Five Minute Friday: View

Love this community of writers!  Fridays are my favorite...

Joining Lisa-Jo and the Five Minute Friday community today.  When I saw the prompt for today, View, this story from years ago popped into my mind.

Here are my five minutes (OK, it took me a bit longer than five minutes today):

In the Spring, she breezed through our offices, buckets of daffodils in hand, leaving vases crammed full of cheerfulness on our desks.  She was old enough to be my Mom, but had the energy and verve of a woman half her age.  Sitting on her screened in porch and listening to the summer rain, she taught me to knit.  Her dogs were her babies, and in my friendship with her, I glimpsed a life lived to the full.  She was a master gardener, a skilled knitter, with a contagious laugh and a generous spirit.

The daffodils were gathered from the thousands she planted on her property in the outskirts of Madison, WI.  One day we drove out there together so she could give me a tour.  Her gardens were breathtaking, looking both cultivated and perfectly natural alongside the wooded setting of her tri-level home.   At the back of the house, she showed me one of her favorite things: the outdoor shower.  It was a new concept for me.  I stood there on the wooded deck, looking at the shower head coming out of the house wall, the loofah hanging from a hook, the shampoo bottle in the caddy…and I felt a kind of shock and awe, realizing that the woods surrounding the house were the only shower curtains to be had.

I pictured that special, secluded place again months later when my friend told me that her neighbors decided to cut down the stand of trees shielding her yard from theirs.  She joked that she was going to continue her habit of outdoor showering so they would wish they had never cut down those trees.  At least, I think she was joking.

  

Perhaps her neighbors were like me,  desperate for a clearer view. I want to see what is on the other side of the obstacles in my path.  I imagine it will be so lovely, the view beyond what I can see. 

Then in my mind I see one of my friends’ neighbors waking early one morning, opening the curtain to survey his lovely view, and getting more of a view than he bargained for.  I laugh.  And I decide that I am just fine here with my obstructed view, waiting for things to clear up at the right time. 

feeling the pressure

Things aren’t going as planned around here, and it makes me feel a bit tense, makes my jaw ache, makes me feel wound up tight, a string pulled taut and ready to snap.

Details of life collect and push against us, like water behind a dam, and yet we do not hold the lever that will release the pressure and let everything flow.  We need to make preparations for our move, because packing up the lives of five people and carting them, their pets, and their stuff across the country is complicated.  Yet we are still waiting for the “official word” to move the cogs of the Navy wheels that will move the lever, open the dam and whisk us across this land of ours in an efficient and timely manner.

So yesterday we sat, my husband and I, in the middle of the afternoon, trying to work it all out.  We started down the “what if” road: what if this happens?  What about that?  Or that?  Oh no, did you think of that?

And then we remembered.  There is Someone who sees clear down this road, whose vision goes far beyond the twists and turns and ups and downs…because He is the one making them. 

Our conversation began to take a different shape.  Isn’t it true, we said, that the “worst case scenario” is still held in His hands, and should we find ourselves there, won’t that really be the “best case scenario”?  

Right here in the pile of details and the closets to go through and the tears that keep filling my eyes, I am choosing to trust this:

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.  Romans 8:28

The pressure is still heavy against me, but my shoulders are relaxing, my jaw is unclenching, and my heart is feeling lighter.

Now to tackle the hall closet…

on risk and standing in the assembly

“Wait on the Lord.  Be of good courage and He will strengthen your heart.  Wait I say on the Lord.” Psalm 27: 14

I had just taken my seat, my heart still galloping away in my chest when she leaned over to me, slip of paper clenched in her hand.  This is from her, she said, indicating a woman one row back who looked at me with kind, brown eyes.  I took the paper, reading the words from Psalm 27, and found those eyes again with mine.  Thank you, I mouthed, my eyes filling, spilling with gratitude.

This morning I did a risky thing.  I stood in the assembly, giving my testimony, desiring to give praise and honor to God.  

