We are four, two boys, two girls. We sit at a round table, peek around the umbrella in the middle to see full instead of fragmented faces. We grip tea mugs and fiddle with straws and balance tableknives on their edges. And we talk—oh, how we talk.
We are four, an already-published author, two enthusiastic book-writers, and a haphazard short-story scrawler. We write lovely-woven fantasy, and intensely-descriptive historical fiction, and mythology, and balderdash. And we bleed words—oh, how we bleed.
We are four, sarcastic and intense and hilarious and deep. We breathe deeply in the evening air, contemplate the slow way the city lights up, shamelessly eavesdrop. We love God, and quality literature, and good movies, and family. And we live—oh, how we live.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
nobody, not even the rain
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that are made calloused from working on used cars, old houses, cedar canoes; hands that pound in tent pegs and light gas grills and coax boat motors to life; hands that spend most of their time scratching at paperwork, even though that isn't the first love; hands that are ever ready to help someone in need, that help strangers broken-down on the side of the highway, that pass out Communion bread and cups; hands that hunt-and-peck in sweet stilted rhythm for important e-mails or messages of encouragement; hands that tremble with joy when they cradle newborns' heads, that stroke hair and pat shoulders.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that smooth little girls' hair and fears when Mama and Daddy are gone; hands that are quick and sure when playing dominoes with lonely teenagers; hands that stroke cats' backs and ruffle dogs' ears; hands that turn and knead bread dough in memorized rhythm; hands that can and jam and preserve for the winter; hands that plant gardens and pull weeds; hands that pick apples and blueberries and strawberries and raspberries at frightening speeds; hands that distribute tissues; hands that pat shoulders and are firm in the middle of the back whilst hugging; hands that hold frightened old ladies' hands with patience.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that balance checkbooks; hands that pick up sticks and dead limbs and drag them to the compost pile; hands that fly through e-mails and letters and bills; hands that prep and paint greasy kitchen cupboards; hands that compile and edit recipes with dizzying deftness; hands that clean up after ill pets and children without complaint, that stroke feverish foreheads without fear; hands that rub backs and pat hands; hands that set tables and clean kitchen floors and dust the house over and over and over; hands that split under the nails from winter-dryness and over-much dishwashing; hands that tease and tickle, but always in affection; hands that are worn soft by work and age; hands that scratch out math equations and point out steps; hands that change sheets and clean bathrooms and never complain.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that are as quick on a keyboard as they are with houseframes; hands that love book pages, and grip pens with joy; hands that wrap around tea, and coffee, and hard concepts; hands with dirt under the nails, that don't shrink from labor and struggle; hands that tap on the tabletop with unplanned excitement; hands that pet puppies, and tease little sisters; hands that are steady, and bracing, and safe; hands that do whatever task is set to them; hands that fairly quiver with energy and vitality and life.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that stroke orphans' faces, and support widows; hands that stab accusation at the smug and self-righteous; hands that gesture to the world to make word pictures, to get the point across; hands that reach down to curl into the earth, to haul fishnets, to work in wood; hands that smooth away fevers, and frightful contagious diseases, and paralysis, and demons; hands that wield whips and crash tables to the floor while purifying the house of God; hands that plead with the beloved City to repent, to turn, to be healed; hands that don't rise in their own defense against false allegations; hands that stretch out in agony and allow themselves to be pierced; hands that are strong enough to die.
Hands that are made calloused from working on used cars, old houses, cedar canoes; hands that pound in tent pegs and light gas grills and coax boat motors to life; hands that spend most of their time scratching at paperwork, even though that isn't the first love; hands that are ever ready to help someone in need, that help strangers broken-down on the side of the highway, that pass out Communion bread and cups; hands that hunt-and-peck in sweet stilted rhythm for important e-mails or messages of encouragement; hands that tremble with joy when they cradle newborns' heads, that stroke hair and pat shoulders.
