rain

i needed it to rain today. i needed the water to bring a new, to soak into this dry land. days of empty eyes have left our lives questioning. what are we doing wrong? what must change, somethings got to give? and is the barrenness just boredom or are we becoming more aware that being alive feels like we are actually dying. and the rains falls down like grace from above filling the ground of our souls. and i let the liquid make my soil like mush, letting it seep into all the cracks and into all the callused because nothing renews like living His water. 

grandma.

i see her now like i've never seen her before. her body bent over, her movements slower, her steps more calculated, her wrinkles deeper around her eyes. slow has never been a word to describe my grandma. having traveled the world, living in india, japan, and china most of her days. years spent sharing the love of God with anyone who would listen. when she was gone she missed a lot of our lives, my life. but she was here today. she sat in the second row of tables on the left side of the room. and when i sat down after sharing at this morning's event i saw her looking at me and i knew she felt proud. and for a few seconds our eyes held each other, both filling with tears. she said, "i never knew emotional pain could be more painful than physical pain." she reached for the tissues. i saw, really saw, my grandma this morning. a morning where i shared my story before hundreds. i said a lot of words and hugged a lot of women. but i don't think i'll remember anything more clearly than the way my grandma looked at me, eyes brimming with tears and our hearts meeting in the middle.

voice.

we met for a few hours. it was chilly. the kind where you cup your hands around your coffee mug and curl your shoulders into the table. conversation moved gracefully and carefully because when someone has been emotionally beaten up, you know to move gently. words balancing on top of topics, we settled into one for a while. we let the silence fill the space, until she landed her heart into the hole of her pain, "he stole my voice." and the tears fell. 

i fumbled around words, trying to find the right ones to fix her, knowing i had none. she recounted moments when she left herself, fell away in the shadows, and lost who she was. and after all the lies, all the betrayal, and all the pain, she was left with one thing, silence. 

the only way to have a voice is to speak, "give your voice a voice." i said.  and we did that that morning. we spoke and cried and laughed and even dreamed a little. 

she walked away. and even though we have been friends for years, it felt like we had just met.

***

she is waking up.
she is coming alive.

the accident

it has been 19 years since the accident.

november 26, 1993.

i was 13 years old when i walked out of the bathroom, met in the arms of my sister, Malina. she said they had died. both of them. i ran down the stairs, shaking. my skinny body fighting against all forms of comfort, head pounding no, no, no.

i cried. we all cried. but no one cried more than my sister wanida. for it was that day that her best friend died. 

jenni was 16 and mylene was 24. the oldest sister and the youngest sister died in one fatal car accident. they were on their way home from visiting their middle sister, emily, on her honeymoon. emily was only married 6 days prior to the accident. can you imagine, can you even imagine. in the span of two weeks there was a wedding and two funerals in one family. an absolute nightmare. 

19 years later we stood in my kitchen chopping chicken and mixing a cucumber salad and i asked if she was okay to talk about her sisters. she replied, "as long as you're okay if i cry." i listened, bouncing noelle on my hip, to emily recounting that day.  she told me details i never knew. things that only God could have ordained. like the way Jenni spent her last night beside Emily, their bodies shared a bed. and even though it was her honeymoon, she slept side by side with her little sister for her last night on earth. or how the other car in the accident was a father to three girls, one girl whose name was emily. he survived the accident, but has never taken another step since that day. emily told me that when she woke up that morning, one week after her wedding day, she sat down and her husband told her that both sisters had passed away.  they had only hugged outside the gas station just 8 hours earlier. emily and i both started to cry. she kept cutting and i kept swaying my little girl. she said she cried all the way from mammoth to san marcos. after 8 hours the tears were no more. her mom lost two children that night and for months her mom kept a banner hanging above their doors that said, "welcome home." she believed that the girls were on a trip and she was just waiting for them to come home. and when the girl's bodies were lowered into the ground her mom was held back from following her girls right there into the ground. and what pain could be greater than losing a child, but she lost two in one brief moment, gone. i'm sure she died that day, too.