From early September until now, I have met weekly with a group of women to study the book of Genesis with Bible Study Fellowship.  Our last meeting of the year was today.  It is always a time of testimony, an opportunity to stand, take the mic, and talk about what you have learned during the study.  It is by far my favorite meeting of the year.  I am a story person, and I soak up the stories as they pour forth.  I love the tears, the laughter, the heads nodding around the room in understanding and kindness and love.

Before going into the sanctuary this morning, I gave thought to what I would say if I stood.  I reviewed this past year of studying Genesis and the myriad of ways God has met me, taught me, comforted me.  And a vision came, of me walking with a strong, comforting, and guiding arm around my shoulders.  I saw that from Genesis 1 through Genesis 50, from the wide expanse of the starlit heavens to the darkness of the womb of a woman, I have felt the close companionship of Christ this year.

So I stood this morning on shaky legs this morning and spoke about that companionship, and about the way that week after week, from Abraham to Jacob to Joseph, the theme of waiting came through to me clear and strong.

When the study began in September, our family was coming up on a year of waiting for an adoption placement, waiting for the child God has prepared for our family.  A whole academic year later, a whole bible study later, and we are still waiting. 

I shared this with the ladies this morning, told how grateful I was that week after week that God saw fit to encourage my weary waiting heart.  And to remind me, through the stories in Genesis, that trusting in God and in His timing is the way to go.

But the best part came after I sat down.  The sweet woman two rows up shared the verse from Psalm 27 with me, wrote it down in her spidery hand, ripped it from her notebook, passed it back like we were in junior high and had secrets to tell.   And then, as we all stood, hearts full to overflowing from hearing and giving our praise to God, two women found me in the back.  You don’t know us, Amy, they said, but after you told your story, we had to find you, to encourage you.  We’ll be praying for you, Amy.  And one shared, I have my own Isaac I prayed for, for four years I prayed, and he came at the exact right time.  And the other said, Amy, I have 12 children, 9 of whom are adopted.  And I prayed and waited for each one. 

We know your pain.  We know and we will pray for you and hold you up, sister.

Walking to my car with the slow and steady gait of one in awe, I wondered, what if I hadn’t stood up?  I wouldn’t have my note, those words of truth tucked safely into the pocket of my skirt.  And I wouldn’t have the memory of the hugs, the testimonies and prayers and love from those women at the end.

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Where my dream is concerned, the riskiest thing for me is believing I have a story to tell, and then standing to my feet to tell it.

It is my hope and prayer, that my writing be a testimony like the one I gave today, of the companionship of Christ.  Not just in salvation and in fellowship, and in provision and goodness, but in waiting and in trial and in grief and loss and death.

I stood in the assembly this morning, and I gave testimony, and even as I sought to give Him glory, He met me there, and gave me good gifts, and grace.

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What feels risky about the dream God has put in your heart?

Connecting with this community of storytellers here

Linking up with Holley and my God-sized Dream Team sisters!

Five Minute Fridays: Song

My heart is singing this morning!  There was time, and there was quiet, and there was Five Minute Fridays, and I wrote.  Thank you, Lisa-Jo, for the prompt that helped me focus down, for giving my detail-crazy brain this joyous break to write freely.

On Fridays, we write, for five minutes, and we don't worry if it is right or not.  Such fun!  Join us?   

Today's prompt: Song.  Here goes...

I clearly remember standing in front of the table at the end of the hall, barely as tall as the table itself, gripping an 8-track tape of Captain and Tennille in my little hands and shoving it into the player, waiting for the first strains of Muskrat Love to come out of the speakers.

During the years when my stepfather lived with us, in the little house on Oxford St, the soundtrack of life then was country music, not the new pop-Country stuff, the old-fashioned down on your luck, whiskey-drinking, broken-hearted stuff. 

Recently, while my feet pedaled furiously on the spin bike at the gym, an AC/DC song came on.  Instantly I was transported right back to the dark high school gymnasium, the smoke from the fog machine whirling around, the dancing bodies of my classmates around me, the screechy voice of the lead singer ringing in my head.

