Divine Imperfections

Five Minute Friday: RED

 

Loving him was red.

Taylor Swift, who still feels 22.

And, I’m angry.

 

 

Kitchen appliances. Books neglected on the counter.

So much to do. So much left undone.

 

 

Red, like the flashing lights on so many machines. 

Machines pumping fluids. Machines removing fluids.

 

And on her cheeks, while hooked up to all those monstrocities.  

They’re doing the things a body should.

Things her body was able to do, just hours before.

 

But now she lies there, paralyzed not by circumstance but by fear of the pain. 

With flushed cheeks, and strained movements, and a fear in her eyes I’ve never seen before.

 

Red.

 

Why God? She loves you.

 

Never has a woman loved you more.

 

She talks about you, with the nurses, with her guests.

She talks about you, and your will being done, and how you have the power to heal, but that she’ll accept whatever lot in life you give her.

 

Right now her lot is a mechanized bed, one filled with scratchy sheets, and so many tubes, and she doesn’t have to say it.

I can see in her face she’s angry.

Still, she praises you.

 

That one little fall could land her here…

 

I'm frustrated for her.

She says she went short on her quiet time the morning it happened.

She blames herself.

 

But I blame you.

 

 

Why God? 

Are you as angry as you seem?

 

So spiteful you would pick on someone already small, and frail?

 

I don’t want to believe it.

I don’t want to feel it.

But I look out the window at a sea of cityscape and back in, to nurses scuttling, and people struggling, and my heart aches.

 

The world is not as it should be.

 

Why, why God, don’t you intervene?

 

 

Please tell me you’re not a vengeful God, that strikes old women down because they prayed for 30 minutes instead of an hour.

 

Tell me you’re not a tyrant, doing as you will, with no regards for all the lives you’ve created, seeming pawns in a cruel cosmic game.

 

Tell me you see her, and hear her faint prayers as she drifts into a medicated sleep.

Tell me you hear me, and the words unspoken, behind my own tears and worries.

 

I am pleading for justice. And mercy.

But most of all for grace.

 

 

And I’m begging you to tell me you’re not at all the God the televangelists have painted you to be.

Nor the meek shepherd hanging on so many wood-planked church walls.

 

Tell me you’re more than the light we’ve seen you in before.

Tell me you’re greater, and gentler, than the Old Testament stories used to bash gays and push political ideologies.

 

Tell me anything, God.

 

Say anything, God.

 

That I might not walk away from another hospital room, so angry with you.

 

- 30 - 

 

I haven't been able to write much lately. And what I have scratched out I've lacked the confidence to post.

I've had a hard time articulating to friends and family how I feel too, so these weekly free-writing exercises have been something of a life-saver, forcing me to examine my thoughts, instead of running from them.

 

I'm thankful they've forced me to ask the questions ever tiptoeing on my tongue, instead of keeping my mouth shut, silently choking on all that is unsaid.

 

This, apparently, is a raw season for me. A season of painfully slow growing and struggling to move forward, out of the stagnant waters I've been wading in.

For my praying friends, I hope you'll keep me in yours, and more importantly my family as my grandmother - ever a fighter! - begins rehabilitation after a hip replacement surgery. 

 

It's gonna be a strange, winding road. But I hope to share it with you.

Not all of it, mind you, but just enough that those of you on the same dark path might know you're not alone.

 

My dad, very subtly, left a book for me this morning. 

The chapter titles weren't appealing, but one did catch my eye.

 

Chapter Twelve: The Wisdom of God.

 

I'm still digesting what it said, but I'll leave you with the words that jumped out at me as I had my daily cup this morning.

 

"Wisdom, among other things, is the ability to devise perfect ends and to achieve those ends by the most perfect means. It sees the end from the beginning, so there can be no need to guess or conjecture. Wisdom sees everything in focus, each in proper relation to all, and is thus able to work toward predestined goals with flawless precision.

All God's acts are done in perfect wisdom, first for His own glory, and then for the highest good of the greatest number for the longest time. And all his acts are as pure as they are wise, and as good as they are wise and pure. Not only could His acts not be better done: a better way to do them could not be imagined. An infinitely wise God must work in a manner not to be improved upon by finite creatures."