They are hands of love.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that smooth little girls' hair and fears when Mama and Daddy are gone; hands that are quick and sure when playing dominoes with lonely teenagers; hands that stroke cats' backs and ruffle dogs' ears; hands that turn and knead bread dough in memorized rhythm; hands that can and jam and preserve for the winter; hands that plant gardens and pull weeds; hands that pick apples and blueberries and strawberries and raspberries at frightening speeds; hands that distribute tissues; hands that pat shoulders and are firm in the middle of the back whilst hugging; hands that hold frightened old ladies' hands with patience.
They are hands of mercy.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that balance checkbooks; hands that pick up sticks and dead limbs and drag them to the compost pile; hands that fly through e-mails and letters and bills; hands that prep and paint greasy kitchen cupboards; hands that compile and edit recipes with dizzying deftness; hands that clean up after ill pets and children without complaint, that stroke feverish foreheads without fear; hands that rub backs and pat hands; hands that set tables and clean kitchen floors and dust the house over and over and over; hands that split under the nails from winter-dryness and over-much dishwashing; hands that tease and tickle, but always in affection; hands that are worn soft by work and age; hands that scratch out math equations and point out steps; hands that change sheets and clean bathrooms and never complain.
They are hands of faith.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that are as quick on a keyboard as they are with houseframes; hands that love book pages, and grip pens with joy; hands that wrap around tea, and coffee, and hard concepts; hands with dirt under the nails, that don't shrink from labor and struggle; hands that tap on the tabletop with unplanned excitement; hands that pet puppies, and tease little sisters; hands that are steady, and bracing, and safe; hands that do whatever task is set to them; hands that fairly quiver with energy and vitality and life.
They are hands of hope.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that stroke orphans' faces, and support widows; hands that stab accusation at the smug and self-righteous; hands that gesture to the world to make word pictures, to get the point across; hands that reach down to curl into the earth, to haul fishnets, to work in wood; hands that smooth away fevers, and frightful contagious diseases, and paralysis, and demons; hands that wield whips and crash tables to the floor while purifying the house of God; hands that plead with the beloved City to repent, to turn, to be healed; hands that don't rise in their own defense against false allegations; hands that stretch out in agony and allow themselves to be pierced; hands that are strong enough to die.
They are the hands of God.
And somehow, they are reflected in all the others . . .
garments of skin
They give us excuse not to speak, not to interact, not to look each other in the eyes. We stare at the chest of the t-shirt, read the text, silently agree or disagree, pass without a true connection. Instead of speaking, saying what we're feeling, pleading for what we need, we express our thoughts, feelings, very souls through them. And if no one sees? We weep and shrivel within ourselves, devastated that no one picked up on our code.
They give us an acceptable way to hide. We don't want to be seen, and we can manipulate them toward that end. They provide a safe way to attain comfort, build confidence, present only our best attributes. Instead of connecting, looking past the fabrics, we compliment the shirt, the skirt, the shoes—like that's what matters. And if for a moment someone is exposed, even accidentally, we avert our eyes, clear our throats, pretend it didn't happen.
It does happen. We are flesh and blood; we do have bulges where we aren't supposed to, blemishes we want to conceal, embarrassments about our bodies, and shame.
Clothes, at their very essence, are a means of distinction, separation. They keep me from you, and you from me. They allow snap judgments, first-sight definitions, quick identification. Instead of giving us space to seek and find another's thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, faith, they give us the one-minute version of the soul cloaked beneath. The evening gown, the tichel, the screen tee, the keffiyeh, the drain-pipe jeans, the burqa, the letter jackets, the plain cape dress, the kanga, the baggy sweatshirt, the sari, the power suit, the kimono, the flannel shirt—they're all simply excuses to look once and know what the other is.
I wonder if the first man and woman realized the utter tragedy that had befallen them when they were first sheathed in clothes—not their own slipshod attempts, but the skins God gave them. I wonder if that was when they realized that their sin really meant separation—not only from God Himself, but from each other.
Ever since, we've been feeling it, haven't we? In our school-uniform requirements, in our business-dress expectations, in our embarrassment and shame when we miss a dress-code memo.