I hear the song Breath of Heaven by Amy Grant and it always reminds me of the year our church put on the Living Christmas Tree, and I stood in my place as part of the choir high up in the huge tree, hearing the soloist’s pure, breathy voice sing about Mary and her journey to Bethlehem and the birth of Jesus.

I wonder what songs I will hear, years from now, that will bring me back to this time?  Maybe the Elton John songs my son downloaded to iTunes?  The Josh Garrells music we all love so much?  Mumford and Sons?  Will I remember rocking out to You Can Call Me Al by Paul Simon during a wicked game of Sorry with the kids?  Or the first time I played Farther Along for my husband, eyes full of tears at the beautiful truths contained there?

What songs are you listening to today?  What memories do they stir for you? 

Five Minute Friday: Brave

Fridays, I look forward to joining in with the community over at Lisa-Jo's place, where "a brave and beautiful bunch gather every week to find out what comes out when we all spend five minutes writing on the same topic and then sharing 'em over here."

Join us?  You are invited to add your words to the mix!

When I saw the prompt for today my mind went immediately to our camping trip last summer where my children showed me, one day on the river, what brave looks like.

Here goes my five minutes on: Brave.

the beautiful Kern River near our campsite
 

The water froze our ankles as we made our way up the slippery riverbed, toes gripping mossy rocks.  Up ahead, the water widened out, formed a pool ringed round by large boulders.  With the kids trailing, making their own way along the rivers edge, I explored the pool, finding that yes, the kids could safely jump from the biggest boulder into the breath stealing cold of the river.  Should they be so inclined.  So brave.

The oldest clambering up the boulder first and with encouraging shouts from his sisters, launched himself into the pool.  He rose with a shout, victorious, exhilarated, mouth full of encouragement to his sisters, “You have to try it!  Come on, you can do it!”

The youngest made her way up the boulder, brother waiting strong and steady in the water, arms spread wide.  With her jump, she flew as though diving, splashed loud and happy into the water. 

The second born, finding courage from watching siblings’ bravery, made her own way up the boulder.  Hesitating, waiting, she finally left the firm surface of the boulder, flinging herself toward river and brother and sister.

Brave, sure and strong now, having conquered the fear of that first time, they became an assembly line of jumpers, laughing, splashing, winging their way from boulder to cold river again and again.

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These pictures encouraged me this morning.  As our family prepares for this new adventure, I see all of us on the boulder, encouraging one another: we can do this, we are brave, we are together.  Soon, very soon, we will gather our courage like a woman gathering her skirts, and we will jump.  

I know that look

It had been only three months since we purchased our first home when my husband met me in the kitchen with a look in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.  He grabbed my hands, looked into my questioning eyes, and told me about an email he had received.  The Navy was sending him to Afghanistan.  He would leave in a month.

I know my knees buckled and  I clung to my husband, shocked. 

My next clear memory is of us sitting at our kitchen table, sighing big sighs, trying to pry our minds and hearts open wide enough to take in our new, monumental reality.

Two weeks ago, on a Monday morning I barreled into our bedroom where my husband was busy working, asking where I could find our extra checks so I could pay the piano tuner.  I was stopped in my tracks by the slow turning of his head from the computer screen.  On his face I saw an eerily familiar look, tender, shocked, excited, one I remembered from that day in our kitchen years ago.  The Navy was calling once again, asking him this time to teach, sending him this time to a place where we could all go.

Our family will be packing up this summer and moving all the way across this great land of ours, from our home here in Southern California to the state of my birth, Maryland. 

Understandably it has been hard for me to write lately, hard to find a way through the whirl in my head and put words down.  Inside the whirl are military acronyms like PCS and DITY and  I have spent way too much time online trying to understand the layout of the city of Annapolis, which is hard for a girl who doesn’t carry a map in her head.  Remember that quote from Prince Caspian, anyone?