- A.W. Tozer, The Knowledge of the Holy (italics mine)

 

 

 

Five Minute Friday: Broken

 

I always hated broken. Mismatched. Torn.

I was quick to throw away, to replace, anything with a flaw.

 

 

Into the trash stuff went, at the first sign of wear.

I wanted shiny. 

I wanted new.

 

I wanted, perfect.

 

 

And I still struggle with wanting perfect.

That's not something I outgrew with my teens.

 

But the older I get, the more I catch myself craving character instead.

 

I want the actual antique, with dirt and rust.

Not the shiny replica I can buy much cheaper from a big brand store.

 

 

I want the real thing. Authentic. Vintage.

Cause there’s a story there. There’s beauty there, in the cracks and imperfections.

 

 

How I wish I’d developed this taste much sooner. Before so many bruises and scars marred my own skin. 

Skin I thought only held as much value as Glamour magazine deemed fit.

Skin that was best if it was flawless.

Clear.

Void of any “imperfections.”

 

 

Only now am I beginning to see my skin, like all the stuff contained within it, as better for the “imperfections.”

The stuff that makes me me.

 

 

The chicken pox scar. And the new one from the burnt caramel.

The spot above my elbow, from when I fell off my bike.

And the scars you can’t see, from the broken hearts, and the wayward years.

 

Those things make me unique.

Unlike any other.

 

 

All that brokenness I was so afraid of.

The stuff I tried to hide for so long.

 

It has shaped me into the person I am.

Just as future hurts, and falls, will continue to make me into the person I was meant to be.

 

 

What I once saw as weakness. As faults that would lessen my value…

I now see as character. As stories worth telling.

 

Each scar represents a necessary part of my journey.

Each broken bit is the result of some step I had to take.

 

 

 

Some were painful.

Some were scarring.

But all were necessary, every single step.

 

 

Brokenness is not a bad thing. 

It’s beautiful in fact. 

Because it reminds us we’re vulnerable. Just flesh and blood.

 

It reminds us we’re human.

People.

Each of us.

In this together.

 

 

We all have our own scars. And our own stories.

And those broken bits are what send us all in search of healing.

 

The brokenness is what reminds us to keep searching for the Healer.

 

 

I haven't written in a very long while. And while I've missed it, I think it's been good for me to take a break.

I also think it's fitting that my "return" would be this, talking about brokenness, a subject dear to my heart, especially now.

 

I spent a lot of time trying to outrun my own brokenness. A lot of time.

But I didn't gain much ground.

Instead I kept running into the same struggles, which summed up simply, centered on my fallibility.

 

I've spent most of my life knowing a lot about how to be a good Christian. That's not to say I've been one, only that I've known the "how tos." 

I felt secure in my knowledge of spiritual things.

Where I've struggled, and I mean really struggled, is with my humanity. My pesky fleshness. 

I have hated how prone I am to wonder. To worry. To get caught up in all my limitations.

 

But this past month I've been learning a lot about what it takes to be a good human.

What is required to be a person, fully functioning, in flesh and in Spirit.

 

It sounds crazy, to be pushing 30, and only be beginning to learn how to live on this earth.

But that's where I'm at, in a nutshell.

Learning, how to bloom here.

Where I'm planted.

In dirt. And earth.

With flesh. And blood.

 

I have so very much to learn.

 

Maybe someday I'll come back and talk more about embracing my brokenness, as a way of moving forward, finally.  

For now I'll say that I'm more and more convinced with each passing day, and each conversation, that we - as people - have far more in common than anything that separates us.

 

And I'm hoping that moving forward I'll be bolder in sharing my own stories, both the happy and the sad ones, as a means of reaching out and connecting with others.

Mostly because I know now how helpful it's been for me to hear the stories of courageous friends and frontrunners.

People that have gone before me, and people alongside me in this life journey. 

People brave enough to share their brokenness.

 

How I admire their courage.

FMF Friday: Belong

 

I need to move forward. The past no longer fits.

 

I no longer fit there, at least.

 

I need some place new.

 

 

 

But the voices beckoning me from somewhere beyond where I stand.