We're not just talking about clothes with those things, are we? We're talking about our insecurities, our fears of being inadequate, our terror of failure. We're talking about our uncomfortable feelings of some type of dysfunction and wrong-ness, our shadowy knowledge that something is just not quite right about us. We can never quite put our finger on it, maybe, but what we're really talking about is the deepest shame of being naked. Not just unclothed, but naked—truly and fully uncovered, vulnerable to humiliation and pain and terror. But it is only when we admit the truth about ourselves—the bulges and blemishes and embarrassments and insecurities and inadequacies and failures and dysfunction and wrong-ness— that we can experience the truest and deepest healing possible. And it's only in those moments of nakedness and honesty that we experience our clearest glimpses into a pre-Fall world—a world where there is no separation.
Being exposed is the last thing we want . . . but is the only thing we really need.
So here's to being naked.
They give us an acceptable way to hide. We don't want to be seen, and we can manipulate them toward that end. They provide a safe way to attain comfort, build confidence, present only our best attributes. Instead of connecting, looking past the fabrics, we compliment the shirt, the skirt, the shoes—like that's what matters. And if for a moment someone is exposed, even accidentally, we avert our eyes, clear our throats, pretend it didn't happen.
It does happen. We are flesh and blood; we do have bulges where we aren't supposed to, blemishes we want to conceal, embarrassments about our bodies, and shame.
Clothes, at their very essence, are a means of distinction, separation. They keep me from you, and you from me. They allow snap judgments, first-sight definitions, quick identification. Instead of giving us space to seek and find another's thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, faith, they give us the one-minute version of the soul cloaked beneath. The evening gown, the tichel, the screen tee, the keffiyeh, the drain-pipe jeans, the burqa, the letter jackets, the plain cape dress, the kanga, the baggy sweatshirt, the sari, the power suit, the kimono, the flannel shirt—they're all simply excuses to look once and know what the other is.
I wonder if the first man and woman realized the utter tragedy that had befallen them when they were first sheathed in clothes—not their own slipshod attempts, but the skins God gave them. I wonder if that was when they realized that their sin really meant separation—not only from God Himself, but from each other.
Ever since, we've been feeling it, haven't we? In our school-uniform requirements, in our business-dress expectations, in our embarrassment and shame when we miss a dress-code memo.
We're not just talking about clothes with those things, are we? We're talking about our insecurities, our fears of being inadequate, our terror of failure. We're talking about our uncomfortable feelings of some type of dysfunction and wrong-ness, our shadowy knowledge that something is just not quite right about us. We can never quite put our finger on it, maybe, but what we're really talking about is the deepest shame of being naked. Not just unclothed, but naked—truly and fully uncovered, vulnerable to humiliation and pain and terror. But it is only when we admit the truth about ourselves—the bulges and blemishes and embarrassments and insecurities and inadequacies and failures and dysfunction and wrong-ness— that we can experience the truest and deepest healing possible. And it's only in those moments of nakedness and honesty that we experience our clearest glimpses into a pre-Fall world—a world where there is no separation.
Being exposed is the last thing we want . . . but is the only thing we really need.
So here's to being naked.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
and now's our moment
I never danced at weddings. I always sat at my table, wept over the sweet slow dances, laughed at the babies dancing like drunks, and smiled to myself. I always pretended that I would much rather take the time to visit with my tablemates, rather than make a fool of myself in the middle of the floor. I always drank tea, and studied the bride and groom, and kept my back straight and proud. I never told anyone what my wistful smile really meant, how very much I wished I had the courage to step out onto the floor and spin and laugh and not care what anyone else thought.
