Questions We Carry (#SmallWonder Link-up)

“How will them love me?”

This from my little boy with big brown eyes, like a puppy.  Standing in front of me this morning in his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt, backpack on, he adds, “I have a new shirt.”

//

“I feel . . . what’s the word? Not scared . . .” 

Blond hair, blue-green eyes, he scrunches his face in the morning sunlight.  Gears turn as he searches for the new word he’s learned in the days leading up to the first day at a new preschool.  The new word gives name to something he’s known up until now only by its bodily sensation. 

“Nervous?” I offer.

“Yeah!” he says, “Nervous.”

Naming it eases the tension in his face.  For now, naming it is enough.

//

“I feel scared.  What if I don’t know all the letters?” Isaiah asks.

The older two have boarded buses headed to separate schools and the twins are strapped into the van.  Then we too are off.  Just down the road, we pass the old preschool.

“When will we see our teachers again?” Isaiah asks, in a tone of melancholy.  “Them really loved us.”

//

These little boys of mine will be fine, but oh, their honest, transparent hearts.  Their simple words, their freedom to be utterly vulnerable with me.

In their openness, they open a window to my own heart – to each of our hearts.  For we each carry within us similar questions, similar fears. 

How will they love me?

What if I don’t know enough?

This day, I hope you will take time to tend to the child within you.  The one that asks such simple, clear questions.  I hope you will remember that each person you meet also carries similar questions.  That within the eyes of a stranger you will see the eyes of a little boy, a little girl, who simply wants to know they are loved. 

And you?  Yes, you?

Oh, friend, you are loved.  You are enough.

May you hear the voice of the One who calls you Beloved.   

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  

    

The Last Day of Summer

At the end of the day two cats sit in the window, sunset facing, while my husband walks the trash to the curb.  Two fresh bodies are tucked into bed.  Two still-dirty ones stretch the last minutes of daylight in the yard. 

There was some discussion this morning of knocking out a wall in the upstairs of our house.  Common sense prevailed though (No new projects right now, thank you very much!) and the cool blue sky drew us outside. 

We moved a pile of wood, cleared up a patch of land under the big pine tree.  The kids built a fort, tag-teaming lumber from the garage to the very space we were clearing, under the big pine tree. 

The dog found a toad, who became a pet. 

Lucky, he was rescued from the dog. 

Unlucky, he will spend the night in an old fish tank. 

Dead flies, worms, pieces of fruit, the lid of a peanut butter jar filled with water, all of these served as offerings for the toad.  Still, he seemed to be without appetite.

I chopped some wood, throwing the axe out over my shoulder, missing half the time, aware of the vulnerability of my toes exposed in sandals.  Every once in a while I hit home and the wood snapped with a satisfying crack – worth the effort it took.

The wood pile behind the garage grew slowly, a long stretch of Lincoln Logs strung together, wobbly.  I hammered nails in the kids’ fort.  Hooks for the hatch-door.  My daughter knelt on the ground with wire cutters snipping chicken wire which became a window. 

By the end of the day, the oldest boy built a zip-line which, failing to zip, turned into a log-launcher.  And we all left the dinner table, measuring tape in hand, and stood staring at the old wooden stairway that runs through the heart of our house.

“Could we turn it into a slide?” someone asked.

My husband turned to me, a light shining in his eyes. 

"It’s 14 feet," he said.  "You can buy a 2x12x16 ft. board for about $30."

“Will we? Will we?” the kids clamored. 

"Maybe," we said, "it'll be a winter project."

Happy Labor Day!

How did you celebrate?

A Stone Well-Placed (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Wherever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God’s speaking from the whirlwind, nature’s old song and dance . . . - Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Speak

Five months pregnant with twins, I waddled up a narrow, rocky path.  I was looking – listening – for something in nature that might speak to me. 

This was the culmination of a retreat day oriented around nature as a source of revelation.  Having read an excerpt from Annie Dillard’s Teaching a Stone to Speak, we went outside, tasked with the mission of listening for the voice of God in the midst of the natural world.  Our assignment was to bring back the object that spoke to us for sharing within the larger group.

 

Twenty of us wandered through the gravel parking lot, then split off in different directions, uphill and down, into meadows and woods.  I didn’t stray far, my body shouting clearly that heavily pregnant women ought not go wandering the woods alone. 

I surveyed the grassy edges of the parking area. 

In the sea of green, a dark stone stood out.  I leaned awkwardly with my arm outstretched and plucked it from the grass where it nestled.

In my hand, though, it was just a stone.  Bending again, I put it back.  

