Post-It Love

Because we all need to smile...

I think the Lord delights in those things that turn our frowns up-side-down.

Another's Words

"God isn't going to let you see the distant scene. 

So you might as well quit looking for it. 

He promises a lamp unto our feet, not a crystal ball unto the future. 

We do not need to know what will happen tomorrow. 

We only need to know He leads us 

and we will find grace to help us when we need it."

~ Max Lucado in Traveling Light 

(p.209, date of July 8; The Beauty of God's Blessings: 365 Days of Inspiration for Women)

Father God, when this world seemingly is spinning out of control and I am faltering and falling and stumbling, please shine Your Light for me to see. Sometimes it's hard for me to grasp Your grace when my very own mind, heart, and soul are flailing about and trampling me. Lord, help me each day, each hour, each minute, each second, to find my way. To find Your way. To walk the very path You have set out for me.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

Your Word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.

~ Psalm 119:105

How Did You Get Here Too?

I know when, where, why, and how I took my first tentative step and ventured into the mysteriously baffling land of Blog.  Do you? It’s been 18 months since my journey began. My World Wide Web passport is still gathering stamps, mostly by those with similar soul-baring thoughts and those with interpretations and/or daily applications of the Truth. I, too, write of the same--all of which are jumbled together inside of my unique web log baggage.

In the pre-dawn of Blog, I was told of a friend’s on-line diary thingamajig and what an amazing way it offered me to keep up with her. And her cancer battle. 

Whoa! was my first thought. Soon, it was followed by the other common inquisitive verbiages and self-induced answers.

 

What? She really writes on-line?

 

Why? Does she get paid? Isn’t that like cracking open your diary, ya know, that little book with a tattered cover and secret-filled pages? Oh my. That is weird. That is really odd. That is something I would never do.

 

How did she figure out how to do that? I know her college degree and I don’t think web design or html was part of her degree path.

 

Who said she could do that? Is she an award-winning writer of some sort?

 

When does a person find time to write for a web made of an interlaced worldwide audience?

 

After I figured how to find the web log, which I was told to call a “blog,” I frequented her on-line journal. She actually wrote very little of her personal health battle, but she wrote of her life in Christ. She shared Truth. And she showed it to me (and the rest of the world) after she filtered it through the lens of her everyday existence. I learned things. About her. About God. And about me, myself and I.

 

Then one day I lingered and I glanced down. There at the bottom of her almost-daily dialogue was a word. “Comment.”

 

What is this? - Click - Oh, weirdness again. People are sharing what they think of what she writes? You have got to be kidding me. But somehow, with wrinkled brow and tilted head, I managed to read on. And on.

 

Since my early wanderings only took me past the front gates of Blog, little did I know that this thingamajig I read most mornings had links. A newbie to the whole scene may figure “links” to be some sort of disease or at best, an acute ailment with a runny nose. Oh, not me, I thought it was a type of chain fence or colorful pre-school paper project. Well, after many a morning spent perusing my friend’s online journal, I clicked on “links.”

 

Whoa Nelly! I landed at someone else’s web log. At first I wanted to click right outta there. After all, I was already peeking into the window of my friend’s house and gazing at her open heart, what in the world would possess me to do the same to a stranger?

 

I was several months into my journey of Blog when I learned of another oddball term called “blurking.”  And no, it doesn’t have anything at all to do with gently tapping a burping baby on the back. Apparently this blurking thing happens when one lurks (a.k.a. reads) at a web log without making it known. Gasp! It certainly sounds like a crime. Immediately, I peered over my shoulder. I’m okay. No Blog police here.

 

So, it was with one mouse click that I landed in a stranger’s yard in this even stranger new land of Blog. This new person spoke of things familiar to me. Same hometown mentioned. God glorified.

 

Photos intermingled with words. Lovely idea. She must be really talented to do that.

 

Written in anonymity, just like my original friend’s web log. Who could this be? She, I think it is a “she” anyway, mentions familiar people and places. I write my initial web log friend an email and ask where one lands when one clicks “links.” She said she couldn’t tell. It was not public information. Oh great, I had crossed another line drawn in Blog’s sandbox. Not to worry, my web-logging friend would forward my email and see if the other one wanted to respond. Boy, this is weirder than passing notes in school hallways.