it's been 19 years. almost another life time since Jenni and Mylene died. emily has had three kids since. kids that only know their aunts by pictures, names, and stories. when people die they are never forgotten, i just think sometimes we forget to talk about them, even 19 years later. but i still miss them. i wonder what they would be like, who they would have become. if they would have been there with us, chatting about recipes and the cost of sushi and homeschooling.

noelle was born november 26th, 2011. 18 years after the accident. noelle hope paschall. Hope is also Jaylene's middle name. Jaylene is emily's third child. a daughter bearing the name of both of emily's sister's.

vulnerable

i'm freaking out and i'm not sure how exactly to respond to my mom's text, "how are you?"

well, i'm freaking out, that's how i'm doing. and i don't know what to do to make my anxiety go away. my anxiety tonight isn't going to go away. it's the kind of anxiety that i am walking straight into. tomorrow, i'm going to walk into a room of 150 women, whom i don't know, and tell them my story. i'm going into a silent space where my voice will be amplified. and in the simplest of words i'll let them into my heart, peek into my soul. and this night, with fire crackling and Christmas music soothing and tea warming, i think there is no other way to share my soul, to be vulnerable, without anxiety, without a tad of freak out. being vulnerable is peeling back my skin and saying this is who i am, will you still love me? and when i'm done and walk to my sit will i feel shame? will i wonder what thoughts are running through their heads? will i sneak out and make a mad dash for the parking lot? yes, probably all three. it's vulnerable to be ask to be loved as you truly are, but there is no love without vulnerability. none. love and vulnerability are of the same breath. and in one breath a baby entered the world thousands of years ago. for what is more vulnerable than a baby? what is more fragile, tender, and captivating than the first moment of life? he was a vulnerable soul, born into a tragic terrain, that became the source for the very existence of love at all.

restless.

alarm blaring at 6:23.

already my heart racing.

 anxiety of all to be done and all that has been left undone.

we circle each other in the kitchen with morning cartoons already enticing battles over who picks and who can't see the screen, the waffle is burning. think. grab clothes, grab baby awake, grab peanut butter.

overwhelmed but what task to actually complete first, making a mental list prioritizing the important to what can be procrastinated. and all these thoughts make me irritated, short, and snappy with the little ones doing everything the opposite of what i ask of them. 

tie your shoes, he takes them off.

put on jeans, he comes out wearing shorts 2 sizes too small.

and i can't get the sippy cup cap on correctly, water spilling.

and the noise of wedding pictures to blog, and phone calls to clients, and diapers to buy all cloud my mind. frustration fuming.

and yet, the most overwhelming thing of it all isn't what must get done or what hasn't been accomplished. my greatest weight is me and not my list. all things, in there time, will be done. it isn't the tasks, it's me. my heart, my need to please, my uneasiness with my heart these days and all that i see inside there, my need to keep up with the masses, my need to find admiration from others. my list has little to do with my messy morning, but everything to do with mobilizing me to encounter my mess. my restlessness has less to do with my crowed calendar and all to do with my true condition. and all the while i hear one voice echoing in my heart, "my heart is restless until i find rest in thee."

one year.

one year ago today we moved into this home. our first home. walls still sealed with masking tape and plastic and a kitchen without appliances or counter tops. the moving truck filled with people filing in and out carrying boxes, and couches, and cribs. i remember sitting on our piano bench and i started to cry. i was so moved by the moment. our first home. hopefully our last home. people continued to march in and around and about the rooms. i sat, pointing, directing and correcting the stream of people. my body still on pain medication from my c-section 6 days earlier. noelle arrived three weeks earlier than we expected. she was early and the kitchen cabinets were late. some things can never be planned. someone brought pizza and we ate and sam never sat down. answering questions and providing tours of our 1,400 square foot place, i smiled non stop. our friend arrived and mounted the mantel above the fireplace as several bystanders made him do it over at least four times till it was perfectly straight. and women, a lot of women, in one room can probably drive a man crazy, but we laughed and it makes for a good memory. it was a cold night, but the love of so many people ushering us graciously into our new home brought so much warmth. oh and who could forget the piano that weighs a million pounds. it was the same piano that we pushed down a hill when we moved from the top of 7th street to the middle of 6th street. that piano is a beast and sam swears that he will never move it again. but 8 guys rolled and hauled it through our front doorway, shouting directions, and motioning hands to move it forward. and then the boys arrived. four and two. and we couldn't find the the two year old's crib screws. so sam drove 20 minutes to scour the old place for the missing zip lock bag. he couldn't find it so that night the little one moved to a big boy bed. and they jumped on the beds shouting, "we don't have to move again until we go to heaven!" and i can't remember what un-godly hour they fell asleep that night. and slowly everyone left and we were alone, our family of five in our first home.

