shadowwonder

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, h...

Enough:  A definition. It is less than abundant . Not a flood . Not a profusion . Not overwhelming, chill-bump-giving, tear-triggering extravagance . No. 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 . No. 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 Spirit-fruits, 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 em...

  I write July 20 th 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 ...

Story. It needs a place to be told . 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. Spirit-glimpses. Surprise.   Relief.   Joy. Palpable blessing , this story-telling, this story-hearing. Yet somehow, I’ve wandered away from the road that takes me to that ...