 

Uh-hum. Let me get back to my adventure in the land of Blog. After writing several notes via email to my web log friend (because I wasn’t about to publicly air my thoughts in that comment box), she sent me an email suggesting that I should write a web log.

 

Yeah! What a great idea! No, that was not really my initial response. It was more along the lines of, Oh, maybe it’s okay for her to write out loud, but such a task is not for this lady, even though I used to ruffle some feathers with opinionated, publicly broadcasted high school newspaper editorials. Come on now, I am a fairly new Christian and I wouldn’t know what to write in my Christian toddlerhood. I don’t even know exactly how to act or react wearing this newish born again suit. Thanks for the nod, but no, I will just keep blurking here behind the hedges of these two web log ladies. Thank you very much. Clickity-click-click-click.

 

Finally, my inborn need-to-write genetic bubbles burst to the surface and overcame my astonishment of airing words on the public laundry line of the World Wide Web. Writing via computer has to be much less time-consuming than writing with pen, ink and a paper-filled journal, right? I could try to fit a once-a-week, sit-down and type session into my life. As I readied for the maiden journey into an intriguing land, I just knew this web log thingamajig would save me a lot of time.

 

So began my journey into the land of Blog.

 

By the way, some of the most surprising, liberating, and inspiring diversions on this trek have been the trails that lead me right into another’s heart and life. And them into mine.

 

• post script: I wrote this diatribe a couple weeks ago. Initially I was trying to figure out why I started blogging—and I think I have that one covered with this post. What currently is tossing about in my brain are some additional questions. Why do I keep blogging? Should I keep blogging? Does this really glorify God? Is anyone walking with the Lord because of me? I will try do some sorting of these questions.

 

• If you like, please join me on my journey to the land of Blog. I know we all have taken different paths to get here. So, as I go deeper into the woods with my wanderings and wonderings, feel free to lace up your hiking boots and join me… 

Regarding Writing...

How many stashed notebooks, tucked away pages, and Word documents are dangling half-finished in your home?

Beauty isn't always found in the completion, is it? Oh yes, I know that my beauty and yours and the sinner's next door, that all of our real beauty indeed will be revealed upon His wondrous return and completion in us. Praise God for that! But what about some of the things of today? Especially those made by stringing letters together into lines. Into paragraphs. Into chapters. Into stories. Into books. What about the beauty in those not wanting to be undone? Or the beauty in those left undone, on purpose?

Isn't beauty also found along the way, and not just in the completion?

Right before the idea is even born.

When the conjured-up comes to fruition.

As white turns to gray.

When pen meets paper with something to say.

As tappy flesh fingers meet still plastic keys.

During the heart's pouring out.

When warm word-soup simmers in the head.

During nights when itchy ideas wriggle in bed.

How many stashed notebooks, tucked away pages, and Word documents are dangling half-finished in your home? I take that back, how many are jumping for joy? Because they find beauty, in their half-finished form.

Even if your written piece has "The End" etched after the flow of gifted words, is it ever really finished? 

What about its work once it leaves your desk? 

Does it give someone else something to say? 

Does it simmer in another's head?

Does it meet another heart? 

I think I want some of mine to always stay undone.

Freedom!

4th of July

Independence Day

Happy Birthday, America!

All week, my friend at Live, Love, Laugh, Hope has been posting about things like patriotism, independence, and the American flag. She wears her heart on her sleeve, do you? Do you honor our country's service men and women? Do you feel pride when you see our nation's flag flying high?

And another friend at Traveling the Road Home posted an awesome video depicting the true origin our great nation. It is a wonderful history lesson. To know our country's real history is to know that God and His sovereign Word influenced, inspired and guided the foundation of America. That is to know history. And His story.

No matter how our red, white and blue founding liberties seemingly are being dragged through the dirty, brown mud by those in high authoritative seats, the Truth of all that matters remains blood-red. The Truth about real Freedom dripped blood from The Cross. And with Him as the King of kings and the Lord of lords, my patriotism proudly runs red, white and blue.