There are so many layers to this, so many things I am pondering, ways that this could go, reasons I think God may be moving us there, moving us now.

I am sure we are not the only couple who stays up late at night talking out our dreams.  Or whose conversations on date nights revolve often around the what-ifs of the future.  I love dreaming with my husband.  The possibility of Annapolis has been a part of those dreamy conversations and I am giddy to know that a door to a dream we have dreamt together is opening.

We have told our kids, our families, and the word is trickling out to our community here.  And you know what?  Maybe I am seeing something that is not really there, but it feels like something has already shifted in our family, like we are turned toward one another in a subtle but powerful and different way.  Perhaps it is because we know that soon it will be just the five of us.  I have noticed more deliberate talking and sharing of feelings and thoughts.  More laughter and inside jokes.  More tears and tender conversations.

My dear husband, professor that he is, asked each of our kids to write down their thoughts about moving.  They willingly complied, and I will close with the conclusion written by my 12-year old:

“In conclusion, moving gives me mixed thoughts.  One side of me is excited for a new experience, while the other mourns its fate.  I can only hope the two will balance out.”

Exactly how I feel, son.

visit Holley's blog to read other posts by my God-sized Dream Team sisters!

for Boston, with gratitude and love

one of my favorite places in the world...

I have been heart-heavy this week, praying and thinking of the people of Boston, the tragedy they have endured.  These words were written months ago after a trip my husband and son and I took to Boston in January.  I share them now with gratitude and love for the experiences I have had in that glorious city.

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He is navigating the subway like a pro, this son of mine, checking the map and making sure we are heading the right direction.  We are riding the “T” through Boston, clanking down the tracks side by side.  The sights and sounds of riding the subway have my southern California suburban boy enraptured.  We emerge onto the cold, bustling sidewalk at the Park Street station, and head through the Boston Commons.  I am guiding us, making a beeline toward the statues of Mr. and Mrs. Mallard who I remember are on one of the Charles St. corners of the Public Garden. 

We find them all dressed up for the holidays, and a kind stranger snaps photos of us together, us with the ducks. 

Stephen and I with the Mallard Family

And my heart fairly bursts with a kind of healing joy.

Oh, Jesus, how do you do it?  How do you line up these moments that go off like a flashbulb in our hearts?  My heart beats out a steady rhythmic thank you, thank you, thank you.  Every step we take through the Public Garden reminds me of the healing journey I have been on for the past six years.

When I look at photos of the first trip my husband and I took to Boston in the Spring of 2007, I am always struck by my eyes.  They look so sad.  And I was.  So very sad.  Five months earlier we had buried our fourth child.  We had planned the trip to Boston when I was pregnant, planned to bring our then unborn son, William, along.  I had imagined pushing a stroller through the garden while my husband attended his academic conference. Instead I sat by myself near the Swan Boat pond, watching families push their own strollers, journaling down my grief.

me and my husband along the Freedom Trail

A lot of life happens in six years.  Sitting on the bench where another stranger kindly offered to take our photo, I watched my son, Stephen, walk out near the Swan Boat pond, now covered in ice, and I felt Spring blooming sure right smack dab in the middle of an icy winter.

in front of the Swan Boat pond

This boy of mine is growing up.  Sharing the time with him in Boston was partly like spending time with a friend and also definitely like spending time with my son, and I loved it.  Stephen is appreciative and observant and funny.  He is smart and inquisitive and willing.  We walked a mile or so through the city in the cold evening air, and he mused about how alike we are.   We laughed and sang and quietly enjoyed one another’s company.

I know as I sat on that bench, six years ago, I didn’t sit there alone.  Jesus walks with us through our valleys of grief.  And I know that way back then, He saw ahead to the winter day when I would walk here with my delightful twelve-year old companion, and that inside my heart I would be holding a dream and hope of a child we would adopt into our family.  And so He sat with me, holding me in His love and grace.  And He walked with Stephen and me down that sidewalk in the wintry Public Garden.  And we rejoiced.