But at that wedding, completely unexpected, a random stranger, one who I knew vaguely as a friend from the groom's church, came up and asked, "Do you want to dance?" It was a slightly horrific moment. The music, and the lights, and his eyes, and his extended hand—that unsettling and insistent invitation—burned into my memory as I stood there, mouth slightly agape and eyes frozen wide. A million excuses flitted through my mind, and finally, desperately, I threw out the best defense I had. "Yes, but I don't know how to," I confessed, expecting him to roll his eyes and move on. Instead, he shocked me by laughing and shrugging. "It's okay; I'll show you." With all my excuses exhausted and rebutted, I was forced to put my hand in his and step out onto the floor.
Predictably, it was absolutely terrifying. I twisted up my feet and nearly caused multiple collisions. My shoes were all wrong, as were my elbows and knees and, well, everything else about me. I made stupid conversation and sporadic eye contact. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, and everything in me screamed for me to escape. I flushed with exertion and embarrassment.
But as the song progressed, as his hand on my back didn't waver, his fingers didn't twitch away from my shaking hand, he persistently showed me how to move my feet, I found it easier and easier to let the music trickle into my bloodstream, down my spine, into my limbs. By the end of the song I was still flushed, not with shame, but with triumph.
It wasn't that I magically became a good dancer; no, I was still very very bad.
The value of dancing suddenly wasn't that it was a chance to flirt, or show off, or even just have fun. Its value was that fear, the paralyzing terror that had for so very long kept me safely at my table, away from the music and movement and possible embarrassment, was dissolved—banished, and proven powerless.
And that was a very, very precious gift.
But at that wedding, completely unexpected, a random stranger, one who I knew vaguely as a friend from the groom's church, came up and asked, "Do you want to dance?" It was a slightly horrific moment. The music, and the lights, and his eyes, and his extended hand—that unsettling and insistent invitation—burned into my memory as I stood there, mouth slightly agape and eyes frozen wide. A million excuses flitted through my mind, and finally, desperately, I threw out the best defense I had. "Yes, but I don't know how to," I confessed, expecting him to roll his eyes and move on. Instead, he shocked me by laughing and shrugging. "It's okay; I'll show you." With all my excuses exhausted and rebutted, I was forced to put my hand in his and step out onto the floor.
Predictably, it was absolutely terrifying. I twisted up my feet and nearly caused multiple collisions. My shoes were all wrong, as were my elbows and knees and, well, everything else about me. I made stupid conversation and sporadic eye contact. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, and everything in me screamed for me to escape. I flushed with exertion and embarrassment.
But as the song progressed, as his hand on my back didn't waver, his fingers didn't twitch away from my shaking hand, he persistently showed me how to move my feet, I found it easier and easier to let the music trickle into my bloodstream, down my spine, into my limbs. By the end of the song I was still flushed, not with shame, but with triumph.
It wasn't that I magically became a good dancer; no, I was still very very bad.
The value of dancing suddenly wasn't that it was a chance to flirt, or show off, or even just have fun. Its value was that fear, the paralyzing terror that had for so very long kept me safely at my table, away from the music and movement and possible embarrassment, was dissolved—banished, and proven powerless.
And that was a very, very precious gift.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
And yet I'm torn apart
It would be easier, I decide, to live without this confounded nuisance in my chest—to be free of the aches, the twinges; to mold my life based on will and logic, not capability.
It would be easier, I know, to live without this weighty burden behind my ribs—to breathe without pinching; to move easily, gracefully; to have nothing to lug inside myself like a ball and chain.
It would be easier, I cry, to live without this terrifying vulnerability just below my collarbone, where heart meets lungs meets soul—to know what to expect before the moment comes, to deal skillfully and smoothly with the curveballs and the roadblocks.
It would be easier—much easier—to sing without knowledge of the hanging shadows, to dance without fear of the crowd, to love without foreboding of the agony.
It would be easier, I decide, to live without feeling or fearing the metal-hard ache of my heart, pressing against my ribcage with agonizing insistence. It would be easier to live without the leaps of hope, the breath-catching flights of wonder, the feather-fluttering empty sky after hope has been shot to earth once more.
It would be easier, I know, to live without loving, hoping, feeling. It would be easier to live without a heart.
But, I wonder, in the end, would it be right? And would it after all be bearable?
