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.

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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.