Introductions.

These are my grandparents.
My mom's mom and dad.
His name is Andy and her name is Stella.
I call them PopPop and Grandma.
Whenever we came to visit when we were younger,
they would buy oatmeal cream pies, and make homemade meatballs.
We'd roller skate in their basement and play on my grandma's beauty chair...even though we weren't supposed to. Most days we'd go "down street" and run some errands. The post office, or get gas, sometimes stop for an ice cream. One of our favorite things to do was to drive a ways to the natural spring and fill up gallons of water to take home.
We still take drives to that spring.
We don't fit into the roller skates anymore, but when we visit we do things like go thrift store shopping together, or go on long walks. We like walking a lot. Grandma will show us her new line dancing moves and command us to dance for her too. While we tell her we don't know how, PopPop will say, "Stella, they don't want to do it!" and then squeeze our hands and slip us a 20 dollar bill.
They have a porch that is great for eating watermelon.
One night I guess the two of them were eating one and spit the seeds into the grass.
The next year they had their very own watermelon off that very porch. I saw pictures.
My grandma goes to mass. When we go with her I think she is happy just to have her family all there.
PopPop always asks us at breakfast what he can get us. "More cereal? More fruit? You need some hard boiled eggs? We'll make some", he always says.
One weekend my sisters and I drove up by ourselves to be with them.
We went to the center and played Bingo. It was the most fun I think I had all that year. They wanted to take us out to eat to Perkins with a coupon they had. But when they pulled into the parking lot they realized it was expired. So we just went home and had left over meat balls on sand which bread.
They taste even better the next day.
My favorite is when grandma gets into a laughing fit and can't stop crying. Also, when PopPop get's a twinkle in his eye and does something out of ordinary. Like put a hat on sideways, or put a rabbit pelt on his head and say "look, it grew back!".
The two of them are still in love.
When Grandma hurt her hip, PopPop took care of her every day.
She said that "Andy and prayer" was what brought her back.
Grandma knows how to pray. She talks to God all the time about everything.
About her family most of all.
When she hurt her hip, she was pretty sad.
Probably because she couldn't dance. They love going to the dance.
"It's how we met", she always tells me. They'd go every day if they could.
PopPop buys lottery tickets every day. I think it's the Powerball.
He doesn't buy it so he can be a millionaire.
He does it so if he wins he can give it to his kids.
He's never said that, but you just know that about him.
Something you can be sure of about Grandma, is that if you are sick,
you are drinking olive oil.
She uses it on everything and for everything.
My sister hid once from her at our old house in Williams Bay. She had a sore throat and thought Grandma would tell her to drink it. She was right. She did. And Bethany did. And cried.
Now I use it for lot's of things too and when I do, I think of her.

Sometimes I wish they didn't live so far away.
Because I could definitely go for a long walk this spring morning,
holding both their hands, and being thankful that their blood is in my veins.

To My Daughter.

I pray that you would always:

Learn to look for the people in the corner-
for ones with stories in their eyes.
When you walk into a room, don't sink into the masses.
Rather, seek out the overlooked few.
And let your eyes continually turn toward the hurting,
to the ones with heavy burdens.

Learn to look for the people in the corner-
for the ones with timid movements.
When you are away from home, don't find the head of a table or the middle of a spotlight.
Rather be drawn to those hiding in shadows of loneliness.
And let your hands be forever quick to extend a greeting,
to the ones who shy away.

Learn to look for the people in the corner-
for the ones who have been labeled "different".
When you pass them on the street, don't turn away your face.
Rather, look directly into theirs.
And let your ears be constantly tuned to what they have to say,
to the ones that are so often silenced.

Learn to look for the people in the corner-
for the ones who were told they didn't matter.
When you are in the middle of your afternoon, don't browse for "new" or "wow".
Rather let your heart be pulled closest to the quiet heroes,
to the ones who have never received fame for their days.

Daily I ask, daily I hope,
that as you grow,
you will learn to look for the people in the corner.

