a self-portrait: covered

The words were little more than a sigh.

She inhaled, exhaled, and still there was nothing, nothing but air and wishes, and not even that, if she was honest. Words don't breathe until they are said, until they are formed on the tongue, until they slip from lip and sing across empty space. And wishes, well, they need definition, and definition requires words.

So she sighed.

Her feelings were scattered, splintering in every direction but straight, focusing here, then there, trying to be everywhere at once, forgetting that omnipresence is better left to God-who-sees. The feelings were like that; they didn't remember so much as they should.

She didn't know what to say, so she couldn't write. She took pictures, and they said a great deal too much, and didn't say quite enough.

Grace is a slippery thing, she thought.

No, no it's not.

Again she sighed. Tried to focus her thoughts. Gave up. Sighed again.

Today, she didn't know who she was. Was she pastels and tulips or bright and daisies? Or was she somewhere in between? Was there a place for all of it? Why did everything seem that it needed to be compartmentalized? She felt she might blow apart with the things trapped inside.

God was so near some days; He was near now - she knew His presence. But drawing near to Him required a little bravery on her part. A little trust. A lot of truth.

She wasn't afraid of the wrathful God of Revelation; her heart thrilled at the blazing rescue executed by the fiery-eyed Son of Man from whose mouth came the Word of God that seared her soul. There was no wrath for her, no fear there.

But rejection - even the possibility - it asked faith of her. Faith that Jesus was enough. That grace was sufficient for her to come to Him and rest when she was weary. It seemed she was always weary.

She had heard that she needed to do more, to be more than she was. The voices in her head - the loud ones that lived on her mental tickertape - they said that God required more of her or else. The "or else" was never defined. She lived in fear of that dropping ball. Sometimes the prospect was too much for her. She hunkered down, shut out the world, dived beneath the radar of God-who-sees.

Ironically, she never escaped His gaze.

His wisdom wasn't supposed to be confusing.

She couldn't live a lifetime in a moment.

She couldn't change herself.

Everything was muddled without considering Jesus. She'd never be enough.

But there He was. Jesus, her free. Her Spirit-sealed guarantee that God would not reject her if she drew near. His gaze seemed suddenly more welcoming.

Her feelings focused; she needed to hide for now, but not from Him. In Him. In that secret place of His presence where there is no need for definition or caveat or explanation. She'd be safe there. Covered.

Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven,
Whose sin is covered.
Blessed is the man to whom the LORD does not impute iniquity,
And in whose spirit there is no deceit.

When I kept silent, my bones grew old
Through my groaning all the day long.
For day and night Your hand was heavy upon me;
My vitality was turned into the drought of summer. Selah
I acknowledged my sin to You,
And my iniquity I have not hidden.
I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the LORD,”
And You forgave the iniquity of my sin. Selah

For this cause everyone who is godly shall pray to You
In a time when You may be found;
Surely in a flood of great waters
They shall not come near him.
You are my hiding place;
You shall preserve me from trouble;
You shall surround me with songs of deliverance. Selah

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
I will guide you with My eye.
Do not be like the horse or like the mule,
Which have no understanding,
Which must be harnessed with bit and bridle,
Else they will not come near you.

Many sorrows shall be to the wicked;
But he who trusts in the LORD, mercy shall surround him.
Be glad in the LORD and rejoice, you righteous;
And shout for joy, all you upright in heart!

- Psalm 32

(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

undefined

I've been blocked for content lately.

Not that the birds aren't still singing, the breezes blowing, the sun rising and setting, the clouds dropping rain and humid all over the place - bringing out the mosquitoes...

I could blame it on the tired that has me sleeping dead through the night from the time I hit the pillow, drowsing through the morning until my three-or-so-hour stint on the couch to relieve the sitting-up pressure from my growing baby belly. I could blame it on the toddler who is pushing all of her boundaries and asking for new ones as she goes, requiring more of my imaginative power. I could even blame it on the photography processing looming over me for a finish this month.

But I'm not sure that is the problem. I'm not sure there is a problem.
Something is happening, far beneath the surface of my daily life and worn-out responsibilities, something that began years ago with a niggling longing and a prayer that I should desire God more than anything or anyone else. I can't describe it, but I am aware, aware that He is drawing nearer, drawing me nearer - and if I turn and look at Him, stop and listen, I will find more than a lesson, more than a growth opportunity, more than the comfortable, controllable, explainable.

It almost frightens me; I don't run toward it eagerly. I take it measured, as a gift I don't know how to open, don't quite know how to receive, love that comes after a broken heart, so strong and so patient. I acknowledge it, and it travels deep into heart-quiet as I ponder what I know of it - what I know of Him.

Tears come easily, frustration easier; I am tenderized without my consent between toddler interruptions and disappointed expectations and my shallow daily failure.

How do I write this? So many others have written it better. How do I live this? It is yet undefined, and my humanity demands a to-do list for self-improvement. My grammatical conscience demands a defined "it."