 

The ones that have already chosen different paths, after reaching the fork in the road I’m staring at.

 

 

 

They’re too far ahead for me to follow their voices.

 

I am alone. At a crossroads.

 

And I am scared to take the next step.

 

 

 

Already I miss those people behind me.

 

The ones I left behind when I started this journey.

 

And maybe they’re on their own journeys too, moving forward in a different direction.

 

Moving forward at a different pace.

 

 

 

All I know is they’re not here with me now, to help me make this decision, the way they always used to.

 

Like those people that ran on before me, they cannot come back to help me make this choice.

 

 

 

I must decide, for myself, which path I will choose.

 

And I must choose to take this journey at my own pace.

 

 

It is hard, feeling alone.

 

But it is necessary, right now.

 

 

I can’t be pushed or pulled into a direction, not this time.

 

I must, instead, boldly go my own way.

 

 

But first I must be here. Alone.

 

In the quiet.

 

 

At least I feel alone until I’ve stopped yelling for help from the familiar faces elsewhere on the road.

 

Until my sobbing has subsided at last.

 

And there’s only silence.

 

 

Silence.

 

And then, a small voice in the distance.

 

A voice vague but familiar, both up ahead and behind.

 

And somehow It is present right there with me.

 

 

 

“Be still,” it says.

 

And I am.

 

 

 

Such a short sentence, but its impact is profound.

 

Not only does it give me permission to take the time I need to make a choice.

 

It gives me the certainty I need to know no path will be walked down alone.

 

 

No choice, from this fork, is a wrong one.

 

No choice, including taking more time, will keep me from all I really want.

 

 

 

 

The voice assures me I have a place. I have a home.

 

Some place I belong.

 

Where I am loved, exactly as I am.

 

Where I will be supported, no matter what choices I make.

 

 

 

It’s at the fork in the road that I remember my home isn’t made of brick and mortar.

 

It’s not confined to one place, in space and time.

 

It is anywhere I am that He is also.

 

 

And since He’s everywhere, I am always at home.

 

 

I will always belong.

 

Because I will always be His.

 

 

Even if I lose my way.

 

I can’t lose Him.

Five Minute Friday: Rhythm

 

I’ve never had great rhythm, which is very Baptist of me I know.

But it’s also pretty frustrating, since I would love to be able to dance.

 

 

My mother is a great dancer; she’s got natural rhythm and grace.

Me, notsomuch. I mostly flail, with music in the background.

 

 

I toss my arms and my legs about, with deliberate force but unreliable speed.

Simply put, I spazz.

And it is neither graceful nor cute. (At least after the age of five.)

 

 

In junior high band I was decent at tapping my shoe with the percussion line. But if the director threw in one too many eighth notes, things started getting sloppy.

I never did master the perfect rhythm it takes to meet a set mid-air for a glorious spike either. Hence me ending my volleyball career much earlier than I would have liked. 

And in spite of being included in the sixth-grade drill team (which was like a twisted consolation prize for those who didn’t make the cheerleading squad – there was so very little velvet for my pudgy butt to squeeze into) I never could, nor can I now, command a dance floor.

 

It only makes sense then, that when I get one too many things juggling in the air, or when I bite off a bit more than I can chew (like gum while walking), that I start to feel frazzled. 

And frazzled is of course code for FREAKED OUT. 

 

My instinct is to panic when I feel overwhelmed.

 

I'm like a giraffe learning to walk on a halfway frozen pond.

My legs give out under me, and I find myself on my butt.

 

Cold. Discouraged. Tired. Sore from so many falters.

 

I am not one to be graceful under pressure.

I’m lucky if I’m mostly able to keep on my feet.

 

 

And I wish I was one of those girls that could handle all things with grace, like Audrey Hepburn’s doe-eyed characters clamoring their way through dance moves and laughable predicaments.

 

I wish I could have perfect hair, and not miss a beat at work while still managing to keep an immaculate house and hot, home cooked meals on a candlelit dinner table each night.

 

 

But, I’m not Audrey Hepburn, or a character in a movie. Or a ‘50’s housewife. Or a classically-trained dancer (like my mom).