Because when you do,
you'll find that you've been turning your eyes, your hands, your ears, your heart...
to The One who was in the corner all along.

Onomichi

Morning.

Looking down from our hotel perch the cranes seem to have stretched their heads to the horizon and lifted the sun on a hook. Their steel necks are bathed in gold as they hover above the channel. These poised, mechanical dinosaurs color the city in an almost prehistoric light, as though at any moment they could come to life and wade through glittering waters. Instead they turn only back and forth, back and forth. Picking up and dropping down. Is this industrial rhythm what calls the city to wake? I see the bus, the storefront clerks, children in the schoolyard, all trickle out to work or play. From this height one would think us removed from the tempo of their routine. But there is something about this place that leaves us restless and at ease in a single breath. Before we know it, our packs are on and we begin our descent- each footstep into the landscape propels us further into her mystery.

Day.

We wait on a bench for the ferry with our bikes perched next to us. Everyone else is standing with their own, holding them as if extensions of their limbs. The ferry steadily makes her way back to the loading dock as she has done the past several hours. She carries with her young and old, suits and skirts. When she docks, kickstands go up in one fluid motion, almost choreographed, and the line proceeds forward. We follow clumsily behind, trying to bring our own bikes into order. Without any ceremony or announcement we are crossing the channel and moving beneath the towering crane-guardians. Today is Monday but there is nothing apparently manic about it here. There are no blaring horns at lunch hour, or sterile coffee houses. It is the same steady pace of beauty and work that was present yesterday. The streets are filled and the clock hands turn and the bike wheels propel, but the city isn’t all gears and go. There are hats and umbrellas and lace and linen. I cannot say for certain but I wonder if there is perhaps an unspoken regard on the importance of being beautiful and excellent? The ferry has docked. We get ready to exit and wheel our bikes onto land. A stranger hands me a Mikan. It is cool on my sweating palms and the most brilliant color green. In this gesture something remarkable takes place but I know not what. A white cat sits on the beach below and smiles with her eyes. We push our bikes and venture to see where our feet will take us now. As I step off the dock and place the Mikan in my pack, I can’t shake the feeling that I am stepping out of church.

Night.

The crane-giants are sleeping and the ferry is still. It is the fishing boats that have my attention now. They are long and wooden and full of shadows. Their helms are empty…but are we sure? The waves cause them to thrash and bob like the very fish on their lines earlier that day. Nets hang draped off the boughs like giant, sea-soaked cobwebs. We look over the edge of the rock wall on which we sit and I feel as though I have glimpsed yet another hidden dimension. Was that the lights from the dock? Or a face? I am glad for this perch above such inky waters. A large wave crashes on the rocks below. The spray leaps up and grabs at my ankles. Even now the city secrets beckon traveling feet to venture deeper. The call is so strong that I might have slipped and journeyed even more were it not for the moon rising, drawing with it a silver curtain across the entire scene. It is time to rest.

I lay in bed and sleep covers my body like a blanket-first pulling over my toes, then my stomach and to my neck. Each weary muscle from our travel sinks into the mattress. Through the open window, the only sound I hear is the breeze rustling through bamboo forests. In the second before sleep takes over, the thought crosses my mind that maybe Onomichi is not a puzzle to be solved, but rather a fairytale to be lived-a sort of dream come to life in which I was lucky enough to journey through.

Either way, dream or reality, the cranes are hovering at their post and waiting for tomorrow’s dawn. Waiting once more, to pull up the sun.

Once

*Disclaimer
A piece I've been working on for the past few months.
Exploring various thoughts and emotions similar to Psalms of Lament.
I am not sad, depressed, etc.
Just an exploration into keeping our faith fresh and alive.

*Disclaimer for my disclaimer...
A true writer should never really have to write an "explanation" before their thoughts...
but there it is and there you go.
I'm not a true writer yet ;)

--------------


Once there was a time when I heard music. Each song held notes and overtures from a different age. Single chords soothed and revived in waves. They told of adventure and distant beauty with an artistry composed of more than theory. It held secrets and spoke of places listeners had never traveled to, but had already come from.

