comfort in the uncomfortable
Comfort, the word, always takes me back to that uncomfortable place. A hospital bed surrounded by a forest of faces and the smell of alcohol and acetone. They’re removing the polish from toenails and fingernails, making yet another stab in my forearm, trying to pour life back into my body. While life pours into my belly. And I’m so scared. My husband reaches through the scrub green limbs to hold my hand. My pastor comes and prays over me right before they whisk me away. And two days later I sit in the recliner, and I know the battle’s over, and there will be no baby. Ever. I’m alone in this semi-private room, Bible open on lap, reading in 2 Corinthians. “Comfort others like I comfort you.” That’s my Pauline...
a lake and an artist date
I slow down as I turn the corner and scan Lake Abby. Something dark floats at the far end. Not a goose. Maybe a mallard. But I can’t be sure. It looks black. I smash forefoot to floor, fly down asphalt, jerk wheel to left, spin gravel in drive, and ram gear into park. When I throw open the door, it slams back on my ankle. The camera’s on the kitchen table. I grab it, kick off flip flops and slip into muck boots, then race back up to the pond. The duck, or whatever, is gone. But the way the light ripples across chopped cattails fascinates me. Redwing blackbirds perch on remaining stalks. Swallows dip and dive over the water. I squish closer to the edge, step over deer prints, try to decipher the songs of frogs or maybe toads that mingle with the...
when you neglect your body
I throw off everything that could weight me down while I weigh myself–first thing in the morning, before a drop of water passes my lips. I smile because the needle settles a few pounds lower, and I know it’s because of my recent illness. Sickness has its benefits. I mentally pummel myself for all the times I’ve failed, for where I could be now if I’d finished everything I started. I might sport slimmer arms, a flatter tummy, brighter eyes, and a sharper brain. If I’d actually used all those videos, followed though with that Weight Watcher’s program, continued with the trainer, stayed the course with the treadmill/elliptical/bike, took more walks, splashed in more water, stretched more muscles. If I boycotted Dairy Queen...
bless the mamas
They mother the motherless, the mamas in this orphan village. The team that traveled to Jeremie, Haiti, the month before us went specifically to love on them. The photo of women washing the feet of women who wash feet nearly undid me. These mamas carry hearts heavy with Jesus. Though some bring their own children with them, many leave them in the care of others so they can spill love into the empty, into children with no mamas or papas. (One of the mamas is going to school to become a nurse.) They receive a small compensation along with room and board—likely pennies from our perspective. But how can mere money compare to their sacrifice? I’m writing about these mamas today over at BibleDude. Won’t you join me there and offer a prayer for...
scripture sunday: two are better than one
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. ~Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 (NIV) Stilled times two, Sandy
still saturday: heaven quiets
“And maybe, just maybe, the deepest experience of prayer begins to happen when we, too, learn to be silent. To stop. To pay attention. To offer just one word, or two, to sit in the presence of God, in the anteroom of heaven itself and become prayer. Our very selves, offered on the altar, and then flung back to earth, slivers of shimmering reflected glory, living out that deepest, wildest, most profound prayer of them all:THY WILL BE DONE, ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN. AMEN.” ~Diana Trautwein From this post: The One Thing That Silences Heaven Stilled and silent, Sandy Welcome to Still Saturday where we pause after a busy week, move in quiet pilgrimage, maybe linger a while in some still place, and soak in the beauty of images and words. We’d...
five minute friday: brave
Brave is not just bold and blue nails with flowers on the thumbs. Or climbing a cargo net when you’re old enough for a social security net. It’s not just leaping tethered off a platform. Brave slips through circumstances as slick as melted butter. It treads the waters of trials and doesn’t drown. It forgets the past, presses in and presses on. It banishes the bitter and sinks into the present to suck the sweet of every moment. It embraces life single or married or widowed. Childfree or childless. As a parent or grandparent. Brave is a mother bear doing battle for her babies. It’s an empty womb that doesn’t become a tomb. It’s a neverending mountain of laundry and dishes and dusting–done. Brave leans on others when afraid,...
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April 19-21, 2013 (past but not forgotten)
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