I'm the spazzy young girl in a sequined leotard, with the unsure smile. The one that only ever learned one real tap move.

And I’m that sixth-grader holding a clarinet, confidently tapping my toe along with the beat, until a change of pace comes along and throws me totally off track.

 

I’m that awkward girl in the back of the drill team, uncomfortably squished into spandex, hoping no one notices all my many missteps.

I'm a spazz. A mess. Lacking in gracefulness.

 

But not lacking in grace.

'Cause thank God there is enough of that to go around.

Unlike dance moves, and rhythm, it is not in short supply.

 

It is abundant, and encompassing.

And it covers all the bruises from my falls.

 

 

I was never good at looking ahead in the music, to see what shifts and changes were lying in wait on each coming page.

But even if I had mastered the art of reading sheet music, life’s steps aren’t so clearly laid out.

 

 

I don’t think there’s a no note by note, play by play, guide for how to get through this life, though many people have tried to tell me there is.

 

They offer expensive self-help books. Or point me to highlighted passages in their Bible’s. As if the words in Genesis should be treated like something printed from GoogleMaps.

Turn right here. In .03 miles take a left.

 

 

That’s a nice notion. And it’d sure be handy. But I don’t think we were meant to see every step coming down the road.

That doesn't sound much like faith to me.

 

In fact... 

I think faith is more like accepting an invitation to dance to a song you don’t know
than it's like taking cues from your car’s GPS.

 

 

I think it’s about trusting your partner to show you the way, one step at a time.

About trusting He won’t let you fall, or look like too much of a fool.

 

 

It is easier to face the tough parts of life trusting that God is there for you, and walking, swaying, with you through whatever you face.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Or uncomplicated. Or that it comes naturally to all who believe.

 

Some people (like me!) struggle, taking steps of faith.

Some people (like me!) struggle trying to dance that rhythm of grace. 

Some people (like me!) spazz and freak and fall, a lot.

 

But that doesn't mean God isn't good. Or real. 

And it doesn't mean the dance isn't worth it.

 

Lately I’ve been fumbling even more than I’m used to. I’m missing notes, and missing steps. And it's tempting to give up altogether, as out of sync as I feel.

 

But I’m also learning. And growing. Painfully slowly. 

Through trying. And failing. And trying again.

 

 

I’m living, in and out of rhythm. Missing steps here and there.

But continuing in this dance all the same.

Thankful for a God who doesn’t disregard me 'cause I'm sometimes disgraceful, or insist I master all the moves before inviting me into the dance.

 

And thankful for people on this same journey, that know what it is to foul up royally.

People that extend grace themselves, as they learn the moves.

As we learn a new rhythm.

Five Minute Friday: FALL

It’s terrifying, falling.

 

Realizing you’ve lost your grip, your touch with the world, and that there’s nothing you can do about it.

 

 

It’s scary, knowing you’re bound to face plant on concrete. And that even when you do manage to stand again, you’ll never be the same.

 

 

There will be scars. There will be bruises.

 

There will be permanent reminders of that time you lost it.

 

 

That time you did the thing no one wants to do.

 

The time you fell.

 

 

But sometimes falling can be exhilarating too. It can mean accepting your fragile state, your humanity, and accepting that you can’t always have it all together.

 

It reminds you that sometimes you need a break.

 

And when you’re too busy, or stubborn, to take one, life often throws one your way.

 

 

 

Giving up control is never easy.

 

Whether it be by choice, circumstance, or unfortunate accident.

 

That’s probably why so few people ever do so with any semblance of grace.

 

 

But along with the discouragement, the feelings of failure…

 

A fall brings a reset.

 

A chance to start again.

 

 

It brings an opportunity to choose bravery.

 

And bravery is always required to get back on the bike, or the proverbial horse.

 

Stepping back out into the world, where more failure undoubtedly awaits, takes courage that often goes overlooked.

 

But it’s so crucial to reaching for success.

 

 

Success, like faith, requires a willingness to fall.

 

A willingness to be made a fool.

 

A willingness to try again, even though you’re likely to fail.

 

Not only because you want to succeed, which you do.

 

But because that’s the only way to learn anything in this wonky life.

 

 

By trying. And failing.