Further up the hill, near the edge of the leafy woods I saw another stone.  This one was white, surrounded by smaller, darker stones.  It stood out bright in contrast. 

Bending to pick it up I realized it also stood out because of its surroundings.  I hesitated and left it unmoved.

 

Every rock, leaf, branch that caught my eye was the same.  In its place, it spoke, but in my hand, it was reduced.  It was probably the third of fourth sighting before I heard what the stones were saying, “I’m happy where I am.” 

They whispered contentment, half-buried on the rocky trail or sleeping in the bright green grass.  Not only were they happy where they were, but their placement was what made them special. 

Tears sprang to my eyes. 

I was not content with where I was or where I was going.  I didn’t want to be pregnant with twins, dreaded leaving my job in a few months’ time, and couldn’t imaging, much less accept, being a mother of four.

 

I left all of the stones in the woods that day and returned to the meeting room with their words in my heart.  The rocks had no say in their placement and yet, they thrived.  They were well placed right where they were.

Fast forward four years and a few months, through seasons of grief and fear, longing and hope, and I now find myself like those stones, happy in the place where I am. 

In Psalm 16, the author puts it this way:

Lord, you alone are my portion and my cup; you make my lot secure.  The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance (v.5-6).  

The psalmist here is a stone well placed and I think of his words often when I glimpse the gift of this place we've been given; when I think about the paths I would have taken had I made my own way. 

When have you found yourself unexpectedly well-placed?  When has nature spoken to you?

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  

Books, Like Tissues

At our house we 

use tissues 

as bookmarks.  

Allergy-prone,

boxes sit  

in every room, 

which is where, 

also, we read –

every room.  

“We have too many 

books,” my daughter 

once commented.

This, I believe, 

is how it should be, 

just like the tissues.  

You never want to run out.  

As A Child (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

In the early morning darkness, I lay my head back on the couch, face lifted, chest wide, shoulders back.  Open.  Prayers rise, unbidden, as coffee cools in my cup. 

Decisions, relationships, lift like smoke, ascending from that tense place in my chest where I hold things too tightly.  For the hardest things, my words are lacking, stumbling stutters. 

“Please.  Help.”

I feel inarticulate, frustration rises.

//

When my four-year-old gets in a tight place in the yard – stuck upside-down in the hammock, balanced precariously on the edge of a fall – he cries out.

“Somebody help I!  Somebody help I!”

Yesterday, having nicked his heal, he ran into the house at full speed, full volume, calling, “Guys, I bleeding! Guys, I bleeding!”

I love the unspecificity of his cries, the simplicity. 

He is a boy raised in a loving crowd – someone will answer. 

He doesn’t need to find the right words to wrap around the problem in the midst of his panic and fear – help will come, regardless.

//

This is what comes to me in the midst of the frustration and inadequacy.

Ah, I think, I am praying like a child. 

I live in the midst of a great sea of Love – Someone will answer.

I don’t need to find the right words – Help will come, regardless.

My cries are precious to the ear that hears them. 

Friends, the lovely Laura Boggess and I are leading a retreat day on September 26 based on Jesus' invitation to become "as a little child."  You can find out more about this event here.

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  

Manna, Flying Ovens and Grace

Our stove was broken.  The oven burned everything and the biggest burner, the one I used every meal, either ran on high or not at all.  It was one more thing we didn’t have time for, didn’t have money. 

Not long ago, when our finances led me to consider applying for a full time job, God told me clearly, “Just wait.”  I was relieved to hear from God with such clarity.  But after a pause, I reminded God that this meant “he” would be “supplying all our needs.” 

After burning yet another meal in the broken oven this week, I scrolled Craig’s List obsessively searching for a replacement.  Then I remembered that conversation with God.  

Maybe God has a whole warehouse of stoves somewhere and all I need to do is ask, I thought. 

I don’t claim to know how these things work, but I stood on the porch and pictured a white stove floating down out of the bright autumn sky.  (Ought I mention that the stove had big black wings?  It was really quite a delightful image.)

That afternoon I found a decent stove on Craig’s list, but it was still $100 that we didn’t have.  My husband suggested we just fix the burner on the old stove and continue using the broken oven.  But I didn't have the heart to burn one more loaf of bread.

Later that night a friend stopped by and standing in the darkening driveway, my husband mentioned that he was stressed about money.  

“Really?” the friend replied, “We've got an extra $100 dollars floating around this week.  I want to give it to you guys.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out cash.

My husband said no three times before giving in.  We're so tired of needing help.  But when he came upstairs to tell me, as I was putting the twins to bed, my eyes lit up.  