"What is stopping you?" a friend asks, encouraging me to embrace the new, as I encourage others. "Nothing," I want to say, "It is unfolding here inside me, filling me up, taking me over, transforming me, renewing me."

It is a me I do not know, broken, redeemed, freed, and broken again for love of Another who invites my soul up into Himself, into Love that isn't my love, love I couldn't choose in the small strength I own, love I couldn't accept for my timid.

I wonder if I am too isolated, if I should surround myself with people for more insight, a more constant flow of ideas; I sense His quiet "be still" in a wilderness I thought was finished. Here I stand on the far bank of the Jordan, waiting the call to cross into Canaan, waiting the will to go, waiting for the parting of the waters I cannot pass on my own.

I think there are not often words for the circumstances of the spirit, not definitions for the steps we take in the journey our hearts travel toward God, with God.

So I stand still to see the salvation of the Lord.

Because there is really nothing else I can do until He bids me step into the river with Him to walk through - or to walk on water.





(Image "paint me a picture of this cloudy day" © Informal Moments Photography)

Noticed - A Girl's Remembery

It was Anne's idea to stop. We really had nothing better to do, so I pulled the car into the small gravel lot off Rt. 15 somewhere in podunk Virginia. Granny's Attic, read the sign. It was a little chintzy for my taste, but then, it matched the rest of the ramshackle shop that looked as if it had been a grocery/gas stop in another life.

Anne and I wandered in, browsing through the garage-sale clutter whose age promised treasure to the diligent seeker.

But the treasure was behind the counter, the girl in blue scribbling God-knew-what on a glorified legal pad. I approached with a question about something; she had a bit to say. Her youth was out of place here, but she fit somehow, a centerpiece in this crazy quilt of an antique shop, young and old at once.

This girl was different, innocent still, with a captivating sweetness that lingered, made me want more. She didn't see me, not really. She seemed unaware of my masculinity; her sincere demeanor was unaffected. I wasn't accustomed to that. Most girls... Well, most girls had their thing.

"Our two cats had 17 kittens between them; we're trying to find homes for them," she offered. Funny, how did we get onto cats? Fascinating simplicity... "You could come by our house tonight and pick them up."

Anne wanted a cat. Or two. I wanted to see this girl again.

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

He did come that night, with Anne. I don't know if she was his girlfriend, his sister, his friend. Anne took two kittens, and he took a short walk with me, asking questions, studying me.

I thought little of it then. I was eighteen. I made phone calls to colleges in my quiet hours at Granny's Attic, when I wasn't rearranging the old treasure-junk so that it could be found. I wrote stories, dreamed, planned my future. I had a beautiful crush on a college freshman at church whose Southern-accent bass made my head spin.

I graduated and went to college that fall, completely forgetting about the mystery stranger who had come for kittens until I heard from the owner of the antique shop that he had been back, asking about me. Two, three times. Brought a guy friend with him once. He had left me a note with his phone number. Told me to look him up if I was ever in Charlottesville.

I never did. Leaving the story unfinished suited me.

I wonder what he saw that made him want to come back. I pull the memory out every once in a while, just for the romance of it. It's one of those female things, I suspect, offering a bit of mystery, making a girl feel like she is more than she knows, lending a bit of beauty to her self-story.

He saw me; he came back to see again.

Lovely, isn't it?

Inspired this week by Joelle's sweet post, Noticed.

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"Within the next month, what do you think about planning a night to spend with your sisters? ...We’re having our own Sister Parties! What about you? Want to giggle, eat, cry, whatever, and then maybe afterward join us for a little blog party?" - The Run Amuck: celebrating real-life friends

And seriously, you should check out another beautifully-detailed "Remembrancer" over at Stars in Her Fingernails(what I wouldn't GIVE to have this gal's writing ability!)!





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

a ramble about Being

"I enjoy the challenge," I told P the other day. The challenge of writing at least something every day, putting some words together, casting something of me out into the world on my blog. Hoping to be noticed. Wishing to define my worth to you. Or prove it to me.

But the "high thoughts" I want to share don't come today. Or yesterday, really. Or the day before that. I think it is because sometimes life just has to be lived, and I can scribble out anything I like about what I think of life, but it will not teach me about itself as I write, but as I live.

So I learn of life through tears and worry and disappointment and learning-the-waiting. I learn through toddler-lectures and impatience and grace. I learn through sorrow, both mine and yours. I feel life in the strength of my womb-child, kicking hard against... well, all of my insides. I live in conversations and excitements and unexpected blessings - the serendipities I used to count.

The grass, it just is. From green to grain, it waves in summer to fall, soaking in the blue of sky, the warmth of sun, the rain and wind and growth. And it praises Him, by doing what it was created to do.

Un-self-conscious.

Abandoned.

Beautiful.

Speechless.

