Hope and Be.Longing

Watching

August 22, 2017

I’m packing up two sons for college this fall. Although not really, because they haven’t started packing. Just I have, in my mind. Wondering if we have extra long twin blankets, or power strips, or plastic bins of the size that might squeeze into the crevices called dorm closets.

I want to be prepared—not just with plastic bins, but with my heart. Life moves quickly when two of your sons are 19 and 18, those ages precariously balanced on the precipice between teenager and adult. They sometimes slide down one side, other times the opposite. And I’m finding myself looking to the LORD more often, waiting and watching for direction in this season of parenting.

Stories of Hope, Belonging, and Longing

Boasting

August 22, 2017

He stands in front of me in church, in the very front row, singing exuberantly.

His left hand grasps a notebook of song lyrics while his right hand waves in jubilation. His voice is loud and clear, his praise bold. And I can’t help but smile.

Tell out, my soul, the greatness of the Lord!

I love watching him worship. I’m mundane in comparison, holding the lyrics tightly to my ribs, losing my place now and then and growing silent as my mind wanders, tentatively striving for perfect pitch when it doesn’t.

Stories of Hope, Belonging, and Longing

Digging

August 22, 2017

I’m out back behind the shed, sitting on a pile of dirt. I did a snake check before I sat, not that there ever are snakes but there was one, once, in my garage, and if I was him this back corner of the yard is where I’d take a morning nap. And I don’t want to be the one to wake him up.

I’m between a tipped over wheelbarrow, two lime green kayaks, a log pile half un-covered, a pale garden hose, an empty trailer, and a cracked black tarp. I’m feeling out of sorts back here, thinking I might organize it differently, or at all. If you even can organize that place behind the shed, maybe freshen it up a bit.

Stories of Hope, Belonging, and Longing

Madeline’s Peony

August 22, 2017

Her name was Madeline. She was blind and deaf and old, and she lived next door. Alone. We tried to bring her cookies when we moved in but she didn’t know we waited awkwardly on her slanted front porch.

I never got to meet Madeline because she fell soon after and was brought to a convalescent home.

I only know her house.

It waits noiselessly as time peels away all grace. Its chapped red back door falters at the top of rugged wooden steps. Its windows peer sleepily to my own through glass cracked and taped. Its paint is scruffy, its roof bedraggled. Only one small light faintly burns somewhere inside while the rest of the house lingers in damp darkness.

Stories of Hope, Belonging, and Longing

The Color of Belonging

August 22, 2017

My doctor’s office is purple. Bright purple. The receptionist’s hair is turquoise, or sometimes lime green.

Wearing blue jeans, blue shoes, and a blue shirt, I feel monochromatic as I rest in the orange stuffed chair in the waiting room. I observe a tank of tropical fish, the purple walls singing behind them.

Despite the contrast of the reserve of my outfit and the risk of the colors around me, I feel at home here. Like I belong.