 

By stepping. And falling.

 

And then stepping again. Wobbling as needed.

 

 

As you go through life, not gracefully, but surrounded by abundant grace.

 

 

Standing, or falling, you are accepted.

 

You’re more than fine.

 

 

Because you’re in unshaky arms.

 

You’re held in the steadiest of hands.

 

 

 

Hands that aren’t human, but know well what it’s like.

 

To be a girl, against the concrete.

 

 

Just a girl, stumbling along.

 

Afraid of the fall, but more afraid to remain still.

- - - - - - - - - - 

This is what came out of my brain in five minutes of thinking about "Fall."

It's part of a writing group I've enjoyed participating in called FIVE MINUTE FRIDAY, in which a bunch of people freewrite about a new prompt each week.

Learn more about it at Lisa Jo Baker's lovely website.

Five Minute Friday: A New VIEW

Before I share my five minutes of free writing, I want to share a tiny story.

It helps explain where my head is at today, which is overwhelmed by how complicated life really is.

 

I walked to the local burger joint to pick up a BLT this afternoon, and was approaching the front entrance when an elderly man offered to get the door for me.

Only he was the same exact distance away from the door as me, but moving at a considerably slower pace. (He probably limited himself to one cup of coffee this morning, unlike me all jacked up on two.)

 

Anyways, I rushed to the door not because I wanted to beat him to get in line, or because I'm some hardcore feminist that won't allow a man to do anything for me.

It's just that I was taught to respect my elders (which he clearly was, by 46 years I found out while he stood in line). The seniors always ate first at church potlucks.

So I wanted to hold the door open for him and let him go before me.

 

Only instead of it coming across as a gracious gesture, or one of respect, I'm pretty sure I crushed that poor little man's heart.

He looked so disappointed when I tried to hold the door open for him.

And while I waited for my to-go order I sat there riddled with guilt.

 

It seemed like the right thing, as I darted for the door.

I only wanted to open the door for him, the cute little man that looked like the grumpy gus from UP, whom I think all old men look like, but this one actually did, glasses and all.

 

Life isn't always easy.

And I kinda hate that.

 

Sometimes we face impossible decisions. Like which goes first, the old dude or the girl?

Or much more difficult ones.

 

I still don't know the answer to that question. And it kinda bugs me.

But the tough questions don't bother me quite as much as they used to.

 

And this - this prompt - this new view, might be why.

 

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

 

I used to think life worked like the Highlights Magazine we received in the mail, or the Disney movies I knew by heart.

 

I thought good guys were easy to pick out, ‘cause they were usually wearing white hats, or giving girls glass slippers.

Bad guys were just as easy to spot in those days, with their red, evil eyes. Their cloaks. And their henchmen/hyennas/creepy eels.

 

But lately I’m thinking things aren’t as simple as they seemed to me as a kid.

 

Struggles are not at all the way Goofus and Gallant depicted them.

They're not nearly so straightforward. 

 

Yea I still believe in right and wrong.

I still believe good and evil exist.

 

I just have doubts about the black and whiteness of it all.

 

 

 

Lately, my view is changing.

Lately, so much of life seems so very grey.

 

 

I would love to have a clear-cut guideline for how to make the right choice every in every situation.

But sometimes there aren’t wrong or right choices.

 

There are only choices. 

A whole sea, sometimes, of grey choices.

 

 

There are good options, and better options.

Bad options. And worse options.

 

 

But those options aren’t always black and white.

 

The right decision isn’t always crystal clear.

 

 

Life is fuzzy.

Life is tough. 

Life is filled with a whole slew of things that can’t be neatly categorized, problems that can't be resolved in a 30-minute sitcom, or a cliche-filled cartoon.

 

 

I used to love how simply I viewed the world.

 

But lately that worldview just doesn’t fit anymore.

 

And I’m growing, slowly, reluctantly okay with that.

 

 

 

Life is just life.

 

It’s black and white, and a million colors in between.

 

 

It’s grey sometimes.

 

But it’s good too.

 

 

Seeing things differently sometimes hurts like hell.

But it also means I’m still growing.

And there's something to be said for that.

 

It might even mean I’m growing up.