 one year later. we lay feet fixed up on the fireplace, listening to a mix of music and remembering that night a year ago. and a song comes on. sam asks if we can just listen. "life is about people." the lyrics repeat this line, "life is about people," again and again. our kitchen is completed, the walls painted the perfect color of blue, and i've rearranged the furniture a few hundred times, but essentially none of that matters. life is about people. life isn't about property or sq feet or a perfect styled pinterest home. life is about the people. the hands that carried boxes and sewed curtains and hung towels. all the people that walked through our front door and shared a meal. all the mornings sipping tea and evenings spent playing settlers. forth of july parties with thirty some children and giggling in every corner. a three year old living a dream day and having a dirt birthday party in our unfinished front yard. people arriving unexpectedly, head in hands, heart in tears. counter top conversations eating candy at midnight. children learning to swim, children and mom's crying because swimming is apparently equivalent to torture. people shoveling rocks, placing new patches of grass and planting trees. surprise knocks on the front door from sisters and spouse. so many of these moments that i can hardly recall them all. there have been so many wonderful people within these walls this year. a home is nothing without people. life is about people.

twins.

she said she would be here in 5 minutes. and she was. she is never late. i opened the garage door and she was standing there. we both started laughing. busting up and bending over. eyes filling with tears. she said, "i've been waiting for this moment to happen." we looked at each other from head to toe. we were wearing the exact.same.outfit. same stripped shirt from target, same grey cardigan, same dark jeans, and our hair worn wavy and down. we instagramed it: twins. next stop starbucks where we ordered 2 no water, one pump of vanilla, chai tea lattes. 

our spontaneous shopping trip made me realize we are more alike than we are different. even though she eats salad and i eat junk food. even though she likes it organic and i like it processed. even though she takes essentials oils and i take tylenol. even though she likes it organized and don't mind the mess. most would think we would be unlikely friends. but friendships aren't always built on similarities, but perhaps, on shared stories. i guess that's what makes our friendship mean so much, we have the same story. we walked on a long yellow line in elementary school, we've marched down a dusty road waving flags, we've wept over broken high school hearts and stupid boys, we've had hard conversations and said sorry a few dozen times, we've waved at graduations,  we've traveled by train in the cities of Thailand, we've witnessed vows from the closest position possible,  we've watched babies born and i left her flowers when her baby went to heaven before being born.

 so i guess dressing today as twins isn't all that surprising. we've been twins for a while now.

flat lining.