It would be easier, I know, to live without this weighty burden behind my ribs—to breathe without pinching; to move easily, gracefully; to have nothing to lug inside myself like a ball and chain.
It would be easier, I cry, to live without this terrifying vulnerability just below my collarbone, where heart meets lungs meets soul—to know what to expect before the moment comes, to deal skillfully and smoothly with the curveballs and the roadblocks.
It would be easier—much easier—to sing without knowledge of the hanging shadows, to dance without fear of the crowd, to love without foreboding of the agony.
It would be easier, I decide, to live without feeling or fearing the metal-hard ache of my heart, pressing against my ribcage with agonizing insistence. It would be easier to live without the leaps of hope, the breath-catching flights of wonder, the feather-fluttering empty sky after hope has been shot to earth once more.
It would be easier, I know, to live without loving, hoping, feeling. It would be easier to live without a heart.
But, I wonder, in the end, would it be right? And would it after all be bearable?
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
sharks and missing letters
Running all morning, back and forth to the desk. Pick up the pile of books, quick slide them onto shelves, back for more. Repeat, repeat, repeat. To the desk--swing open the cupboard door (try not to bang it closed) and snatch the books from the return. Flash a smile at the patrons, apologize for the wait, chat and grin while checking out their books. Back to the stacks--push books onto the shelves, even out the rows, clamp them between knees while stretching for that topmost row. Door opens--run back to the desk; can't leave the circulation librarian without backup! Write down the name, lead to the computer, type in the password (brief power trip is dizzying). Now out to the stacks, books in the crook of the arm, filling up chest and shoulders and everything possible.
Mid-shift, things are slowing down. Point out the public printer, wait for her to come back with the page and the coins. Cash register, fiasco as usual (some things will not change). Discover former classmate, speak about literature and editing and writing. Sit down with co-worker, learn the new system, and somehow remember it from similar memories. "I'm being replaced?" she asks, plaintive. No, the resounding answer comes, and gladness for all.
Patron at the desk, the innocuous one who seems middle of everything. Medium height, average eyes, face that could be easily made attractive with a smile but is resoundingly serious, mild fines, unremarkable choice of DVDs. Two things are standouts--the hair, almost Travoltan; and the tats, spiraling down from bared shoulders to wristbones. Take his items, note the dark wristband with white lettering. Matthew 25:40. (what else does it even say?) He counts money onto the counter--only half the fine, but all right for now. "I'm all set?" he asks. Nod, smile, thank. He looks up, face pointed straight forward, eyes still serious. Then back down, pushing the library card back into his wallet.
"Thank you, darlin’," he says, gathers up his DVDs, and exits.
Darlin’?
"Darling" would have been all wrong; "darling" would have sounded stuffy and pretentious and false. "Darling" in that mouth would have prompted doubling-over laughter, once he'd left.
But "darlin’"? Different, and somehow perfect. Not shockingly forward, but not shy either. Not an eye-winking, lip-biting, heart-fluttering flirtation . . . but bold and definite just the same. Not an old-man indiscretion, nor a young-man contrivance.
Dropped g changes it altogether. Dropped g forces the pause, rushes warm blood to the cheekbones. Dropped g elicits the shy smile, the private bubbling giggle. Dropped g makes all things rustic, familiar, safe, warm, inviting.
Just one little baby letter. And it makes all the difference.
Darlin’.
Mid-shift, things are slowing down. Point out the public printer, wait for her to come back with the page and the coins. Cash register, fiasco as usual (some things will not change). Discover former classmate, speak about literature and editing and writing. Sit down with co-worker, learn the new system, and somehow remember it from similar memories. "I'm being replaced?" she asks, plaintive. No, the resounding answer comes, and gladness for all.