If You made me like the grass that is green
Growing tall and covering the hills above me
Maybe I would pray for sunshine and a little rain
To fall now and then to make me lovely
I could be a place where sheep could graze
Or barefoot feet could play
And I would grow and grow and hope You'd bend down low
To hear me sing my offering

Open up the heavens, open up the skies
All of Your creation wants to testify
I have a song, so let the earth sing along
'Cause I just want to praise You

And the sun every morning cannot wait to shine
And the stars every evening are all standing by to light the sky
Give the rocks and the stones voices of their own
If we forget to sing praises to our King

-Nichole Nordeman, My Offering

I should be so soul-still.

Parenting on Purpose: My Labor of Love

For months, I'd been dreading this. For weeks, I'd been trying to put it off. But now it was time. Forty weeks and three days and a walk in the warm July sunshine brought contractions fast, coming one on top of another.

I was learning to breathe as I'd never breathed, and my breathing became a moaning song. There was no room for fear, no other goal but passing through these five hours of promised pain. In seven relieving pushes, one beautiful squirming dream emerged into my world with a tiny cry of surprise and I held life in my arms.

I passed into motherhood knowing I would fail sometimes, but I was unprepared for the challenges I would face. Piper found more personality than most babies her age. Too soon, she grasped her own identity and became more than I thought she was, more than I was ready for her to be.

I was advised to set boundaries, to let her cry it out, to force her to concede my authority over her. But Piper wouldn't be controlled. She completely panicked if we tried to make her cry it out. Spankings were irrelevant and counterproductive.

Something was wrong...

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Read more of my most recent article at Ungrind.

I think dignity is overrated

Throughout her life she was ironic and strict with her thoughts. She went dancing most Friday nights in town. People said that Maytree, or felicity, or solitude had driven her crazy. People said she had been an ugly girl, or a child movie star; that she inherited fabulous sums and lived in a shack without pipes or wires; that she read too much; that she was wanting in ambition and could have married anyone. She lacked a woman's sense of doom. She did what she wanted - like who else on earth? All her life she found dignity overrated. She rolled down dunes.

Annie Dillard, The Maytrees

It was when Danielle introduced me to Dillard's book that I saw words really could breathe. I had some suspicion of it before, but I confined my use of the art to short poetry that didn't rhyme. I wrote what everyone else wrote, said what they said, as they said it, without nearing the vulnerable spaces in me that know words for feeling.

"I love to write," I'd say, then ignore the quiet places where the words are made and wonder why none came to me. Habit took over, I suppose. I could put subject, verb, predicate, phrase together so it made sense. There wasn't much beauty in my writing, but I wasn't seeking it; I envied those who wrote beauty that released my own spirit. My own attempts read pretentious, hypocrite to me.

Spilling me here on these pages and pages, I painted by number, telling familiar stories, ambling safe away from the edge of the high-walled cliff where I lived. "Can there be more to me than I have written?" I asked. Yes. There is always more.

I wrote as I spoke, in everyone else's language, denying the speaking quiet places in my heart, trying to be the me I should be to share when I am not, when I am like someone else, when I am not like anyone, when I am like everyone I know and deeply, deeply loved.

I think it was Amber's poetry, or Ann's prose, or Alison's description, or maybe it really all started with my writer-friends, Sara (who gives the most delightful anecdotes and reviews) or Heidi (who writes the most marvelous letters). Somehow, the words have gained permission to slip past my weary into my living, and in sharing the living, they pour me vulnerable out to you, to Him, to passersby who don't even care. No, I am not a writer. I am a person, passioned with heart-words to empty God-Life from this vessel, pour it light and beautiful out over other dust He is molding.

I am wary of pretension; this passion has hardly seen day. I practice sword-swallowing, glory-scattering, kneeling. The words come; I wait sometimes to speak them; I weigh my heart, but I don't deny the words so often anymore.

It's like rolling down dunes. Seriously.

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And for a little more perspective (as if you wanted it), read about The Best Book. What a work the Holy Spirit always does in us through God's own Words...

And just for fun: Amy shares a delightful narrative of something I've done myself. Love it!

grandpa's deck

he is not inside
he is out
creaking
the weather-beaten metal
finding moonrise through smoke
and binoculars
I am not allowed to touch

his stories drift
in honeysuckled air
past my consciousness
mingling in low laughs and sibling shouts
I wonder
how he was
the man in the stories

I am in and out
with sunset
I hear - I do not listen -
until the creaking stops
the smoke subsides
the moon still rises
and he is not inside
or out

in the morning
sun bakes aging wood and silent metal
with evening echoes and
fading memories
I find cows in binoculars
and he is not
where I look for him

back deck words twined into clematis
replay stories
in honeysuckled fragrance that knew
this hero
watching an older man rise
in the moonlight
telling his youth

and finding me

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Written in response to L.L. Barkat's poetry prompt - The Porch.

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Don't miss out on my weekend giveaway, Praise, if you're just stopping in today. Simply leave a comment at this post for a chance at winning this 8x10 print.

And on a reading/writing note, check out my friend Alison's riveting real-life character sketch and this fabulous article about reasons to read poetry.

a thousand to praise

“For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts.