i'm flat lining and finding that i actually thrive on the busy and in the messy and frantic. i like running last minute, packing lunches the morning of, and chasing down the missing sock.  it's when the quiet sets in that i struggle. i'm having a hard time resting, being still, sitting.  i can't actually. i'm really antsy.   i'm really bored. for sure i have a million things to do: a bin full of those tiny legos are all over my bedroom floor, smashed goldfish are hidden under the rug (which may have been pushed under there by maybe me, an embarrassing confession), and a car full of crumbs, but my heart is, well, bored. i'm flat lining. i keep trying to jump start it with ideas: start a new blog, quit photography, do art projects, start a non-profit, do something inspiring, build a table out of concrete, but as quickly as my ideas start, they fall, they flat line. i'm looking for something, but i don't know what it is. i am wanting something, but i can't find it. the more i search the less content i feel. why can't being just a mom be enough. why don't i feel complete in it, in them. and why after being a mom for 5 years do i still feel incomplete and disconnected from that name. i thought by now that title would fit. why does it seem like other moms get the mothering thing? not mothering, but being a mom.  not action, but identity. and why do i feel like there is a part of me that is always trying to escape it. what is that part of me? like something else, something out there could be better. why can't i just be here. i keep wanting to inject some sort of excitement into my bones, but there is a gentle hand holding me back. a gentle hand holding me still. and the more i stay the more uncomfortable i feel because flat lining is painful, a slow death of sorts. and i feel the uneasiness in me, all the aches and all the ugly rising. and a gentle hand holding me, stay, don't run away. i'm not sure how to dig my roots down into the soil of motherhood. it's hard for me. my identities are still separate. the me and the mom, these two are still meeting.  the ground is tough. but i stay and dig my feet downward because down there somewhere i know my toes will touch the waters of a spring. waters with words bringing my worlds together.

better.

it's hard not to want to be better at everything. i think about 'being better' all the time. and if i don't think it, i feel it. i wish i were better at cooking, caring, organizing, disciplining, cleaning, connecting, communicating, i mean, seriously, the list continues... i wish i were better.... at everything. today i was "playing" on the floor with my baby, but i was distracted by all kinds of silly things. i was on the floor, but my mind was a million other places. i was thinking about our yard, about how much the chaos was driving me crazy, how to fix my hair into those braid buns i see all over pinterest.  in my maze of thoughts,  noelle was crawling circles around me. i brought my head close to hers and looked square into her eyes. i looked at her, into her. and i realized how little i do that, look deeply into her bubbly blue eyes. i glance, but rarely do i  gaze at her eyes holding mine and mine holding hers. i see my kids, but how often to i stop and wait for our eyes to connect, for our souls to see each other (well, other than me threatening into doing something) ? ahhhh, of all the things i wish i were better at, being with, really with, my kids ranks up there near the top.

day 16

happy. 

 

it doesn't require a lot for me to be happy. a cup of hot tea, a tiny bit of space, and a place to breathe. today it is my husband coming home for an hour so i can go to star bucks alone. after 4 days and nights of sick kids, i'll take even an hour alone to recollect. i should probably grab a celebrity magazine just to make the hour more productive. it's the little things.

day 15

what if.

what if we took the truth seriously, "do unto others as you would have them do unto you?" not just in the negative context we typically use it in like- don't hit your brother because you wouldn't want him to hit you. what if it meant that when i buy myself lunch, i buy it for my neighbor as well. when fill up my non-eco friendly gas guzzler tank, i fill up the car beside me as well.  or if i buy myself those questionable skinny jeans, buy a pair for my friend too. i mean really, like what if that is what this verse meant? what if it meant that if i am going to take care of my needs then i better darn well take care of my neighbors needs too. and after every thought i have about this idea, all i hear are excuses spilling out everywhere.... after our backyard gets done, once sam gets a raise, when i can work more, when the kids are older, sure, one day we will do this. what if everything we had, we gave. what if i really trusted God. what in the world would my life really look like. because i really don't think that giving is a matter of how much or how little i have. i think it is a trust issue. a matter of the heart. what is my heart attached to that i need more than the love of God? what else satisfies, what else fills, what silences guilt and shame and anxiety but the complete goodness of God? and every gift, every good and perfect gift comes from Him.
i thought about this at my sink today. looking out over the earth from my window.  stacking dishes into their designed slots. exhale. what if i were different. what would that even look like. what if?

day 14

need.

because i need you. this morning, like every morning. and though i normalize that my heart actually beats and my body breathes, normal it is not. before the sun rises and the sky moves into all sorts of shadows and shades, i awake to my need for you. headache and hands warmed by morning brew, i see my need for you in all that i do. joy, bouncing boys playing and baby discovering. grace, seeking even the smallest sins, calling out and coming in. hope, kindly moving all things forward. 