 

My freedom is in Christ. This Independence Day what will you celebrate? Only the birthday of a nation or will you also recognize its founding principle of real Freedom?

Dear Friend

We serve an awesome God. Yes, yes, we do. Even amid our daily trials, He is our strength. He is our Rock. Do you notice how He sends special gifts your way? Each day? Do you take the time to notice? And accept each present with humility? And what about praise?

While my heart has been rocked and rolled these last few days, it has also been filled beyond its rim. Even to the point of overflowing. Kind comments on heart-wrenching posts. Warm hugs from a friend standing in his garden. Together-prayers with my son and I holding hands. Smiles and thanks from neighbors (5 miles down the road) as we gave them Walla Walla sweet onions, bread made from those onions & fresh herbs, a jar of fruit syrup, and some printed photos of her most marvelous peony garden. Offers from nearby neighbor to borrow their car as I have nothing to drive today (while they are going through hospitalized trauma of their own). A concerned phone call from a dear friend who loves critters like me, after she read my last post. A husband coming home way early this week--his family needs him. Here.

Below is a note I wrote to a new friend, if I could be so honored to call myself that in her company... I meant it to be brief, but my fingers kept on clicking and clunking at the keyboard. She is hurting. And something is broken. (Don't we all? Have pain. Have brokenness?). If you want to stop now, I understand. If you want to read on and learn about me, here is most of that note...

Me, I am just a country bumpkin etching out as meager of an existence as possible.  Often times our lifestyle doesn't mesh with the world's idea of success and achievement. To me, and my family, our greatest success and achievement are the days we were Saved by our Almighty Father God, about six years ago. And the day our 4-year old dedicated his life to the Lord, 18 months ago. I am sure you agree.

You see, fancy doesn't interest me, although we could probably buy it. Perfect isn't real. My only style is plain (for clothing, for writing)--jeans, hiking boots, and a t-shirt. My hair isn't up-to-date, just long and tied up most days. What I am is wounded woman trying to attract others to God by the Salve covering my wounds. My heart beats with that high school teenage butterflies-in the-gut and knees-a-knocking sort of love for my husband, my man since we were 17 & 16. I am a mamma--after years and years of waiting and hoping--our son landed in my womb and Jesus took up residence in my heart. I am a fierce friend. A loyal listener. A daughter. A sister. A goof ball. A hard worker--I can swing an ax, drive a tractor, do farm chores, and whatever else needs doin' around here. Or at someone else's place. 

I have never been on an airplane, just a bus and a train (I would be fine with buckboards, wagons, and saddled horses for transportation). I have never been to a big ole amusement park (I live in a place that tickles my heart, why risk tossing my cookies with throngs of sweaty people?). I have never owned a new car, err, truck (Mine may be an eyesore, but it runs just fine, well, most of the time). I have never owned a matching bedroom set of furniture (My husband & I built our bed with our own hands--wood and love; our dresser is old and ugly, but I have socks and underwear to fill it.) I have never owned a new couch (Got one in exchange for building a deck and the other for a few bucks outta someone's garage.)

I wonder--if Ireland's green is the same shade as America's western Oregon fern & moss green? This I would like to know. And I would like to see other parts of the world. Deep blue waters and white-washed stone homes of Greece; relaxing exotic islands in the south Pacific; powder-sand beaches along a sunny seashore; spiring snow-capped peaks in Switzerland... But honestly,  I would be drawn toward things less fanciful, like little farms or little houses with big-hearted people, gathered around bountiful tables, holding hands, sharing God's grace, and one another's love.

I notice the little things...lacy wildflowers scattered under ferns, butterflies riding the wind, buds barely open and even those past their prime, the old lady trying to reach wrangle open a heavy door (of course I help her), the old man who looks lonely at the post office, they way my son becomes his daddy when they are riding horses or working together, the way my hubby falls asleep at the drop of a hat when he is still, they way my strong mamma carries regret in her shoulders.