“For as the rain comes down, and the snow from heaven, and do not return there, but water the earth, and make it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; it shall not return to Me void, but it shall accomplish what I please, and it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.

“For you shall go out with joy, and be led out with peace; the mountains and the hills shall break forth into singing before you, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands."

- Is. 55:9-12

A thousand posts. A thousand ways to say, "this is who I am" even as I am changing, as the words I write lend themselves to the process. A thousand steps on a path that hasn't ended, days and moments lived in another Author's book, glimpses of here and now and yesterday and tomorrow. A thousand ramblings, some not-so-quiet ramblings, random thoughts imported into finite Internet pages for the world to read and ponder and muse or dismiss.

Am I nearer to God than when I began, closer to rest in Him that sent me seeking His heart at the beginning of it all? Perhaps. I don't know. It is only Jesus who can judge. I am drawn on, as Lewis says, "further up and further in," and His higher ways are breathtaking. I no longer try to figure Him out as I am moved to simple praise. And joy. Joy I don't understand, joy I never grasped before.

They are clapping now in the breeze, the trees. Can you hear them?

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I promised a giveaway with my thousandth post. I have been saving this 8x10 print for such a purpose.

To enter, simply leave a comment on this post before next Monday, August 17th. (Comments are hiding at the top of the posts now...)

I will have Piper draw a name out of one of her newly-beloved hats (oh, how I tried to get her to wear them when she was small, and now she wears them all the time of her own volition!) and announce the winner on Monday morning.

Released to Love

By Kelly Langner Sauer

Deep in a dark forest that few dare enter lies a meadow flooded with light. Wildflowers grow there, enticing little white butterflies robed in glory not their own.

In this meadow, there is a girl who is at once both youthful and aged. She is clothed in a white gown that shimmers and moves in the fragrant breeze as she runs free through the wildflowers.

Someone watches her play, smiling at her freedom. She catches sight of Him, and she runs to Him. Their eyes meet. He loves the perfect trust she has for Him as she accepts His outstretched hand, and they run together in the meadow.

It was a beautiful picture I had for myself—total surrender to God. I believed that if I handed my whole life over to Him, I'd be free to run in that lovely meadow under the smile of His love.

For years, I turned my focus inward, trying to reach a place where I desired only God. I walked aisles to dedicate and rededicate my life to Him. I prayed for peace, tried to trust, and hoped that somehow I'd find freedom from the part of myself that kept backing out of my desire to be fully abandoned to Him...

Read More of my most recent article at Ungrind.

Writing Contest

If you like general writing/editing/publishing information, writing inspiration, or plain entertainment, you need to check out the Novel Doctor, aka editor Stephen Parolini. This little piece is my entry for his most recent contest, based around a first and last sentence that he offers. I can't say I died over it, because I don't have time or energy to die over these things when there are so many other things out to get me. I have to admit to some amazement over what you can fit into 400 words.

I was also rather surprised at my own morbid side. I started out with a depressed guy whose wife had just had twins. Then I tried a suicide attempt that didn't work. I thought about a sci-fi attempt with that first sentence, but come on, I have enough toddler drama to keep me busy already without having to figure out what happened to the sun.

Do enjoy this, if you can. Or, get over to his blog and enter your own, because I'm sure you all have better ideas than I!

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday.

Maybe it isn’t really Thursday, Annie thought, dragging her aching body out of bed. Maybe it was still Wednesday night. The crash was nothing but a nightmare. The sun had to rise today. It was her wedding day.

She groped in the dark for a light switch, tripping over a pile of clothing and stumbling into the wall beside her closed door. She flipped the switch.

Oh great, the power was out. Of course. Her digital clock wasn’t glowing.

Annie rubbed a hand over tired eyes. The darkness was so thick she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

She scrabbled through her bedside table drawer for a flashlight. She tried flipping it on. Hmm. Batteries must be dead.

Frustrated, she pitched the light across the room. It hit the alarm clock off her dresser, clattering to the floor.

The clock radio began to play.

“…80 degrees and clear for you today, with mostly sunny skies...”

Annie froze at the sound, then pitched forward, passing from one black world into another.

----------

Her cell phone was ringing. Where had she left it? Her head was spinning. She opened her eyes into darkness, pulled from unconsciousness by the urgency of the identifying tone.

“Jase?” She croaked into the mouthpiece. Why was she croaking? “I can’t see.”

“I’m coming! I’m here!” She thought her apartment door was coming down in the other room. Her ears were ringing.

Someone burst into her room, hitting her leg with the door. Then he was beside her, his touch piercing the isolating black.

“Please help,” she pleaded. “The sun didn’t come up today…”

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She was four months late for her wedding. The sun did rise that Thursday. One of her bridesmaids attended her in a silver frame at the front of the church.

Too many tears, Annie thought, leaning heavily on her father’s arm for her walk into Jase’s arms. But she could see them. The tears. The camera flash. Those who loved them. The look on Jase’s face. The tie he was wearing. She couldn’t quite see the color yet.

She stepped toward him. After weeks of blackness, she’d forgotten what colors she’d chosen for her wedding.