Painfully slowly.

 

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

 

For those of you interested, Five Minute Friday is a great group of mostly ladies who get together on Fridays to talk about a different topic each week.

The catch, or the beauty, of the bloghop is that you're supposed to write for five minutes flat. No editing. No second guessing. No worrying.

Just writing.

 

It's freeing. And wonderful. And a very supportive group of individuals if you're interested.

 

Happy holiday weekending friends, new and old. 

Be safe, and relish this opportunity to spend extra time with loved ones.

Five Minute Friday: Brave

Brave is first-responders. And new moms. 

Brave is skydiving, and saying “I love you” first.

 

Brave is scary. Brave is awesome.

Brave is necessary, so necessary.

 

Brave is breaking out the art supplies, when it’s been so long you’re not sure you’ll know how to use them.

Brave is riding a bike for the first time.

And brave is being the proud, anxious papa letting go of the handlebars.

 

Brave is making your own choices.

Brave is making mistakes.

 

Brave is getting out of bed, when the covers are calling. 

Brave is daring to stand out, when it’s easier to fit in.

 

Brave is bold.

Brave is awe-inspiring.

 

Brave is such a good word, such a good trait.

 

Brave is getting getting back in the ring fter being knocked down.

Brave is trying again after failing miserably. 

Brave is embracing the unknown, all kinds of unknown.

 

Brave is anyone that faces life with hope, and a refusal to quit. 

And Brave is what I aspire to.

 

Brave is what I most want to be.

Brave is beautiful.

 

Five minutes went really fast this week. (Heck, Friday went really fast this week, hence my late post.)

 

If ever you're looking for an excuse, encouragement to write, this is great.

Freewriting has a way of opening your mind up to what it really wants to say.

Also, it's become one of my favorite parts of the week. (Then again, Friday has always had a special place in my heart. ;) )

 

Happy weekending friends.

But wait! There's more!

Life Lately: Overwhelmed by Adulthood, Becoming Brave

Brave ( A Five Minute Friday Post)

Five Minute Friday: My BRAVE Daughter - God's BRAVE Child

Five Minute Friday: Brave

Five Minute Friday | Brave

Dreams Do Come True: On Being a Band Wife

Five Minute Friday: JUMP

I want to jump up and scream.

I want to do anything at all. 

I want to react. I want to move.

 

But instead I sit, glued to the tv.

 

I'm scared the phone will ring.

 And I’ll be forced to fake a smile.

 

When there is no being professional today.

There is only spontaneous sobbing.

 

As I watch the news.

As I wonder what this world is coming to.

As I put myself in the shoes of wives whose husbands never returned home from the fire... 

Mothers tucking their babies into makeshift beds on cold gym floors at night, instead of the warm, safe cribs they are used to at home.

 

Life is so unfair.

It is awful, what has happened.

 

What continues to happen.

Daily it seems.

 

Tragedy.

Heart break.

Catastrophe.

Disaster.

 

My heart is heavy. 

The flags at half staff. 

 

And there’s no escaping it.

 

In my newsfeed. On the TV.

It’s all anyone is talking about, and I know why.

 

Because we can’t believe it, what has happened.

 

Some people are quick to help, to run in when trouble arises.

 

But others are jumping on bandwagons. 

And jumping to conclusions.

 

Jumping ship, before their political party goes down in flames.

 

Some want to shift blame. To cast stones. To name call.
 
They're chomping at the bit to make this a topic for debate…

 

While others are just trying to figure out where there next meal will come from. 

Or if they’ll ever walk again.

Or how to make their kids feel safe, in a world that seems to have fallen from its axis.

A world that has jumped course.

 

 

I hate not having answers.

I hate not knowing when things will get better.

 

So I pry myself off the couch, anxious to be doing something.

Anything.

 

Even if it is throwing sample shampoos and not-so-new tennis shoes into a box slated for donation. 

Even if it is hugging my husband every time I pass him in the hall.

Even if it is muttering humble, stunted prayers...

 

Why? How? What do we do now?

 

I can’t bring back lost loved ones, but I can be grateful for my own.

I can’t provide a home for those who’ve lost theirs, but I can offer a few of the comforts, the luxuries really, that I so often take for granted.