for this space.... the uneaten yogurt,  sweet smells of stock flowers dancing in mason jars,  t-rex roaring, husband helping, and brothers becoming, i know my need for the creator to keep creating for this life to keep living.

day 13.

tired.

it's been one of those days weeks where i can't shake my tiredness. yeah... the only way to shake sleepiness is SLEEPING! right!???! but when i have two minutes to myself, instead of sleeping,  i over eat my take out Chinese, flip through channels, and random do Wikipedia searches. because here is the thing, being a mom, you are never alone.  they never. ever. leave. so it doesn't matter if you are going on day 6 of less than 5 hours of sleep a night, so tired your eyes are burning, your limbs are going numb, and hair massively disheveled, the single moment you have to yourself you fill it up with the smallest amounts of pleasure that bring the greatest amounts of instant fulfillment. so if that means watching america's next top model while downing hot cinnamon gummy bears, i'm gonna do it.

day 12

envy & ice cream

envy. i shut down my computer. turn off lights and walk out of my office. closing down and pushing out the pangs of wanting something i can't have and hating that others have it. envy. the loudest feeling and most seldom shared sin. envy. 11:00 pm and wanting nothing more than sleep to silence my sickening state. yet, a sink full of dishes makes me stop, sigh, and move towards the pile still there since baking bread this morning (don't think too highly of me, i just added eggs, water, and cooking spray). hands soaked in filthy water and all sorts of stickiness i see my bowl from this afternoons ice cream binge. i eat when i don't want to feel something. i eat to stuff. i eat to avoid. i eat when i'm bored. i typically go straight for sugar,  ice cream topping my list. i want ice cream now. i keep washing. i keep loading. i keep wanting to get rid of my internal gunk.

from my kitchen sink i dwell on my envy. i want something someone else has. i write and want to be noticed. to be seen. and other people are writing posts and blogs and books and all i feel is a surge of jealousy. i'm spewing with hateful thoughts towards others (and their 400 followers) and sorry-full thoughts about myself and envy is spinning all around me. i really need that ice cream. anyway or anything that can take me out of this personal hell. i keep cramming dishes into spots where they clearly don't fit, but i insist and persist.

i think about my calling. cause i believe in things like calling and purpose. i believe in soul mates. i believe that pain has a purpose.  i believe all things are wrapped in and around a glorious divinity. God invites us into His good story, His love story.  a story written, yet, still being told. i think about why i write. i think that writing isn't about me being known (although it is certainly a tugging temptation). but, writing, for me, is to become more of who i was created to be. words, carving out my character. words, a way for me to pray. words, teaching me how to listen, to be open, to be still. writing isn't my calling. writing, isn't for me to become known because i already am, fully and completely. writing, is a gift that God uses to show me His story. entering this narrative is my calling.
envy is wanting a calling that belongs to someone else.

 envy, released. heart, recollected. dishes, cleaned. ice cream, devoured.

***

i seriously do love my 3 followers! krissa, rissa, and sam!!! thanks for all the love you send my way!

day 11

different.

i want this day to be different. to live alive to this day as though it was the last. to fill it with goodness and truth and beauty. i want to be different. and this daydream is quickly interrupted with bouncy ball wars, tantrums to tender, and feelings to wipe off the floor. i guess the reality of life being peaceful, without wrinkle or frailty isn't really life. that sleep doesn't change the heart, no different than makeup fixes the blemishes or band aids heal the hurt. we are the same until the heart meets with the maker. and all the realities of time-outs and bathroom floors and asking for forgiveness are all meant to make us different.

day 10.

rain.

it rained today. and i still hear it falling outside my window. rain dropping the way it did this morning as i watched it fall from my kitchen sink. water falling, water rising, filling the earth. soaking the dryness laid doormat in the soil of my soul. and i feel it filling and i watch it falling. replenishing and reviving. the sink water splashing and the heaven water releasing. and the light spotting on sections of the mountains where clouds are dispensing. soapy water rinsing and the rain it keeps falling. keeping all things clean. the calming cadence of life being given another chance to live. the mercies of a love offering falling before my eyes and into my hands.  millions of little sprinkles softly singing, grace. grace. grace. grace. grace. grace. grace.