Sunlight streamed through cathedral windows across the aisle, bathing Jase in light, drawing her smile.

Ah. She chose the blue one after all.

The Swing

This will be my last writing installment from my archives for a while, since I also have a birthday post to write today. I hope you've enjoyed the last several days of posts.

I wrote this story when I was seventeen while I was minding the antique shop down the road from our home. I used to work there in exchange for merchandise. I had a teacup collection I was building. My grandma read this one before she died; she teared up reading it, as I did just now, reading back over it. It is still one of my favorite stories.

She sat upon the wide plank swing that hung swaying from the tall oak tree that had been there for as long as she could remember. Her wrinkled hands gingerly clutched the rough ropes that suspended the worn wooden seat. Her eyes were closed. The breeze toyed with a strand of her silvery white hair, kissing her cheeks, then the back of her neck as the swing rocked back and forth. The creak of the old ropes played in her ears, reminding her of all of the times they had groaned out their rhythmic song in gentle cadence to her life.

Her lips curved into a gentle smile.

Her first memory of the swing came from her babyhood. Cradled on her mother's lap, she had giggled playfully at each push and sway as her father propelled it in its seemingly endless dance. Echoes of her mother's laughter paid court in her memory to her father's playful grin. She could still feel the tickles he had placed on her little-girl tummy.

Her next memory came when she was three years old, old enough to sit precariously on the wavering seat and cling tightly to the ropes by herself.

"Come on, honey," her mother coached. "In, out, in out...That's it!"

She looked down in studious concentration at her chubby legs, willing them to move in synchrony to her mother's encouraging voice. The swing began to move on its own.

"I'm doing it, Mommy! Look! I'm doing it!" She leapt off the swing, the springtime wind tossing her dark curls as her mother swung her up in a flurry of giggles. The fragrance of honeysuckle perfume filled her nostrils.

During her tomboy years, she remembered swinging sandwiched between her brother's legs while he stood and pumped the swing with his much larger body. She had endured many taunts about not being able to fly as high as the boys, but she had ignored them, taunting right back. Boys didn't know anything anyway.

Things had changed for her when she was thirteen. She remembered sitting on the swing, rocking as gently as she was now, watching her mother, who was seated gracefully upon a homemade patchwork quilt.

She had come into her woman's time that day, surrounded by a golden summer afternoon. Her mother shared with her the joys and triumphs of becoming a woman, sipping lemonade while a lazy breeze cooled the rosy blush of her cheeks.

A cool, rainy autumn day from her fifteenth year darkened her memory. The swing had been wet that day, wet from the tears that heaven cried on her mother's account, tears that washed her own grief-stricken heart. Anguish tore through her soul, so that she could barely draw breath. Her mother would never share another memory at the swing again.

Then her father's arms, warm and comforting as an angel's, surrounded her slender shoulders. "Hush, darling," he whispered close to her ear. "I'm still here. Your mother wouldn't want you to grieve so."

They had cried together then, her father's tears mingling with the raindrops in her hair.

Years later, she had sat on the old swing, floating gently in the lilac-scented air of a June twilight. She stared tearfully down at the glistening crystal in the hand of the man she loved as he quietly asked for her hand in marriage. Her shimmering eyes and brilliant smile had given him all the answer he needed.

That first kiss beside the swing was one she never forgot.

"He's a good man," her father had approved later, as he softly pushed her to the sound of the familiar creak creak of the ropes. He had placed a kiss on her forehead, as light as the touch of a butterfly's wing.

Soon, it was her turn to cradle a child on her lap as her husband propelled the swing. His lighthearted laughter mingled with that of their daughter's in her heart, lingering like a never-forgotten melody in the symphony of her life.

It was she who had taught her little girl how to pump. Gentle springtime fragrances had been borne on the breath of winter's last wind while her daughter's tiny legs pumped back and forth, back and forth...She still felt the grip of the childish arms grasping her in an excited hug as the little girl voice cried, "I did it, Mommy! See! I did it!"

Her father died a few years later, finally going to join the wife he had missed for so long. She had rocked for hours on the swing, unseeing in her grief, only barely aware of her husband's support and love, and of her daughter's cherub face peering into her own asking, "Mommy okay?"

She remembered sharing her own story of womanhood with her little girl who was fast growing up, though now it was she who sat on the patchwork quilt and wondered at the miracle of her baby's transformation from awkward girl to graceful woman. She remembered her inner tears and her questioning heart as she thought of her own mother.

It was at the swing she had found her grown daughter crying from premature homesickness as she prepared to leave for college, and she had consoled her with a smile and a hug, masking her own pain, even as her father had masked his to console her when her mother had died.

"Hush, darling. I'm here. I'll always be here as long as you need me."

She had been crying inside.

Then it had been her time to tell her daughter, "He's a good man. Make him happy," as the strains of Mendelssohn's music floated to their place at the old swing just before her husband came to give their daughter away forever.