Although that symphony has long since played in these ears, I know its’ magic well enough to feel the void, for I am deaf now. There is no melody to these droning hours and I mourn the loss of such a heavenly orchestra. Will I drown in this continual concert of silence?

Once there was a time when I held flowers and they held me. I walked a cut path of floating lilies-velvet and pure. They carried the promise of dawn after a dark night within each bloom. Pictures and paintings could not capture their elegance. One could only gaze upon their glory and be swept up.

That is a garden I have not seen in ages, for my sight is gone and these floral visions are mere memory. Every petal has been swallowed up in inky shadows. Is this blindness to be my world? I fear I will never again behold such ceremonial splendor.

Once there was a time I danced through each day. I would soar over boundless, ballroom floors of the earths’ surface- barefoot and free. Whether moss, marble, or sand, there was always a place or occasion for movement and rejoicing. I was quick and agile and could fly.

So what is to become of these dry bones now? They say the slightest movement could cause a break. All freedom has gone and only frailty and weakness remain. I am spineless and cannot lift my weary head, let alone lift up these legs to carry me away.

Once there was a time when I dined in a great banquet hall. The foods and wine were unparalleled in taste and matchless in quality. Meat, fruits, and breads were piled on golden platters. The candles never dimmed and the linens never dirtied. For all the bounty offered, no morsel fostered gluttony or greed. One only walked away nourished and content.

Oh to be a guest at that table again! I long for its’ plenty. For now, my tongue is dry and my stomach hollow. I eat and drink all day but am never full. What cruel trickery is this, that I have lost my appetite for anything other than dust?

Once there was a time when I was clothed in white. The vision is shrouded and far off, but the make of such an outfit I shall never forget. The purest of white linen- it was weightless and brighter than the sun. Every line was tailored to mine alone. It lit up something within the wearer that was beyond outer appearance. Clothed in such finery, I was more than just a royal. I entered into part of an entire Kingdom itself.

The loss of that garment causes me to weep. Only tattered and dirty burlap encompasses me now. I am suffocating and cannot be rid of this new uniform. In spite of every effort, each fiber is somehow embedded to my paper-thin skin. Will I ever make it back to that wardrobe? I used to be clothed in riches. Now I am rotting in rags.

Once there was a time when I had a love-a reason for each hour and hope to any darkness. It was the kind of love that made romance and infatuation seem childlike and clumsy. It stemmed from sacrifice and service. The more I drank of it, the more I realized how undeserving I was to receive it. Walking towards this love was walking into life. Everything stopped and started in a single, earth-shattering moment. This love did not make my heart skip, but rather made my heart beat for the first time.

Of all the gold and shining images that play before me in my mind this is the one that will not let me rest: the wholeness that existed in having a heart that was loved and purpose-filled…and the painstaking awareness that…

Once, I was not like this.

How gracious you are to sit and hear me grieve.

Silent and Great Physician! Examine me and see the depths of this loss!
For only You know my history.

Once there was a time you brought me back from the dead.
But I wandered far from your rescue and celebration and climbed back into this festering hospital ward.

Tell me there is still hope!
Will you lift up a cripple who left you at the alter?
Do You offer Your holy medicine to leprous traitors?

I have nothing left, no payment which to give You. All I own are broken apologies for broken covenants...

Skilled surgeon! Can You do Your waking work on the walking dead?
Will you carry me from a funeral to a wedding?

Say it can be done and I shall gladly give up this shell of a life!
Upon your Word I will breathe my last,
so that my Once, can begin again,
Today.

Winter Haiku

See how golden dog
pours over white washed winter
for black bearded man.

At times.

In the recesses of the mind
there are places I travel
that are sometimes heavy and blue-grey.

It is not for lack of joy or contentment.
I have no hidden darkness or
mourning heart.

Only ever so often it comes in like a fog,
making it difficult to remember the sun.