day 9

grace.

with a sigh. with an exhale. tiredness fills my bones and my body is heavy. it's my story and perhaps everyone's story. but i find myself throughout the day praying grace. in the long days where i barely manage to move from one task to the next, grace. on the empty days where i carry no meaningful conversation, grace. between the dishes and mailbox and changing dirty sheets, grace. praying, God, can your grace be even here? because some days are just so empty. these days of child rearing are ridiculous. it is a massive collision of one never ending day that mysteriously turns into years. they all collide into one enormous, screaming body ache, string of continuous yawns, smashed crackers, yelling in grocery stores, shameful turns (and returns) into McDonalds, tunnels and forts and make believe, a relentless roller coaster of highs and lows, and a never ending (no matter how much sleep i get) weight of exhaustion.  some days are so long and they become the loneliest. on these forever days, can your grace be found here?

day 8.

 circle.

i've sat in this same circle for over 20 years. me with them. them with me. and the perfect mixed cocktail (well, the cocktail didn't happen until we were of age, of course. of course!) of laughter and tears, a little sweet and slightly sour. we sit, painting toenails, flipping through tabloids, and there in the circle- pouring open our hearts, prying into hearts, and praying over hearts. we sit fixing our eyes to see and hands to receive each other with caution, with care. because even when you feel safe, finding words to express your insides can feel like silly string, stuff flying everywhere without restraint. when you finally stop, and someone asks how you are really doing, it is hard to know where to start. we start with stammering voices, and heavy exhales. we fidget and fight back tears. because when we stop, we wonder if what we have to say actually weighs worthy. and we stumble around words, struggling to find the right ones that reflect the truth of our souls. i hear them. the fog, the roller coaster, the anxiety, the gifts, the surrender, the freedom, the sadness. i hear them. the way i did when we were kids at camp sitting in a circle, laying in each others sleeping bags,  trying on each others clothes, talking about boys, and laughing about all sorts of silliness. so much has changed, but that circle hasn't. we've always sat surrounded, heads resting on shoulders, arms stretched rounded on backs, hands holding hands, and hearts circled one around the next.

day 7

reset.

sometimes all you need is a shower. a way to restart. a way to let the water roll off of you and feel a new. water has a way of restoring, a way of reviving. and that's what i needed mid way through my afternoon, something that helped me start over. something to soothe my frustration. so i showered and i promised myself to let the water wash over me. promised to let it change me. and i prayed that God would move me through the fog. i let my hair towel dry this time. i swept the floor,  rotated the clothes from the washer to the dryer,  loaded the dish washer, and wiped down my kitchen sink. i can't say that the water and minutes alone in the shower changed my heart, because it didn't. but in the most practical way, removing my smeared eye liner and shaving my prickly legs were, in fact, a much needed reset button in my day.

day 6

the sky.

it's dark outside, but from my sink i see his figure like moving shadows. he is beside himself to see the stars. through a tunnel of glass he turns his eyes to the sky and with all eagerness this little boy's body turns still. when he gets excited his body slows as though the thrill intimidates him. he taps the lens of his telescope, touching the stars. 

i watch him and wonder when, for me, the sky turned normal. at what point did i stop seeing the stars.  outrageous, ridiculous,  radiant diamonds bursting everyday before my eyes and i can't remember the last time i starred into their endless abundance. when did i stop seeing them the way he longs to see them. fire exploding in the sky and the normalcy of it all thumps loudly in my chest. when did all this beauty lose its wonder? i wish i were like him. i wish the sky meant that much to me, again.

Day 5

Invaders

Kids strapped in their seats I wipe the sink down once more. I get low and scan the sink closely. Even when appearances look lovely, the ants will find the crumbs and invite all their friends, invading.

Cleaning is the easy part of parenting.  Making the surface appear pretty can be easily tailored to any audience, impressing. Putting on a performance to make masses pleased can be proudly produced. 