What bittersweet joy had swelled in her bosom at watching her child be joined together with the man she loved, to be one flesh forever. She said goodbye, knowing things would never be the same again.

Oh, she'd never forget the thrill of holding her first grandchild in her arms, gently rocking the swing, crooning a lullaby with the crickets and night birds for harmony. Fireflies sparkled around her, magically lighting the summer evening.

She had watched her grandchildren grow up around the swing, only occasionally having to break up an argument over whose turn it was, though swinging on the old swing was a coveted privilege. Their shouts of laughter and carefree games would forever replay themselves in her heart.

It was a grieving time again upon the death of her husband, but this time, there were only the ropes of the old swing to embrace her and tell her everything was all right with their never-ending moaning song. The sun blazed down in disrespectful contradiction to the rainstorm so long ago upon the day of her mother's funeral. She had lost all hope.

Then her youngest grandchild emerged from the house and ran to her.

"Swing wif gram-ma?" The childish lilt had given her a reason to live.

Now, she sat, swaying gently while the wind played with the wispy curls that still framed her careworn face. She opened her pale blue eyes. It was another spring day, and the world around her aged body was bursting with new life.

She rose and lifted the cane that leaned against the firm old oak and began to walk away. She looked back at the swing.

It looked forlorn, moving by itself in the wind.

Sadly, she moved slowly away from it, past the moving van parked in the gravel driveway, past the SOLD sign in the front yard.

She paused.

A car pulled up and a young couple climbed out. The young mother was carrying a little girl.

"Come on, Honey! You want to see the swing?" The young father asked excitedly, hunkering down to look into the innocent blue eyes of his child.

She followed the young family with her gaze until she felt a touch on her shoulder.

"Ready to go, Mom?"

Her own daughter was waiting for her.

She looked into the clear blue eyes so like her own and nodded hesitantly. "Yes, I think so." Her voice trembled with age and emotion.

She climbed awkwardly into her daughter's car, assisted by her son-in-law.

As they pulled away from what had been her home for so long, she looked back one last time, hoping to form one last memory of her swing.

The young mother cradled her child in her arms, laughing, while her husband tickled the little girl.

She smiled.

The Decision

This is a favorite descriptive short story of mine, written before I graduated from high school. I can never quite forget the feel of that wind in my imagination.

Cool autumn winds moan and keen wildly through multicolored trees. Showers of leaves find their whirling way to the ground. Slate-colored clouds scud across the horizon, darkening the landscape of a stately brick building and towering hardwood trees.

A slip of a girl huddles into her jacket, silently surveying the wind-tossed branches above her. Her own dark brown hair is tossed about in the many-breathed gusts, and her expressive brown eyes move as though following the unseen movements of the gale. Cheeks rosy from the chill air lend a sparkle to the eyes that seem old beyond her years, though she can’t be over sixteen. She begins to walk, silently, not seeming to care where she is going, or if she gets there on time.

A million thoughts whirl about in her mind, as wild as the wind that surrounds her. Pensive, she allows her gaze to roam her surroundings as she walks; wondering, waiting, watching. A decision looms in front of her, presenting itself in many options, and her soft brow furrows with confusion as she weighs them.

A drop of rain falls on her face, and a glorious smile forms on her sweet lips as she looks heavenward. A prayer forms on those same lips, and a peace lightens the careworn eyes. For a moment she allows herself to bask in the lightheartedness of a conclusion, then she turns and moves in the opposite direction, this time, a purpose firm in her heart.

The building in front of which she stood stands in silent approval, satisfied that it is still a place of serenity for a soul weary being. Its weathered spire reaches tall, and the bell begins to ring, sounding out a clear, noble melody to the world.
The wind whispers on its way.

My Father's Footsteps

I have to confess to omitting the final paragraph of this short children's story I loved writing. When I was younger, I had a habit of using a final paragraph to re-explain the obvious point of my writing, just to make sure my readers would get the point of what I had written. Now, it drives me crazy to read my own writing and tune out that conclusion every time.

So here is My Father's Footsteps, sans my prosaic conclusion:

The snow was crisp beneath my father’s feet, crunching rhythmically in the stillness of the moonlit night with that squeaky sound peculiar to a dry, cold snow. I followed close behind, not wanting to lose him amid the stark silhouettes of the snow-clothed forest. My own tiny feet vanished inside the footprints he left behind in the drifts.

He paved the way for me; all that was left for me to do was to step in the path that he had made. I could barely stretch my legs far enough to reach the next footprint, but he walked slowly, waiting for me to catch up to his lengthy strides.

I didn’t have much time to look around as we trod through the deep snow, so I was surprised when my father stopped a few steps ahead of me.

“What—?“

“Shh.” My father stopped my rather loud question with a quiet whisper.

At the excited tone lacing the whisper, I hurried forward in puerile anticipation, my eyes glowing with expectation. “What?” I whispered this time, enjoying the secret that seemed in the silent glow of the cold night to be exclusively ours.

My father took my little, mittened hand in his large, leather-covered one, drawing me into the circle of his arms. He reached around me to point into a meadow ahead of us.

