Monday, July 23, 2012


They are really school buses
brightly colored boxes with wheels
Dodges, Chevrolets, Mercedes transformed
by blocks and swirls of
cool aqua, forest green, deep yellow, fiery orange, faded red.
One is a 40-foot monoxide-wielding dragon;
another is some other fierce creature
flying across asphalt road.
All swerve like the tiny tuk-tuks
despite their bulk.

Inside, their cargo.
Some eyes have fallen shut with fatigue,
others brightly look ahead, towards a not-yet-destination,
many simply stare, speechless.
Behind these few faces
a backdrop of countless profiles.
One could be swathed in vibrant purples,
threads hand-woven by a child who sits on her stool,
half-crouched, half  perched,
facing the loom
weaving still at the market.
Another may wear what used to be white,
a shirt labeled with a name I can neither see nor read
sitting beneath his straw hat.

Packed tight,
bracing against the sudden turns,
holding their wares,
so much more than these mere outlines.

Saturday, July 21, 2012


Enough:  A definition.

It is less than abundant.
Not a flood.
Not a profusion.
Not overwhelming, chill-bump-giving, tear-triggering extravagance.

It’s also more than not enough.
More than insufficient.
More than coming up short.
More than overwhelming, fear-provoking emptiness-before-the-need-is-met.

Enough is sufficient.
Just the right number of bites.
Exactly the correct count of paper bills & jingling coins. 
Finishing right on time.
Nothing left over.

So . . . .
What does enough faith look like? 
What does enough joy look like?
What does enough peace look like?

And . . . .
With my sometimes-paltry supply of these
am I enough?

It may not matter, after all.

For You are Yourself sufficient.

The word enough made flesh.

You are adequate, ample, plenty, sufficient,
so that I, in my cracked-clay vessel,
do not have to be.

You embody enough.

Friday, July 20, 2012

July 20th

 I write July 20th in my journal, and I frown.

Like the second-to-last bite of something delectable, a treat I don’t often order . . . .

like the last chapter of the novel I’d waited for months to begin, until I had the time to really dive in . . . . .

like the second hour of a rare and delicious two-hour conversation with a soul friend. . . .

summer is slipping through my fingers.

I spend 9 months longing for these blessed weeks, full of days when I can

serve a mid-morning breakfast . . . .

say an almost-unhesitating yes to requests for day-long playdates . . . .

linger by the flowers on my patio . . . .

leave the watch on my dresser.

These days of

slower walking,

deeper breathing,

longer pauses . . . .

These days, they taste like

pure joy,

pure peace,

pure hope.

So, as the count of those that remain grows smaller, I feel it:
Sadness seeping into the corners of my mind, my spirit, my heart.

The season is waning.  And, along with it, I the fruit of this rest threatens to wither.

But today, this day, I have a choice. 

And that choice can

anchor my mind,

nourish my spirit,

buoy my heart.

I can, I will

celebrate what has been,

savor what remains,

sing my gratitude to the Giver of this soul-drenching, spirit-filling rest.

And I can, I will

anticipate the faster-paced season to come,

know full well that these days, too, are blessings from the same Giver of goodness.

I will send the sadness away.

I will invite joy to stay awhile longer.

Or, better, to choose a room in my heart’s home.

And stay.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Story Telling Place


Such a room spills over with life-giving sustenance.

Friends smile a greeting that my eyes return.

Time slows.  Hearts open.

Laughter.  Tears.

I see a nod.  I hear a question, a prompt to go on.

With a mixture of surprise and relief, I do just that.

(surprise at being asked,
relief at being heard;

surprise that another wants to know,
relief that I’ve not said too much;

surprise that the strangeness can be unraveled;
relief that comes with saying it out loud)

I re-tell a sliver of my day that, up to this moment, made little sense.
Re-live the confusion.
Re-enact the mistake.
Re-feel the sadness.
Re-enter my own story, my friends’ stories.

And understanding emerges.

Palpable blessing, this story-telling, this story-hearing.

Yet somehow, I’ve wandered away from the road that takes me to that place.
I’ve forgotten the way.
And I can’t hear their voices.
I am missing their stories, and they mine.

But I am hoping to return to the place.  To tell my story.  To hear theirs.