Hunting down the hearts of my children in hiding is what I fear I will miss the most. If I neglect those quiet places, they will crumble. The tiniest spaces left undiscovered will invite unwelcome invaders. Invaders breeding invaders.

So I seek them, gently peeling back their protected places. Jumping in pools and spinning in streets and eating invisible sandwiches. Inviting opportunities for our hearts to connect, for their heart to come out.

Protecting my children is about connecting with my children.

And I realize that all those things matter. Those moments that can easily be overlooked or dismissed. Those places will be found, i just hope to find them first.
(please excuse the typos. i wrote this on my iphone and in the dark)

day 4

the sea.

washing down the sink tonight, under the soap, behind the faucet, drying down the porcelain sides, leaving no signs of a day full with food. making clean what was chaos. in this place now polished lived a day filled with vibrant life. and i reflect on all that this day was... the voices of children interjecting excitedly, one on top of the other, like a frenzy of cards being shuffled. fingers busy baking. the frustration of a friend in dire need of a break. texts bringing me to laughter that made my checks sting. 

i wipe down the counters. i straighten the flowers on the window sill. and i realize  i won't remember this day. i won't remember the way we chased our children at church or how noelle insisted on being held and learned to wave her hand hello. i won't remember watching a you tube video that broke me. it made me hate myself for all the things i daydream about buying because some people have nothing. literally nothing. i won't remember the way laughter brought me to tears the way only good friends can. i won't remember. it is only one droplet in a river running to the sea.   and at my sink i see all those little moments as gifts moving me, moving us, one day closer to each other. one day closer to Him.

(i'll be out of town for the next few days. i'll try to post. try)

day 3

yellow.

i dreaded doing anything with that pot in the sink. the heaviest yellow le creuset pot in our household bottom burned brown with chili.  burned because of neglect and pure forgetfulness. i forgot to stir. at some point the soaking has to stop and the pot must actually be washed. with a sigh i started the scrubbing and the phone rang. perhaps a dear friends voice would make the task seem less strenuous. and it did. i asked her about counseling. shes been lost for a while now, walking in shadows wondering if how she felt was normal. for too many years she was neglected and forgotten. when that happens, walls grow above and beneath you, burying you in a silent death.  unseen and suffocating. and in her voice i heard something that made me stop. i turned the water off and tears filled my eyes. i heard the whisperings of hope. and i could hardly speak because you become breathless when you realize that Jesus is answering your prayers and bringing back life to what was once dead. stirring hope into the soul of one so unseen.

i pour out the murky brown water from my yellow pot. yellow. the color of friendship. the color of the bug she drove in our college years. and if hope had a color i think it should be yellow because it is bright and cheerful and screams, "be alive." i refill my pot with clean water, drizzle it with soap, and rinse again.

kitchen sink thoughts

a simple place to stop. to reflect. to remember that every moment means something. and in the moments where the clanging of dishes meets the clanging in my soul, i write. 31 thoughts from my kitchen sink.

day 1: i sink
day 2: she 
day 3: yellow 
day 4: the sea 
day 5: invaders
day 6: the sky
day 7: reset 
day 8: circle 
day 9: grace 
day 10: rain 
day 11: different 
day 12: envy & ice cream
day 13: tired 
day 14: need 
day 15: what if 
day 16: happy
                                                                     i sink (day 1)