Patron at the desk, the innocuous one who seems middle of everything. Medium height, average eyes, face that could be easily made attractive with a smile but is resoundingly serious, mild fines, unremarkable choice of DVDs. Two things are standouts--the hair, almost Travoltan; and the tats, spiraling down from bared shoulders to wristbones. Take his items, note the dark wristband with white lettering. Matthew 25:40. (what else does it even say?) He counts money onto the counter--only half the fine, but all right for now. "I'm all set?" he asks. Nod, smile, thank. He looks up, face pointed straight forward, eyes still serious. Then back down, pushing the library card back into his wallet.
"Thank you, darlin’," he says, gathers up his DVDs, and exits.
Darlin’?
"Darling" would have been all wrong; "darling" would have sounded stuffy and pretentious and false. "Darling" in that mouth would have prompted doubling-over laughter, once he'd left.
But "darlin’"? Different, and somehow perfect. Not shockingly forward, but not shy either. Not an eye-winking, lip-biting, heart-fluttering flirtation . . . but bold and definite just the same. Not an old-man indiscretion, nor a young-man contrivance.
Dropped g changes it altogether. Dropped g forces the pause, rushes warm blood to the cheekbones. Dropped g elicits the shy smile, the private bubbling giggle. Dropped g makes all things rustic, familiar, safe, warm, inviting.
Just one little baby letter. And it makes all the difference.
Darlin’.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
one of these little ones
I know this set of the lips, this almost-invisible planting of the feet. To any bystander, it seems like a fairly normal conversation. But I can see the danger in her expression, glimpse the defiant flames in her downcast eyes. In a moment, if I push the wrong button, say the wrong words, ask the wrong thing, she'll flare, dig in her heels, raise those eyes and screw them into my soul.
It bewilders me, drives me to an insane fury that overwhelms me. Challenging my authority, pushing my limits, defying my power? How dare she.
I know these tremulous eyelids, this near-imperceptible wobbling of the lips. To any bystander, it seems like a fairly run-of-the-mill routine. But I can see the unfathomable grief and confusion beneath his surface calm, hear the low tiny whimpers bubbling in his chest. In a moment, if I push the wrong button, say the wrong words, ask the wrong thing, he'll crumble, pour down in a waterfall of tears, wail out his pain and sorrow to the very skies.
It bewilders me, pushes me to an angry hurt that overwhelms me. Rejecting my gentleness, slapping away my service, scorning my careful probing? How dare he.
It's only later, much later, when they're tucked safe away in bed, that it hits me in the face.
I know these expressions, recognize these traits, because they are me. To any bystander, I might seem a fairly placid believer who's "keeping the faith" decently well. But in my heart, I know. I know that when my God pushes the "wrong" button, says the "wrong" words, asks the "wrong" thing, I'll flout His rightful authority, I'll rail against His never-ending mercy, I'll shout and scream and stamp my feet at Him.
Yet He is never bewildered, never pushed into surprised hurt or rage. He knows me--knows my purposeful defiance, my irrational emotion, and still, still, He holds out His hands to me . . .
Yet I, when confronted with my very own failings (in child form), fail to show mercy and neglect to have grace and forget to utilize patience.
It bewilders me, drives me to an insane fury that overwhelms me. Challenging my authority, pushing my limits, defying my power? How dare she.
I know these tremulous eyelids, this near-imperceptible wobbling of the lips. To any bystander, it seems like a fairly run-of-the-mill routine. But I can see the unfathomable grief and confusion beneath his surface calm, hear the low tiny whimpers bubbling in his chest. In a moment, if I push the wrong button, say the wrong words, ask the wrong thing, he'll crumble, pour down in a waterfall of tears, wail out his pain and sorrow to the very skies.
It bewilders me, pushes me to an angry hurt that overwhelms me. Rejecting my gentleness, slapping away my service, scorning my careful probing? How dare he.
It's only later, much later, when they're tucked safe away in bed, that it hits me in the face.
I know these expressions, recognize these traits, because they are me. To any bystander, I might seem a fairly placid believer who's "keeping the faith" decently well. But in my heart, I know. I know that when my God pushes the "wrong" button, says the "wrong" words, asks the "wrong" thing, I'll flout His rightful authority, I'll rail against His never-ending mercy, I'll shout and scream and stamp my feet at Him.