I am not speaking of the bleakness of depression
or unending nights of hopelessness.
These are real battles and not to be treated lightly by anyone.

I refer simply to that weight that comes from seeking...
from being a glimpse catcher.
Whether it's words or notes or paint strokes,
the discipline of artistry has many price tags.

One of them being a melancholy mist every now and again.

We are taught from childhood to continuously fight the elements.
Put on a coat.
Wear a hat.
Bring an umbrella.

But these times of weary weather have their outcomes.
So I find it best to just let it pass. Wear a sweater.
And bring a pen.

Amelia.

What strange, beauty is this?
That the promise of you, mere inches from my eyes
can turn my gaze ages forward,
so that an entire lifetime
sits hovering above my lap.

There lies one thousand joys and defeats,
all floating in a golden, misty haze.
They are blurred, but they are there.

I do not regard myself a prophet in any sense of the term,
but I cannot deny this skyline of visions.

So if I speak any future truth about our souls, know this.
That you held this heart
long before these arms ever held you.

Shiny Thoughts on Leadership.

My husband is so flipping smart.
I adore him.
His love for the Lord is so evident in what he does.
One area I have really seen God mold him through his job and schooling, is in the area of leadership.
Tonight kicked off the high school monthly series on the topic, and these were the main points that I found myself challenged and encouraged by. The structure and some of the words of the lesson looked a little different from this, but here is what his word-loving wife took from it.

"It doesn't take an ounce of talent to be a critic.
Anyone can point a finger or find a flaw."
The true leaders are the learners. The ones who know how little they actually know.

Conversely, the masses are masters of everything.
while simultaneously never experiencing anything.

They never suffer loss, because they never take a risk.
And they think that's what makes them great.
But a perfect track record isn't what people are looking for.

What makes a leader different from the crowd?
The leap. The unknown.
It's always the risk itself that builds respect.

Far better is it to stumble through life a bold and inquiring student,
than to be a self-proclaimed expert
with nothing but a portfolio of other people's shortcomings and failed attempts.

Don't forget that the majority of people want to be led. They want to be taken on a journey or be a part of great change...even if they never openly admit it.

But if you're never humble enough to seek counsel, (Proverbs 9:10-12)
never empathetic enough to understand the view of another, (1 Peter 3:8-9)
and never filled with enough integrity to gain respect, (1 Timothy 3:1-2)
then you'll never have a leg to stand on.

And if you don't have a leg to stand on,
you certainly won't be leading anyone to anywhere epic at anytime soon.

Facing the Music.

It struck me recently that when given opportunities to write about anything I please..how much of a strain imagination is to me now. When did that muscle become so flabby? I cringe when I wave and the skin beneath my arms waves back at me. Obviously, this has never been a sought after beauty trend, and I am troubled. But when I sit and stare at a page and discover a weak and jiggly mind... I am haunted. I would take all the waving arms in the world in exchange for a strong creative spirit.

Fortunately for those of us in this state, the cure is as droll and routine as any other physical work out. You set the goals, you do the daily tasks, you stretch and there are lots of liquids. And it's just at the moment when you think that none of those disciplines have made a hair of difference, you wake up one morning and find that it is all fun again. That you can see yourself. Not the thirty-something-receptionist you drinking day old coffee with flabby arms, but the little-girl-clutching-her note-pad-and-bug-collection you. And SHE is the one that can see flying bears and talking trees with no strain at all. And the dancing daisies with their smiling faces tell her, "See, we were here all along, buried under the weight of years of hibernation and all of your grown-uppityness. Welcome back. Now let's run wild now, please."

Heavenly Mysteries.

You are the God that never changes.
Yet you are always on the move.

You are steadfast to the heavens.
Yet living waters to my soul.

You tell me no sin of mine is tallied.
Yet each tear that falls has a count and every hair on my head is numbered.

You are my rock. A mighty fortress. An ever present shield about me.
Yet they call you balm of Gilead. Rose of Sharon. The pearl of great price.

What science is this?
A shield or roses.
A fortress of pearls.
The Cornerstone...that bled.

