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Showing posts from June, 2012


• Apparently, we are the only ones around here with dogs that insist upon barking even after bedtime.

• Apparently, dogs who diligently alert folks to late night cat fights do not suit our neighbors.

• Apparently, they have never known truly villainous dogs who steal cakes from carports and chicken from grills, as we have.

• Apparently, they've never met a dog who would enter through a cat door uninvited and unannounced and help himself to a meal and a couch nap.

• Apparently, this is not that good of a dog.

• Apparently, in barking, the dogs have broken a law.

• Apparently, those who have law abiding dogs afford little clemency to those who don't.

• Apparently, in THIS neighborhood, such crimes require a police presence.

• Apparently, midnight is not too late for a friendly neighborhood police officer to ring the doorbell and inform zealous dogs that this behavior will not be tolerated.

• Apparently, around HERE, late night cat disputes are expected to settle themselves and …

Gonna shine again.

I cannot bear your burden but my heart can.
I cannot know your pain but my prayers can.
I cannot hear the voices that haunt you but I can relate them well to my own.

Your story is not mine but I've seen it's curse before, smothered in the darkest kind of hopelessness, spanning lifetimes.

Our own voices that wish and fear and struggle and regret and mourn all funnel through the same filter where His Grace is waiting to restore and refresh. Sufficient and omniscient.

Already it is abundant in your life with the love spilling across your table and into the lives of everyone around you by you and by virtue of those that come through you. These Lovelies at your table are the compensation for the darkness and the brokenness and the pain because your joy is their innocence. Your joy is their freedom as the curse upon you is broken.

It stops with them because you say so. Because you are stronger. Because greater is He in you than generations of curses.

And Wholeness is still to come…

Hey, Nineteen.

I don't know why I did but I would regularly allow my Big Son access to mud. Maybe it was my youth or naive tranquility or possibly ignorance but, I could celebrate such liveliness back then. Nothing seemed like too much trouble or, perhaps, I felt it was my obligation to let him explore the most innate parts of himself. So mud it was.

His sheer delight was to immerse himself in a brown puddle, preferably creating a dip in the earth. A chasm, if you will. Unsatisfied until his clothes became permanently dingy, he'd then go for another round. He spent the entirety of his 3rd birthday in a mud puddle alongside a sparkling swimming pool as I coaxed him away with cake and presents.

My philosophy leans natural but, since those uncertain days, balance and moderation have reared their practical heads.

While mud is fun, efficiency is peaceful.
While experiments have their place, parameters are necessary.
While love can be sloppy, it can also be graceful.

Big Son doesn't care fo…

More than a feeling.

Recognizing individual value is trickier than it seems because God doesn't use pure minds so much as pure hearts.

The mind follows, given to understand a purpose is a blessing even if both stand before you now, mostly getting on your nerves.

That's the tricky part.

Maybe it's time to slow down just enough to recognize where you're needed most and stop pushing to create a need elsewhere.

Love can find it's way even through a gridlock of Self and He knows the plans he has for me but am I listening with my whole heart?

Because sometimes a purpose lasts longer than it seems it should. Even as compassion fatigue sets in, gift intertwines with burden.

Perhaps the trick is to
rather than simply

Breathed Your fragrance on me.

Although anxious to get acquainted, Lovin' Man was unsure. When you cried out from the fresh, cool air and strange, new ways, he feared the worst. A nurse fussed and fixed while he waited nearby for his chance. During a lull in the bustle, I smile. A nod of encouragement. I really would make it. We're always doing this. It's just birthing babies.

"Can I touch her?" Of course. "She's yours." I laugh. That's the cutest thing ever until this next thing.

He is wide eyed, stretching one gentle finger towards your baby toe and, just as quickly, pulls away. Because he's not familiar with the rules and you might break. Still, you are officially welcomed and now he knows what those songs mean. He wrote for you.

Later, you will fuss and fuss at us but he won't remember. All he knows is sweet, soft cheeks. A dimpled hand reaching out. Round, wet eyes drinking in the sight of each other.

"Where my daddy is?" Your first sentence was earl…

I would've liked you anyway.

Vacationing as a child included state parks and nature trails and yogurt filled coolers and cookies with sunflower seeds because it was the seventies. (Mom was Seventies Fabulous.)

Dad, a nature lover, preferred a more cost efficient family memory. We enjoyed breathtaking vistas from every elevation across the southern U.S.A.
Waterfalls? He knows 'em.
Colorful fall foliage? Just what the doctor ordered.
Roadside icons. Caves. Gigantic rock formations. Dad showed us the world through his folk artist lens.

Large crowds and $4 beverages render him a buzz kill so he's no longer allowed to go to amusement parks. Nowadays, we hand him a car mag and give him a beach view. Perhaps a couple of those seventies cookies. (Only ditch the seeds and add chocolate.)

More recent family road trips involve stops for every praline and fudge treat known to man, compliments of Lovin' Man. Fresh squeezed orange juice? Let them boys have a gallon. Talking shark heads. State shaped magnets. Enorm…

NTGOAP but it's only June.

• The den above the garage is a wreck and clearly, there is only one capable of making it not so.

• I have been banned from organizing and cleaning the den above the garage because it's "not my lookout".

• I will bide my time on that situation but a can of Pledge may not.

• Simply driving through the park of a Thursday evening reduces me to Not That Good when I should instead feel inspired.

• I soothe my park inspired anxiety by tsk tsking at the state of things. Trash and what not.

• Until I remember the den above the garage.

• Now I'm fresh out of procrastinating excuses.

• Each week, I leave something undone from the last.

• Some task lists get moved ahead 3 or 4 times before they are accomplished.

• I just remembered something needs done so there goes my park outing.

• But, that was last week.

Keep on turning out and burning out.

Sometimes, reality abruptly plucks you from your groove then chases away inspiration.

You hope it's only for a season but fear creeps into the tracks in your wake.

Sometimes, contentment and relief are the culprits, derailing trains of thought as well as enthusiasm.

You wonder if one whose misery is their muse is not that good of a person after all.

Sometimes, weird sneaks up on you but junk is only junky.

You can't have junk for content's sake.

Sometimes, you've simply exhausted every allowable subject.

You wonder if there's still time to bow out gracefully.

Sometimes, a crossroad is reached.

You drum your fingers and wait.

Sometimes, there's just nothing else for it.

He'll give you plenty of trouble.

Mr. Sugarman calls himself the boss of us, purring and kneading his way into hearts and minds. But he's not the boss of me.

He hops onto the bed at the end of a day and after an extended and mysterious absence. Casually, he beckons for obeisance by handsomely placing himself just out of reach. But he's not the boss of me.

As I try and coax him to be my love thing, he simply throws a haughty look over his furry shoulder. He is aloof to my pleading. But he's not the boss of me.

He stretches and yawns, then settles his fuzzy self into my fuzzy robe by curling into the smallest Sugarman he can be. But he's not the boss of me.

Later, I will discover that warm weather is truly upon us, evidenced by ginger blonde fluff branding my once white lounge wear.

As he deems me worthy, he is allowed to lay himself prostrate across my upper body. He sleeps deeply while I breathe shallow.

But he's not the boss of me.

For it is I whom he waits upon to pour his kittles from the big o…