I gasped in quiet astonishment, and my free hand flew to cover my mouth, lest my minute noise should startle the vision in front of my widening eyes.

A deer was picking its way across the unbroken snow of the meadow, which was surrounded by forest that stood in stark black contrast to the blue-white of the new-fallen snow. The deer itself was but a moving shadow, gracefully sketched against the snow-palette, filled in with the lightest strokes of charcoal.

My nose began to tickle from the prickly wool of the mitten beneath it.
I sneezed.

The deer jumped, its quiet serenity shattered by the sound of my irreverence, and in a flurry of snow and legs, vanished into the forest at the other end of the meadow.

My father chuckled. “Come on, little one,” he beckoned, standing again to walk in the same direction the deer had taken.

Too excited to even chatter about our special experience, I followed again in mute trust, wondering what else my father would have to show me as I walked unseeing, trailing in his footsteps.

And then he stopped again, this time in the center of the meadow.

This time I was silent in spite of the questions exploding in my mind as I searched in every direction around me for a glimpse of what it was that my father was seeing. Seeing nothing, I looked questioningly up at his face. He was smiling at me.

He lifted me up in his arms and directed my questioning gaze to the heavens, which were ablaze with the light that was reflected in the millions of shimmering crystals that blanketed the ground around us. I stared in unspeaking awe at the tiny points of light that paid court to the stately moon, who posed surrounded by a misty glow, beaming benevolently at his subjects far below.

My father set me down and we began to walk again, back into the darkened forest on the other side of the meadow. After the brilliant light of the skies, I felt afraid at entering the gloom again, so I drew closer to walk steadfastly in my father’s footsteps, knowing that my father saw things that I didn’t see, that he knew things I couldn’t yet know.

After a while I began to notice as I had not noticed before that the silver rays of the moon penetrated deep into the forest, etching patterns on the snow beneath the trees. Finding the footsteps wasn’t hard at all!

My father stopped again. There was a drop-off into a ravine ahead of us. To me it looked like an abyss too wide to dream of crossing. The snow had piled in the bottom of the creek-bed, deceptively sealing the thin ice beneath it.

My father lifted me in his arms again, and stepped across with ease, carrying me safely to the other side of the cliff, which just a moment ago had seemed unattainable to me. He set me down again and I looked back, shaking my head. It didn’t look so big now that I was on the other side.

My father was several steps ahead of me when I turned forward again, and I hurried tiredly to jump from one footstep to the next in order to catch up with his strides. Soon we emerged from the forest and my father stopped again, this time to carry me, for I was flagging. It was from his arms that I saw where he had been leading me.

Our home was waiting for us only a few steps ahead. The windows glowed with light that pooled in rectangular puddles on the snow, filling the silver of the night with a warm, golden glow.

(image from sxc)

From An Unwritten Story...

Summer and Justin are my two favorite novel characters right now. Perhaps it is because I haven't developed them beyond recovery. There is still hope for reality in their story, as opposed to the two novels I wrote in high school. This is an excerpt I didn't remember writing, when the words and character came together perfectly in the description.

Meet Summer, through Justin's eyes:

Summer. Her very name evoked memories he couldn’t afford. Her eyes held the sparkle of sun on water, the excitement of children on the Fourth of July, the gasping awe of the best fireworks display he’d ever seen.

She was as alive as a summer day, holding a glow that wasn’t quite sunlight, that glow that once made him leave his books behind and disappear into the regions of his boyhood with the treehouse and the creek, the fort, and the baseball games with his dad.

Yes, I Want To Write

I have a lot of natural writing ability, and I take advantage of my innate understanding of syntax and structure to simply throw my thoughts onto a page without a care for concision or creativity.

But at heart, I am an artist. I am a poet. I am a singer. The factual, disconnected writing I often use on my blog to describe my life is almost academic when I see it juxtaposed against the intensity of my thoughts.

A couple of weeks ago, I made a commitment to myself that I would begin taking more care with what I write. Whether this means simply choosing a more appropriate word here and there, attending to my concision, or expanding my vocabulary and my ability to handle my writing, I don't quite know. What I do know is that I want to look at my own writing and know that I have written from who I am. I want to know that I have given something of myself to my readers. I want to be able to take pride in what I write, instead of turning with a grimace and trying not to read what I have written.

I don't often write what I want to write. I haven't journaled in years because I have re-read what I have written and I have cringed at what feels to me drama overdone. The intimidation of that blank page overwhelms me. I have stories that I contemplate writing, but I am unwilling to subject myself to the possibility that it will be something someone else has already written. Occasionally, I delve into poetry here, but I can barely tap the descriptive power I used to own. I am a better critic than I am a creator anymore.

Over the next few days, I'm planning to post a series of samples of what I consider to be my real writing, just some small, bloggable projects I have worked on in the past. I'm also looking at a couple new ideas for writing exercise that I may put on here, forming a description around one word, perhaps. I'd like to to do a word of the week - how does one pick one of those?