Lion and Lamb.

Lord and Friend.

Judge and Savior.

You are an eternal enigma in my mind...
Yet a never ending comfort to my heart.

Because you are God.
Without border or definition.
The unified dichotomy.
The living mystery that came to dwell among us

and be known.

You are I AM.

And what I do not understand while asleep on this earth,
I shall have a life time to learn when I awake in Glory.

The Recycling Bin

Things pin-balling around in my brain with no place to go other than here:

This summer there are a lot of fireflies.
More than usual it seems.
I'm not hating it.
It makes watering plants at night
seem like I am watering stars.
***

Be warned.
Anything that says "slimming" on the clothing tag,
does not mean slim through elimination.
That extra cushioning gots to go somewhere, girlfriend.
So make sure you find where it makes its new home
before you hypothetically purchase something without trying it on
and hypothetically take it to a family trip to the dells,
where you hypothetically discover that your nieces or nephews will not
need any flotation devices in the pool.
You do the math.
****

Was talking to a mom at a graduation party.
She was saying how in America, even our toys have toys.
I thought that sounded like a good article.
So I told her that.
Then I told her she should write it.
Which is why I don't have too much more to add onto the subject.
*****

Planting things really makes you appreciate nature.
Yep. It's great.
But it also simultaneously makes you loathe the outdoors at the same time.
For example, I now consider any of these things below my arch nemesis(s):

Rabbits.
Any variety of plant eating bug.
Birds.
Spiders. (Ok, let's be real, I've always hated these).
Lack of rain.
Too much rain.
Peeing dogs.
Clay.
Creeping Charlie.
Dandelions.
Ivy. (That stuff just doesn't quit).
Sandy soil.
And chipmunks.
Just to name a few.
Ahhh gardening. That emotional time of year when you find yourself exclaiming,
"Oh it's so pretty!" and "Die, jerks, Die!" in the same breath.
******

Tips and tricks Pinterest will probably never teach you.

Ironing Boards:
Ain't nobody got time for that.
Sometimes a girls just gotta iron her shirt...
while the shirt is on.

Another use for palate wood:
Bonfires.

How to save time polishing silver:
Don't buy real silver.
*******

At some point in life, I started to become more comfortable
with those silent moments in conversation.
I used to think that as long as two people were always talking,
then it meant that you were always connecting.
And if you weren't, the silence was saying, "hey...something is awkward and off here..."
So I'd try to fill those gaps at all times, never wanting to be awkward or off with someone.
But how silly it is to think that any broken banter automatically equates broken relationships.
Silences can also say,
"Hey, when I'm with you, I am able to rest. Thanks for that."

Salamander Prayers.

Tonights classical radio station transitioned into a cello ensemble through a brief debut of the sciences. They stated that there are some newts and salamanders that hear with their lungs. They then compared this to skill of listening to music. Some compositions, they said, don't need to be heard through the auditory science of hammer, anvil, and stirrup. Rather, that some music can be taken in by breath, the richness of a melody brought into ones very being...

I know. I get it. It's the type of statement that if said out loud at a dinner table could come across as either extremely uppity... or just plain dumb.
However, regardless of my caution towards overly pretentious statements...
I find that I cannot escape the desire to have this "lung listening" be true of me.

So I am praying for something similar tonight...

Oh Lord, let this strange phenomenon be lived in me each hour. May I breathe you in as often as I do the air, and with each inhale, hear your unending symphony of promises-the bedrocks on which I have come to "live and move and have my being.

Supper.

Lights are not what make a dinner table shine.
Nor is food the thing that fills.
Flowers are not the incense
and the dishes don't offer up the nourishment.
It is not the candles that make each face glow,
and music is not what tunes every present heart.
True communion with ones neighbor only stems
from this reverent understanding:

I am here because of you,
and we are here because of Him.

It is with this thought alone that we can truly say to one another,
"Come and dine."

When this rarity of occasions happen,
it is a feast reflectant of the heavens.