“That’s our stove!” I said, telling him about my prayer.  

I wish the story ended there.  It would be a good one, wouldn't it?

The truth is the guy with the $100 stove didn't get back to me and we ended up buying one for $125.  Then the cord on the new stove wouldn't work with our outlet, so my husband pulled the cord off of the old stove to attach to the new one.

But that old cord?  It was broken.  So we ended up spending another $25 for a new cord.  That brings the new stove tally to $150.  

(Maybe God isn't the best at math?)

We'll fix the old stove and sell it, it's got to be worth something to someone.  And maybe then the math will work out.  

All of this has got me thinking about faith and trust and how the way things appear on the surface can often be deceiving.  I'm thankful for all of the graces, big and little that come our way.  But I want to remember also that each and every grace is only a fragment of a greater truth - the Love and Grace that dwells in and around our lives.  

Sometimes the little graces add up and sometimes they don't.  Sometimes that which is manna one day has soured by the next. 

I keep reminding myself of all the things we have, the things we take for granted that come floating down out of the clouds for free.  Things like the field of soy beans across the street that turns a brighter shade of gold with each passing day.  Or the view of the mountains along with the blue sky and sun.  Who am I in the midst of all of this abundance to say what is and is not enough? 

Last night I made pizza from scratch in the "new" oven.  It had a perfectly browned crust.  Examining her slice, my daughter exclaimed, "It's not burnt!" and the look on her face was priceless. 

Waking With the Chickens (#SmallWonder Link-up)

  (The morning view from the porch at God's Whisper Farm)

Remember a few weeks back when I wrote about Cutting Loose at a friend's farm while enjoying a weekend long writing retreat?  This week I'm honored to host the farm's owner, author and editor, Andi Cumbo-Floyd.  Andi writes and lives from her heart and I hope you'll listen close to her words to get a sense of the love and presence they emanate.  Then, scroll down and visit the link to check out her new e-book, Writing Day-In and Day-Out: Living a Practice of Words.   

*   *   *

It’s not light. But it is lighter than it was a few minutes ago when it was actually dark. Now, the sky is indigo and graying at the edges, waking into aging, perhaps.

I am still in my pajamas, the interior seams almost gone but still adequate enough to cover me for my walk to the chicken coop. The road is an 1/8 of a mile away, and the glimpse of the farmstead is slim, even if an early-rolling trucker comes by. My feet slide easily into my morning-cooled rubber shoes, and I walk the trail across the grass, knowing that when I return it will look like two wheels rolled the path.

I begin at the front of the wagon shed and slide back the bolt that does nothing but hold the door shut. Inside, I can just make out Lemon’s fluff beside the window screen. I stretch my arm long and slip the hook out of her eye. “Good morning, babies.”  I pour feed into the lime-green trench of holes and step out.

Behind the babies, I can hear him. He’s already crowed once in that sound that used to startle and delight me. The true cock-a-doodle-do of children’s books.  Now, I hear him rustling, his horny feet grasping the post on which he sleeps, sort of, still.

With him, his girls are sleeping, too, and I can hear the quite cuckle of their dreams. A coo. A tiny cluck. A mewl even.  I’m fairly certain I have never heard a sound so peaceful.

Then Xander lets fly his crow again, and I move a bit more quickly, eager to get the big birds food out before he wakes fully.  I toss Oyster shell into the scoop and then layer feed. I slide open another bolt, this one to the run and step in, swing the feed into the red trays below. 

Gently, I slide open the third bolt of my morning and swing the door to the back coop open before moving backwards as fast as I can, the feed scoop arcing in front of me as a ward against flying rooster spurs.

But then, I hear him crow again, from far back in the coop. He sings, and then, soft as a whisper, I hear the rasp of a sigh come from him. “Sleepy rooster,” I say. 

I slide that one bolt back into place on the run and stand outside, waiting. First, comes Fern, her head full of feathers like an awkward crown. Then, Xander steps forth, breast high, shoulders back. He fluffs up and struts, and he lets loose. Bold, brazen, moving toward me without fear.

Then, I hear that sigh of sleepiness ease from his mouth. “Good boy, Xander. Good boy.”

Maybe we are all at our best when we step into the day new, a little sleepy in the graying dawn.

Andi Cumbo-Floyd is a writer, editor, and writing coach who farms at the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains with her husband, 4 dogs, 4 cats, 6 goats, and 26 chickens. Her latest book is Writing Day In and Day Out: Living a Practice of Words and is available on Kobo and Amazon.  You can find out more about her work at her website, andilit.com

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.