As I'm preparing to put my photography away for a few years, I'm finding myself looking forward to having more time to do other things that make me come alive. I wonder where it will all end up, or if any of it will go anywhere! I'm tired of saying the same things in the same ways.

(image from sxc)

On Being

It is during my times of greatest change that I feel most threatened at the prospect of losing my identity. Here, the innocent remark from a friend sparks an internal war between truth and my feelings of betrayal. Here, the not-knowing becomes the only enemy, and I fight for control of my destiny. As if I believe I can own my destiny. I want to be, to exist in this void.

And God is "I Am" and I live and move and have my being in Him, and I resent Him for that some days, and others I quietly acknowledge that I am glad to fall into Him and let Him live for me because I'm too tired to hold onto me anymore.

I am like the wind, like the mountains, too free-spirited, too wild, yet I understand that He has made me this way for His purpose, and He does not desire my captivity - merely the love of my whole heart. Merely. I say it as if it is a simple thing, and simple it is, if I will let it be simple, if I will thank Him for the void and trust His creating hand for my today and my yesterday and my tomorrow. He is, after all, the God who makes the crooked paths straight and leads the blind in ways they do not know.

I know I will always be a restless heart, for I am always seeking more of Him and He is always changing my perspective and stepping outside the bigger and bigger boxes I make for Him. His words burn and ache inside of me and bring life that I do not understand and cannot question, and I am broken and whole at once and I ache to see Him as He is so I may be who I am meant to be.

Already, I feel Him creating new love in me, freeing me from my pursuit of one thing so that I know it is all right to pursue another, but the release of that one thing is the release of a part of the being I have assumed, as if I am laying down a part of my armor in my fight for my destiny. I am more exposed, more vulnerable, more able to love, more afraid to give my affirmation than I should be, for I am not truly threatened by those who ask it.

But perfect love casts out fear, and I am new at throwing myself into His love and trusting Him with who I am as the me that knows His voice struggles against the me that must know and control who I am. My testimony is Jesus Christ, and Him crucified, and I am nothing without Him, and everything that I am that is worth anything is Him, because God chose the weak and the fools who would let Him be their God. And He is not ashamed to be their God because they live and move in Him, through all the change and all the being that they didn't choose as they walked by faith that was solid and sure and nothing at all like a blind leap into the dark.

I remember these others who have gone before, my cloud of witnesses, those who spent years with Him in the wilderness before they learned of grace to teach it, who wandered years after Him across plains and desert looking for Canaan, who died believing His promise that He would give them everything they longed for. He waited to give them the promise, but I know the fullness of it in Jesus, and in my own wilderness I learn of His grace for me, and I learn of His grace for others, and vulnerable me learns more of love without fear.

To find rest in Him, this is my destiny, seared upon my soul by the only Word that brings light into darkness and reaps where it seems nothing has been sown. I seek and I don't seek, but every day I am changed, and my heart is changed, and I want to love and to rest here in this void and trust His love for me. Who I am is no longer the point; I cannot define my identity for myself, for He has become more in me than I knew.

All my being is to be found in His "I AM" and, oddly, I don't resent Him for this. What, after all, would I really be without Him?

when the writer has no voice

A million feelings swirl about, begging for release, for organization, for syntax that will sound an internal roar. But words escape sentence and paragraph and poetry and feelings are mere phrases whispered under the breath about "trust" and "strength" and "sufficient." The music calls and I answer, finding a voice in what has already been written for me, singing more phrases, praying and processing and hoping a little now as I sense a measure of peace creeping softly in with reminders that the Lord is near, that He is faithful.

There are things to do, today, tonight, tomorrow, and I ask for my daily bread, knowing many have gone without. I pray He was enough for them; I hope He is enough for me. If He is not, there is nothing for me, for the only words that burn me and draw me to life are His, and I know this is not something many people say.

I feel alone and I remember another phrase that "one petal doth not a flower make," and I know there are other petals in this storm who wonder too if the sun will break through again.

The rain drops out of the pewter sky outside my window and I watch the mourning doves seek their shelter in the dogwood across the street. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I am quiet because I do not know and I cannot say. I have no words, no vision, no expectation. "Without form and void..." And God created something new in that void.

Oh, and He said that it was good.

mirror image

My first published article.
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Mirror Image By Kelly Langner Sauer

About a year ago I took up a self-portrait project in the mirror in an attempt to get a photo for my blog. I didn't want a posed picture with a tight-lipped portrait smile. I wanted to capture some reality to offer my readers a glimpse of who I am.

My self-portrait session began dismally. I'm a photographer and not a naturally photogenic person. I can see the beauty in others and I love capturing it, but I don't usually bother looking for beauty in myself.

But it was me behind the camera looking at me in front of the camera. And I didn't like what I saw through my lens. I couldn't manage a real smile to save my life. I had no trouble capturing my frustration with myself. The angry looks. The annoyance with my subject. The stuck-out tongue....

Read more of this article, and other articles about image this month at Ungrind.