then he took up his stuffed kitty with the rattle inside and began shaking it rhythmically, forcefully.

“Levi,” I said, “No.  You need to be quiet.  Close your eyes.”

He laid the cat aside and I don’t know which of us fell first, but two hours later I woke to the quiet of two still-sleeping boys.   

They LOVED that we napped together.

Yesterday I pulled the trick again.  Since the change to daylight savings time our rhythms of rest and wakefulness have been oddly skewed by early morning waking and early evening meltdowns.  My boys were tired and needed rest, so I tucked them in again, this time leaving the room to head downstairs for a much-needed break. 

They were quiet, but restless, tossing and turning and I knew with certainty it wouldn’t be long before the whispering, then shouting began.  Sitting at the computer I could feel my own exhaustion weighing me down and eventually I gave in.  Climbing the stairs with a pillow and blanket in hand, I pushed their bedroom door open to find two bright-faced boys sitting up in bed. 

I sent them to the bathroom, then tucked their blankets in again.  I told them we would all be napping and stretched out on the dirty blue rug with my cell phone on vibrate beside me so we wouldn’t over sleep and miss the bus bringing the older kids home. 

Isaiah fell first again and Levi and I had our usual back and forth, then we all sank together in that small dark room.

I’ve been learning lately about the sacredness of rest; how sleep can be prayer and worship rolled into one.  In the silent stillness of my boys’ room, I felt us all enveloped by the holy, as though returned to the womb of life, the place where we’re nurtured in darkness and formed in our inmost beings. 

I’m teaching my boys the art of surrender, of giving in to the body’s need for rest – here, lay your head down like so, cover yourself, be still, be silent – or is it they who, in their evident need, are teaching me? 

This is what I pondered when I woke before them yesterday and slipped downstairs to stare out at the empty cornfield with a sleepy kitten in my lap  – how rest is a learned behavior, something modeled.

Resting with my boys, I am reminded again that God rested, right there in the beginning of the bible, before all of the other good and exciting things, God took a day off.  Almost as if God was sure we would never figure it out on our own. 

I believe God rests still, with us, when we stretch out long on an old wooden floor or snuggle up sweet like the twins in their big boy beds.  God models rest and invites us in whispering as the silent night settles and wraps her wings around us, "Here, lay your head down like so, cover yourself, be still, be silent, rest." 

This post is linked with Playdates with God , Unforced Rhythms, and #TellHisStory.