Anything less than selflessness when it comes to
table fellowship is but a mere cattle line-
troughs laden with fine china
and lace.

For Our Father.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
― Theodore Roosevelt

To the man that taught me the importance of "daring greatly", long before I ever read these words.
Thank you for being a constant example what it means to follow the Lord, to work hard and play hard,
and for passing along your love of story.

Your daughters lead a charmed life because of your obedient one.

We love you to the moon and back.

The Eldest.

For our Mother.

At the Jensen Home:
We love the Lord and cling to His Word.
We invite weary travelers in need of rest to come and stay.
We believe in good coffee. Always.
We play games.
We make up dances.
We cry openly.
We disagree, but there is resolution.
We adore stories.
We wrap our rice in seaweed.
We work hard.
We forgive.
We celebrate ½ birthdays.
We embrace silence.
We cheer one another on.
We enjoy a clean house but we don’t buckle under messy life situations.
We uphold loyalty.
We remember when music was good and play it loud when we want to dance.
We stay up late talking about victories.
We eat Norwegian pancakes whenever possible.
We make Russian Tea whenever permissible.
We love bonfires.
We hold hands when we pray.
We laugh. A lot.
We check up on one another.
We bake pies and bread.
We sing our children to sleep.
We remind each other to be a blessing.
We give to the point of hurt.
We harbor Italian spirits for people and food.
We treasure Japanese passions of peace and beauty.
We stand up for one another.
We wash our own cars and clean our own carpets.
We relish each others company.
We swim whenever possible, no matter how old we get.
We miss Roy.
We name watermelon, "dessert".
We use olive oil to heal ear infections.
We move picnic tables...

And lastly,
We all share the same truth,
That no matter if separated by distance or time-
our hearts will always be at home.
Even when they aren't beating beneath the same roof.

Diamond Days.

Some days at work can be hard.
Sometimes it feels like failure is a suit coat I put on each morning.
It is heavy and dark and swallows me up.
Those are the mornings that nothing goes right.
I spill my coffee.
My complexion is angry and splotchy.
I have unruly hair and I overreact to every question or correction.
Each patient that walks through the door seems to demand more than
my pumping heart can handle. And they can be mean.
Gosh can people be mean.
So those days are hard.

But.

There are also days like yesterday.
Filled with a moment like this one,
in which every struggle fades into the background,
and one is simply left... holding a miracle.

...

He would walk through the door with a cap in one hand
and his cane in the other. His step was slow but his wit was quick.
He was of the kind who was kind. Always a discerning eye and
the ability to look into yours and make you feel important.
He was magnetic.
And when he drew you in, you never left empty handed.

Take for example the last time I saw him.
I stood making his usual cup of coffee and he asked
me questions about my husband. He listened and smiled
as he always did. He'd been married for nearly 50 years.
So I asked him if he had any advice and he leaned slowly over and told me.
It was lovely.
So I held onto it.

That was six months ago.
Fast forward to yesterday.

A women came in with a face I did not recognize,
but with a last name we all did. I waited until the reception area cleared
and it was just her.

"Excuse me, but you're last name is so familiar...are you by chance related to..."

"Yes." She said. "He was my husband."

None of us moved.
That one word.

Was...

Past tense.
She nodded quietly. Tears were forming as she confirmed it.
He had passed just over a month ago she told us.
More patients arrived on the scene.
Phones started ringing and the hustle and bustle of office life broke the silence.
Not wanting to further extend or make spectacle of her grief,
we quietly offered her our condolences
and expressed to her that which she already knew-
how much he was loved by everyone he met.
She thanked us graciously and took her seat.

I sat behind my desk and stared at the keyboard.
Hot tears began to well up and spill over onto the keys.
I remained motionless, hating myself that in those moments of loss
I so rarely know what to do or what to give someone.

But suddenly there it was- the memory of my last conversation with him came tumbling to the forefront of my mind,
as if it knew it had something important to give even before I did.