And I notice the big things...how much room Jesus takes up in my heart! Yeehaw! How it doesn't matter what the world thinks of me. How I have friends, both new and old, that shine with God's love light. How His grace saved even a wretch like me. How I am really, really, His. How those Living Words make sense. How my husband seeks the Lord in his leading of this family. How my son wrinkles his brow, purses his lips, squeezes his eyes, and holds his hands tight when he prays. How much strength I find on my knees, or my face, before the Lord.

Oh dear, I rambled on and on here. Sometimes my hands fly and clunk over the keys, all at once. Apparently this was to be the day (or night for you) for me to write a lengthy note to a mere stranger. A mere stranger. In entertaining strangers, we may unknowingly entertain an angel...

Not to diminish the privacy of this note written straight from my heart to you, I may post most of it as a blog post. So, friend (I hope it is okay to call you that), if you stumble upon it, know it was and still is intended for your kind eyes. And even gentler heart.

May the Lord bless all that you do this day in His name. And I will pray for a speedy and complete recovery for you. 

If you were my up-the-dirt-road neighbor (rather than across the wet & wild seas), I would bake you fresh whole wheat bread filled with herbs I pulled off the stems and sweetened with honey I poured out of the jug. I would bring you a bouquet of lavender flowers and lacy cilantro blossoms, tucked into it would be dandelions from my son. I would bring you a movie. I would bring you a garden-filled green salad with homemade honey mustard dressing. I would bring you a jar of strawberry-rhubarb syrup I made the other night, and some warm wholesome scones to pour it over. I would bring you ice tea we made yesterday in a big jar on the deck. I would bring you, part of me.

Wanting Out, To Run Free

This week’s RAP (random acts of poetry) directive:  
Find a moment to REALLY LIVE… and use the phrase “I slipped into…”

Given by L.L. Barkat.



I slipped into the old Dodge pick-up
Jittery cat carrier on the floor
Kid on the solemn bench seat
Both, next to the passenger door
All of us
Wanting out
To run free


Sitting in the country veterinary waiting room
I listened to a rotund man in overalls
And a highly tanned younger one
Toss their dog stories around like a beach ball
All of us, sitting in there
Wanting out
To run free

Standing in the grey room with the critter doc
Frightened, almost limp from a bone-crushing wound, barn cat
Between us, my hands on her hurting body
The doc’s eyes probing to figure where my heart is at
All of us, standing there
Wanting out
To run free

Facing the girl at the crowded front desk
Sadness ripping me jaggedly through
I put my back to my son, who is holding a lonely cat carrier
My silent hot tears slide down
The gal’s voice softens as she waits for me,
To decide what to do
All of us, waiting there
Wanting out
To run free

I slipped into the old Dodge pick-up
Vacant cat carrier next to the door
Kid waits patiently in his booster
While his mamma’s face hides
Face-down on sun-baked steering wheel
She yields to tears, hot drips onto dusty floor
All of us, sweltering in the truck
Wanting out
To run free

Calling my husband to share the news
Finally pulled my bleeding heart together
I told the options, my mind already settled the matter
He tried to sound tough and strong
But it was my turn as his tears discretely
Swam along
All of us, waiting across the long-distance phone line
Wanting out
To run free

Agreeing on what has to be done
I call the gentle girl at the desk
She remembers my tear-stained voice
I choke out the words
She smoothes them over to her best
All of us, in the middle
Wanting out
To run free

Motioning for my son to come over
I yearn for his littleness to sit on my lap
But he, in his bigness wants to stand
Facing me with those giant blues
“Why did we leave her there, mamma?”
I tell the choices, he backs away
Shakes his head, steps on his heart and mine
Then throws himself into my lap
All of us, in a hard spot without daddy here
Wanting out
To run free


Wondering why I shed so many tears
Over a gentle barn cat we’ve had only a year
Abandoned, my boys took her in
And she, them.
Oh that is why--
My heart pumps their blood
My eyes spill their tears
All of us, in this tight family bond, 

Never wanting out
To run free


I slipped into the old Dodge pick-up
Grabbed the borrowed cat carrier
Knowing she will fill it again in a few days
Eases some of the pain
With daddy being gone
And recently putting our first dog into the ground
My heart couldn’t take another strangle-hold
These vice-grips of loss just have to let go
All of us,
Wanting out
To run free


When He is at the center and we are gathered around, joined by gripping hands and praying hearts, then none of us wants out to run free. None of us want to be free of that. For, in our minds and souls, it is then that we have slipped into what and where God really wants us to be. A family, under one roof, sharing tears and love and grace and ugly and pretty and God's grace...