 

I can’t turn back time, or put the world back into an orbit that doesn't involve daily violence, and unspeakable tragedy…

 

But I can drag myself out of bed again tomorrow.

And I can utter those same small prayers.

 

And I can trust that will be enough.

'Cause it's all I can do...

 

With a heart this heavy.

And with hands this small.

Music Memory Monday: I Need a Hero

My initial response to tragedies, big and small, is almost always the same.

I want to curl up in the fetal position and cry, preferably under a blanket, so I can shut out and hide from the world.

 

When this is physically impossible, or after I’ve worked up just enough nerve to brave life outside the blanket, my secondary responses kick in.

 

Sometimes (like today, in light of the Boston Explosions) I turn to distractions, to take my mind off the troubles.

I spent the evening soaking in the sun and shopping for new plants, a chance to focus on new life, instead of tragic ends.

 

Sometimes I zone out instead, and become completely numb to anything and anyone.

The problem with this method of “coping” is that it’s hard to pull out of a zombie-like existence. And living on auto-pilot for any length of time, seems like a waste of precious breaths.

 

But ultimately, when the distractions cease, or I wake back up to reality, or I pull the blanket from over my head (or it gets taken from me), I must face whatever woes the world has thrown my way.

 

And it sucks. Can we say that? 

Sometimes, facing this messed up world we share sucks.

 

 

Don’t worry. This isn’t where I post a picture of a cat and say something about hanging in there.

Those words are too trite to touch on a hurt of this magnitude.

 

What I will say is that I’m thankful we don’t have to face hardships alone.

I’m thankful for heroes that run in when they’re needed most, like those we saw today.

And I’m thankful there’s A Hero we can call on any time.

 

(Yes; the graphics are cheesy. But I love the lyrics.)

 

Weeks ago I listened to this song on repeat, while going through a tough time personally.

Tonight I’m so thankful it’s written about Someone who cares enough to hear each of our small, silent struggles, yet powerful enough to offer healing for the deepest wounds throughout the world.

In this quiet living room. In Boston. And beyond.

 

We may not know why bad things happen. I sure don’t, and I won’t pretend to.

But I am thankful that deep in my soul I know the bad stuff isn’t the whole story.

 

Above and beyond heinous acts,
there is always bravery and goodness and HOPE.

 

Hope is the result of seeing heroes in action.

And Hope exists in knowing that eventually Love always wins.

 

I pray that something here, in this song or even this confession of my own cowardice, might give your heart some hope.

 

Hope to face tomorrow.

To cry as needed.

To cope...

 

Knowing you're not alone.

 

"A hero who'll dare to find me, fly to my rescue and crash through the wall. 
Announce my freedom, bring me to my senses. 
Gather me into His strong arms, and carry me on to safety."
               - Chris Rice


 

Five Minute Friday: Here

 I can’t believe a year (and more) has flown by since we took that first big step together.

 

I waited 27 years to find (and be found) by the man of my dreams.

And now we’re here – 15 months in. 

 

There’s still so much to figure out. About our future. Our plans. 

Where we go from here I don’t really know.

 

I do know I’m blessed to share my life with someone that cheers me on and cheers me up.

Who makes me laugh and wipes my tears.

Who lets me rest my head on his shoulder, where I feel safe, loved. 

And less lost. 

Less alone.

 

Not having all the answers can be frustrating.

It’s easy to get overwhelmed wondering what comes next.

What our next move should be.

 

But it’s a little easier to deal with, knowing I’ve got great company along for the journey.

Wherever we go from here, it’ll be good.

‘Cause we’ve got each other. 

 

Adventures are better together.

So let's get outta here Love.

I know the idea of Five Minute Friday is to write. Without worrying or editing.

But I struggled leaving those last few words in.

 

Is it okay to say I just want to get out of here for a while?

Is it okay for adults to sometimes wanna run away? 

 

I think the sunshine must be inciting my wanderlust.

'Cause right now all I want to do is take a roadtrip somewhere, to get lost in a good book on a  sunny beach.

 

I guess I'll settle for the book, for now.

Happy Saturday friends (and fellow FMF'ers).

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