     from the kitchen sink a massive amount of overwhelming thoughts all collide in a 2x2 space. feet planted, hip twisting and body bending. suds foaming, water running, fingers wiping, i'm rinsing, i'm re-loading. always repeating morning, noon, and evening. everything is moving. my mental to-do list rising with the sun as i meet my sink at first light. still in my pj's, hair flipped into a bushy bun, the list grows ... dishes, sweep, scrub, pick up, pack, dress, change, throw away, gather, replace, shoes, keys, snacks, car, call, return, remember, reflect, don’t neglect, text, check locks, get checks, lip gloss, count children, close door. from my farmhouse kitchen sink i think about so much. i gather so much of me there.  so much of me that i want to run from. i feel the frustration of not having accomplished enough, i see the endless counters to wipe down and desk overflowing with stuff. all my issues seem to rise with the water filling our cast iron pot now crusted with last nights meal, thoughts and fears bubbling over. and the mess never seems to settle... clean back splash, take out trash, did i say too much, did i say too little, i shouldn’t have sent that email, why am i so annoyed, what if she never replies, kill the ants, why do i still care, shake out the rug, did they even notice i wasn’t there?  from my kitchen sink i am forced to stay, forced to feel, and find myself in all my messiness. and recently the stirring of my inadequacies have chased me and i am taunted by all the things i am not.  i chase down my faults trying to fix them, my mind dizzy with so many places that need mending.
     and at my sink when i so often fantasize about achieving, i suddenly stop, shaking hands free of suds, i look out to see what always makes my soul stop spinning, mountains. massive mountains stories high above the city they stand secure in complete strength with their splendid curves. and my soul hears, “i lift my eyes up to the mountains, where does my help come from? my help comes from you, maker of heaven, creator of the earth.” exhale. and i can stop fighting my insecurities and neurotic need to fix myself and everything fractured around me, everything in me. i stand behind my sink and stare into my surroundings, mountains whispering reminders of salvation. i sink, not to be swallowed, but saved.

to read more of my 31 day challenges: the nester

day 2

(thoughts from my kitchen sink)

she.
from my kitchen sink i hold her. hands fixed under her arms for fear she will slip. she laughs. i laugh and  i hear the boys laughing in the other room. she is so tiny. so slim. so absorbed in the newest of her porcelain crib. everything to her is so big yet, she can hardly see over the side of the sink. my little she is small. so small in such a big world. and i look around at the world set on display just outside my window and i wonder at the bigness of it all. how does such a big God see me, one so small in a sea of so many. and my fingers run along side the small of her back down to her toes, i squeeze them, each one. every delicate detail of her delights me.  i am drawn to her  and i take her in deeply. and there, at my sink, i realize that my big God delights in the little.  in all of me, He finds delight.

day 1

i sink

     from the kitchen sink a massive amount of overwhelming thoughts all collide in a 2x2 space. feet planted, hip twisting and body bending. suds foaming, water running, fingers wiping, i'm rinsing, i'm re-loading. always repeating morning, noon, and evening. everything is moving. my mental to-do list rising with the sun as i meet my sink at first light. still in my pj's, hair flipped into a bushy bun, the list grows ... dishes, sweep, scrub, pick up, pack, dress, change, throw away, gather, replace, shoes, keys, snacks, car, call, return, remember, reflect, don’t neglect, text, check locks, get checks, lip gloss, count children, close door. from my farmhouse kitchen sink i think about so much. i gather so much of me there.  so much of me that i want to run from. i feel the frustration of not having accomplished enough, i see the endless counters to wipe down and desk overflowing with stuff. all my issues seem to rise with the water filling our cast iron pot now crusted with last nights meal, thoughts and fears bubbling over. and the mess never seems to settle... clean back splash, take out trash, did i say too much, did i say too little, i shouldn’t have sent that email, why am i so annoyed, what if she never replies, kill the ants, why do i still care, shake out the rug, did they even notice i wasn’t there?  from my kitchen sink i am forced to stay, forced to feel, and find myself in all my messiness. and recently the stirring of my inadequacies have chased me and i am taunted by all the things i am not.  i chase down my faults trying to fix them, my mind dizzy with so many places that need mending.
     and at my sink when i so often fantasize about achieving, i suddenly stop, shaking hands free of suds, i look out to see what always makes my soul stop spinning, mountains. massive mountains stories high above the city they stand secure in complete strength with their splendid curves. and my soul hears, “i lift my eyes up to the mountains, where does my help come from? my help comes from you, maker of heaven, creator of the earth.” exhale. and i can stop fighting my insecurities and neurotic need to fix myself and everything fractured around me, everything in me. i stand behind my sink and stare into my surroundings, mountains whispering reminders of salvation. i sink, not to be swallowed, but saved.

to read all 31 days of my kitchen sink thoughts: click here