Initially, all members of this little family did not welcome Sweet Kitty. I wanted nothing to do with her. But she wanted everything to do with us, especially my son. And my “Dr. Doolittle” husband. Sweets stayed because my son has these gigantic blue eyes, when pleading, actually melt your heart. And because my husband has these gentle brown eyes, when looking into mine, buckle my knees.

My husband said when he left for his first workweek away from here, “She won’t be a problem. You’ll learn to like her. I promise. Just feed her. And pet her sometimes.” 

He didn’t tell me that she would impress me with her feline hunting skills. That she would amaze my by her lack of equine fear. That she would follow us around the yard. That she would trail us up the dirt road for a quarter mile en route to the neighbor’s place. That she would balance on the horse trough for a drink without falling in. That she would touch my hand with her paw when I pull hay bales. That she would purr when I give her food. That she would chase butterflies across the yard. That she would walk across the top of the wooden swingset, watching me train a horse in the rain. That she would walk beside me as I searched for the chicken-killing raccoon in the dark. That she would make my son smile. That she would chase the twine I snake across the grass. That she would remind me of my husband’s love every time she looks into my eyes.

How could I feel anything but pain when we discovered her injured little body this weekend. Our initial assessment proved to be wrong. A further inspection proved to be right. Underneath a gnarly surface wound, a broken hip bone. Maybe two.


Drastic surgery. Don’t have that kind of money or the time.

Put her down. What are the other options, please.

Leave the leg. But it would hinder her feline-ness.

Take the leg. Vet sees it all the time. And it works.

God gave us love. God gave us dominion over the animals. God gave my husband his job. Without it, we wouldn’t have to wonder, she would be in the ground. With it, we have options. I wrestled with all the options. I decided. I then yielded it to my husband, the head of the home, as God intended. Husband told of his choice. Then asked of mine. They were the same.

So, in a few days we will pick up miss Sweet Kitty. She won’t be whole, but she will be fine. We will be fine. Isn’t this story like us? Our walk with God. He finds us, wild. He finds us, wounded. He holds us. He loves us. He nurtures us. He shows us His way. Although not always what we want, He wants us to follow Him. In doing so, we bring others along. We are new in Him, but our wounds are what bind us to one another.

Side-note:

Find a moment to really live. It doesn't mean in only a warm & sunny & easy place.

Finding a moment such as that would be nice, but not really real. Really living is feeling the gut-wrenching pain and surviving it by God's grace and mercy. And knowing full-well that to really live, we must first really die. To our old sinful self. 

another side-note:

Oh yes, this has been one of those posts I should have written and re-read hours later, trimming the excess as to not drag on and on. But, I wrote it for me. For my family. For God. In trying to understand and grapple with my broken heart and broken-ness, I can't always be eloquent and quick. Sometimes I need to loll about in my pain so I can see how big and mighty and wonderful He is. Actually, when I start writing anything to please others, that is the day I will stop.

Focus

Where is your focus

Is it on the heart 

within

?

"God heals the brokenhearted

and binds up their wounds."

~Psalm 147:3

paths

For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.

Ephesians 2:10 (NKJV)

When freedom is the destination and God is the tour guide, 

our load is lifted and our steps are placed on only paths 

lined with love. And forgiveness is the sweet, sweet aroma 

we smell along the way.

wild daisy

wild daisy.

grew in grass

plucked by

dirty 5-year old

boy hands,

with unabashed love

wild daisy.

now drinks 

water

in window,

reminds me

of His grace-filled love

wild daisy.

that's

me

plucked

to drink His Life-giving water

* This is a poem I wrote in June. 

As I read the RAP (Random Acts of Poetry)

prompt from L.L. Barkat for this week of July 10, 

I recalled one I already penned that more or less matches...

1. find an object and name it 

2. describe what it looks like 

3. ask it to bring you a quality it possesses