So I stood up and walked over to her.
I asked her if it would be alright to share something.
This of course took her by surprise but she obliged. I took a seat
and took her hand, exactly as he had done with mine 6 months prior.
It was wrinkled, soft, and warm. Just like his.

"He told me a secret the last time I saw him. About your marriage.
Would you like to know what that was?" I asked her.

At this point her hands began to tremble but her eyes were clear and strong.

"Yes. I would like that very much" she said.

So I brought out the gift that had been entrusted to me that half a year ago.
(the one I had kept for its' simple truth and beauty)
and handed it back to her. It was then I realized it was always hers to begin with,
that I was just keeping it safe until the right time.
I took a deep breath and began.

I told her how he had pointed out the window to their car
and whispered that the key to his wonderful life was sitting in the passenger seat
waiting for him, napping in the sun.

I told her how he called her his beautiful bride and how his face lit up when he said it.

And lastly, I told her how tall he stood when he said that he woke up every single morning with the realization
that if he had the choice each day of winning the lottery or being married to his best friend, he would pick her.
Every time.

"Every time" I told her.

When I was finished I sat quietly, fearful that perhaps I had overstepped my bounds.

"Have you heard him tell you that before?" I asked.

Her silence and and steady gaze made me think that perhaps she had,
or that perhaps I was making things harder and should have kept it all to myself...

But then her countenance began to morph.
Her smile grew until she was shining,
and sweet tears began to flow.

"No. No dear, I have not...not in those words exactly..."

She did not say anything more.
We both sat in the stillness of it all.

Shortly after, her name was called and she was brought back. The moment ended just as suddenly as it had been made. A half hour later she waved quietly to me as she left. I mouthed her a goodbye while I finished checking in the next patient. And just like that, she was gone.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. All the typical phone calls, typical scheduling, typical to do lists...
Nothing had changed...
And yet somehow...it all was different.

Even now as I sit a full day later,
the magnitude of those 5 minutes is still so humbling.

Because somehow, in an empty waiting room in Rockford Illinois, God allowed a failure-adorned receptionist to deliver something exquisite.

A love letter.

Yes.
It's all still true.
Some days at work can be hard.
But yesterday, dear friends,
was not that day.

What might God have in store for you today?

The call.

You.

You are more than your day job.
More than piles of laundry or coffee mugs in the sink.
You scribble words on napkins.
You see sunsets in phrases.
Your worth goes deeper than lack of publication.

You are not a runner.
You are a seeker.
You were designed to look for gold in passing glances.
You were purchased by blood.
You are being drawn to the Savior with chords of loving kindness.
You have a story worth sharing.
You have a Hope worth handing out.

It is not glamorous.
You fight time.
You argue with self doubt.
You avoid the critic.
You wrestle with jealousy.
This makes you weary.
But you are not a quitter.
Because
Greater is He that is in you than he that is in the world.

He is your battle fighter.
He is the lifter of your head.
Your Africa lies in notebooks.
Your mission field resides on the other side of the blinking cursor.
He beckons early each morning to "take up your cross."

So pick up your pen...
and write.

Evening guests.

I told them, "Come on out little, spring stars. Now is not the season to be shy." So they did. And we drank up the sun until we were drunk. And it was a lovely time.

No things wasted.

Last spring while en route to work, I glimpsed something magnificent in the morning sun. A giant magnolia tree with its pale, delicate petals seemingly had blossomed overnight. The sudden burst of ivory and pink after a bleak, grey winter was a comforting gift from the Lord.

You see, it had been a trying several months before that. Long days of frustrations and self-doubt. There were times when I wondered if the promise, “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion”, [Phil.1:6 NIV] was actually one I could call my own.

But in that one moment, as I looked up at that tree, it was as if the Lord whispered, “You see? While you were waiting, I was working.”

That evening I wrote the following words with the windows open and one magnolia blossom in a vase on my desk. The words continue to remind me that if the Lord is able to bring about a flower through seasons of ice and snow, then surely He has further wonders planned for a restless heart in the midst of a similar season.