Yet He is never bewildered, never pushed into surprised hurt or rage. He knows me--knows my purposeful defiance, my irrational emotion, and still, still, He holds out His hands to me . . .
Yet I, when confronted with my very own failings (in child form), fail to show mercy and neglect to have grace and forget to utilize patience.
Somehow, I think that missing those opportunities to be merciful, gracious, patient, means missing much, much more . . .
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
no, really?
Today, I am Colombia.
Deep red tanktop, sunny yellow flip-flops, blazing blue toenails.
Today, I am Colombia.
Long dark hair, deep brown eyes, rhythmic Latin hips, skin the color of tea.
Today, I am Colombia.
Brooding, fiery, confident, easily amused, damn-straight-I-know-who-I-am proud.
Today, I am Colombia.
Or at least, I am the Colombia you taught me.
[How I miss you.]
Deep red tanktop, sunny yellow flip-flops, blazing blue toenails.
Today, I am Colombia.
Long dark hair, deep brown eyes, rhythmic Latin hips, skin the color of tea.
Today, I am Colombia.
Brooding, fiery, confident, easily amused, damn-straight-I-know-who-I-am proud.
Today, I am Colombia.
Or at least, I am the Colombia you taught me.
[How I miss you.]
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
and I let time go by so slow
Even before I met you, I knew I wanted to hold you. But when the time came, and your father handed you to me, and you wriggled and squawked and kicked against my chest as I tried to cradle you, I was terrified. It was a horrifying minute or two, though it felt like hours, before you settled down, your father leaning over you and crooning and showing me how to hold in your soother.
Then there came the beautiful few quiet moments, when you laid in my arms and stared into my eyes. I didn't know that three-week old babies could focus their gazes like that, but you did. I marveled at your eyes, dark blue, like your mama's; your little upturned nose; your beautiful lips, so easily quirked in infant rage or grief; your tiny hands, so warm and so strong; your little feet, bare just like your mama's and daddy's; the barely-there weight of you against my chest and in my arms.
You brought me to tears, but there were photos being taken by all, so I held back the tears and let them fall within my heart.
I remembered, as I held you, your daddy's presence in my life—how he held me when I was tiny, too; how he played with me when I was a little girl; how he teased and laughed with me when I was an awkward teenager; how he befriended me when I was just-eighteen, but thought I was so grown-up; how he was always, always kind and gentle, and treated me like the woman I so badly wanted to be.
Holding you, his firstborn, made me thankful all over again—for his friendship, for your mama who loves and respects him so much, for the chance to be part of your life as he was part of mine. It's beautiful, really, how cradling you in my arms was such a completion of the past, such a perfect moment to live, and such a mind-blowing promise of the future.
But then, I suppose that's exactly what God means babies to be . . .
Then there came the beautiful few quiet moments, when you laid in my arms and stared into my eyes. I didn't know that three-week old babies could focus their gazes like that, but you did. I marveled at your eyes, dark blue, like your mama's; your little upturned nose; your beautiful lips, so easily quirked in infant rage or grief; your tiny hands, so warm and so strong; your little feet, bare just like your mama's and daddy's; the barely-there weight of you against my chest and in my arms.
You brought me to tears, but there were photos being taken by all, so I held back the tears and let them fall within my heart.
I remembered, as I held you, your daddy's presence in my life—how he held me when I was tiny, too; how he played with me when I was a little girl; how he teased and laughed with me when I was an awkward teenager; how he befriended me when I was just-eighteen, but thought I was so grown-up; how he was always, always kind and gentle, and treated me like the woman I so badly wanted to be.
Holding you, his firstborn, made me thankful all over again—for his friendship, for your mama who loves and respects him so much, for the chance to be part of your life as he was part of mine. It's beautiful, really, how cradling you in my arms was such a completion of the past, such a perfect moment to live, and such a mind-blowing promise of the future.
But then, I suppose that's exactly what God means babies to be . . .
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