Sweet magnolia. You are more than a sudden overnight blessing of richness and beauty. Your petals are but the closing notes of your soulful concerto. The beginning of your melody was a rhythm of unheard struggles beneath snow-covered boughs.

Months on end you remained still, a chest tight with promise. Shades of velvet and ivory were hidden deep within your bones.

But dark nights and icy winds did not deter you from what you knew to be true in every season. That the Painter, the Creator, the Sustainer…
Is the One who brings life when there appears to be only death.
This very dawn is one that you knew would come. He called you out and you came forth shining. Dew covered and radiant.

Oh Lord, let this Magnolia-art be found within this dormant soul. Remind me daily of Who it is that You are and what it is that You do. What I perceive as lack of movement does not mean lack of life. And lack of sun does not mean lack of hope.

We wait and you work.

So that when you call us out, we will come forth shining -- reflections of our Maker.

Frozen. (Not the Disney Movie)

Winter afternoon. from Jessi on Vimeo.

A lot of times I find myself wishing I could freeze time. Not every waking minute obviously. Just the moments that get you in your gut and bring you to your knees in gratitude. The ones where you lift your gaze at a dinner table and realize you wouldn't want to be with anyone else in the world. The one where a child giggles from their belly and can't stop. The moments of great conversation over a not so great cup of pancake diner coffee. It's the moment you pull into your driveway and know you are about to walk through front door into a place of unconditional love. And it's all wonderful. So wonderful in fact,that we want to slow it down. Or better yet, freeze it entirely. We think to ourselves that maybe,if we can stop the movement, we could stop the moment and stay in it forever.

Sounds wonderful doesn't it? Living in a world of eternal family dinners and laughing babies. But after this past winter's stint...I'm not so sure.

This week was a rough one for the midwest. Anyone within a 5 state radius from Illinois knows the kind of "rough" I am speaking of. The one where negative temperatures and wind chills closed schools, killed car engines, broke water heaters, and burst pipes.

The Monday morning when temps were at their lowest, I opened the porch door to let the dog out and was amazed at the new level of freezing that we were experiencing and what negative 30 does to an environment.

Each step I took made the wood porch sound as though it had cracked in two. The air was sharp and when I exhaled, the moisture from my breath seemed to break and shatter into millions of pieces at my feet. Even standing there for only a few minutes lent itself to aching lungs. And the things that used to sway and move freely in our back yard were petrified and stiff. The branches, the wheat grass, each just motionless shells of what they used to be.

As the long week went by, I began to think more on this idea of all things frozen...

In our home, the coffee is made and a candle is lit. The dishes are done and the bread timer dings. Wool slippers my grandma made me, make scooting noises on the wood floor. My dog sits at my husbands feet and begs to lick the bowl from our dinner of homemade beef stew. A friend texts me to tell me she has prayed for me. Everything is warm and beautiful. And every thing is fleeting.

And today it hit me. That is why I love them. Because every beautiful moment in my life that I can recall, was not stoic or frozen. They were soft and lovely and uncatchable. The air was never sharp and never cracked when I moved. The unfrozen moments always let me sit, let me breathe...let me laugh.

It's a strange enigma to think that the fact that we are completely powerless to freeze time is the very reason that we are able to experience the glowing beauty that it brings. That if we really were able to do as we so often wish and freeze what we love, that it would be tragically counter productive. That instead, there would be a lot more dead, broken, and bursting things. There would be lot more pain in our lungs and a lot of unmoving shells that used to be souls.

I am sure this is not the last I will ever yearn to keep something still forever. I know myself better than that. For example, at this stage in life I'm not a parent, and I'm sure that comes with a built in backpack of frozen wishes all it's own.

But I do hope I remember what I've learned this season in 2014. So that as things in our life come and go I'll see them for what they are. A precious gift, meant to be opened and then let go of, carried off with the wind.
Also because if I have to go through another winter like this one to be re-taught this truth, I"m not our closets have enough storage space for any more pairs of fleece lined leggings.