Movin'--again

I am hoping that the almost-asleep-and-crying-hard spells cease, or at least decrease in frequency once we get into our new rental. We have all had a rough time with the move. This cat-pee rental has indeed been challenging, as has our failed home sale in western Oregon. The past fifteen months have been full of so much change and hard times and uncertainty and unfamiliarity. My little fella is a tender spirited boy. He used to cry in his sleep when we first got here. Now, he cries as he is trying to fall asleep. "I just wanna go home. I just wanna go home. You need to know that no place will ever feel like home to me. Mommy, can't we just go home?"

My heart breaks and I work hard to gather pieces, all while trying to distract him with a story about new adventures in this new area. Tears well up and some splash over the edge as I hold him tight and talk of how good it is for our family to all be together. ("Son, don't you remember the agony and pain and sadness when daddy would drive off for another week or two or three away from us? Do you want to trade this stinky house and being able to sword fight with dad almost every night for your bedroom and our big yard and our neighbors?") Oh, it hurts me so bad too. Sometimes I feel so guilty for comparing the pain I felt with my husband being across the state at his new job (without his family) to the pain I feel being away from my home, my friends, my comfort, my security.

Alas, love always wins. It has to. God made it that way. But, it still hurts to miss what is familiar and loved and cherished and worked-hard-for and appreciated.

Three and a half months here. Tonight my husband is snoring gently on the couch. My son is waiting for prayers in his parent's bed as his is covered in boxes and bagged bedding. Tonight, the eve of our move into a much nicer place with a yard and a creek and woods and a wood stove and a better place for the horses and dogs, tonight my son and I will snuggle in bed for prayers, like we did each night for ten and half months of separation from daddy. My back is already sore from the work of horse-fencing all weekend--but my heart is a little better with the anticipation of unpacking boxes and finding books and clothes and candles.

We have lived as if we were camping in a storage unit--boxes stacked to the ceiling, full of us. Looming there, close enough to touch, but not willing, nor able to open and feel. Is that how we live with God sometimes? I hope not. Rather, I hope we are all living in hopeful expectation of the good that is coming.

This Simple Country Girl may be off-line for a bit as the internet satellite won't be hooked-up for many days. We are moving from one side of the mountain to the other... Please pray for a smooth transition, a safe move for us and the critters, and peace for my family as we open the next chapter in this relocation saga...

Miss Jo

In response to the Random Acts of Poetry challenge at High Calling Blogs, sponsored by L.L. Barkat, I wrote a poem in the form of a letter (or is it a letter in the form of a poem?) to miss Jo March. So, for a read on the slightly silly side and for another glimpse at me...

Dearest March Sister-

Miss Jo,

Do you know that we share

The commonality of long brown hair?

Although when I grasped scissors

And gave my long hair a wack,

It wasn’t selflessness that ruled

Rather it was selfishness with a smack!

And a take that!

As I handed my ponytail long

To my beloved.

My cropped hair grew once more

And left a whole lot of my selfishness

Lying there on the dirty, hairy floor.

As my locks grew,

So did my patience

And my mouth as often refused to spew.

Miss Jo,

Do you know that I yearn

For another to take my silliness on a turn?

Oh, won’t you and Laurie come soon

For one romp around the dining room?

Dancing delightedly

While smiling ever so wickedly.

Come, fill my halls with revelry

And make a merry sound,

As we stoically march and crazily trumpet around.

I promise each a delightful costume

Complete with a splendid flopping, feather plume!

Let us join hands,

Oh won’t it be grand.

To frolic about, as though we had gone mad?

Miss Jo,

Do you know that we both spread

Our hearts out in words to be read?

You write with an enraptured flurry

As a fiery passion prevails.

You don’t waste it.

Rather you make it wind beneath the sails.

I can relate to the burning words bursting

To get out,

But how to reach the masses

That, I have yet to figure out.

As I close this odd littly ditty in my computer’s din,

I’ll reopen your novel

And befriend The Little Women therein.

But know that my husband nary does rejoice

For when I speak to him

In that 1800’s voice,

He raises his brow

Wrinkles his forehead.

And wonders what exactly

I have been reading in bed.

Lay Aside Every Weight

"Therefore we also,

since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses,

let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us,

and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us,

looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith,

who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross,

despising the shame,

and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."

~ Hebrews 12:1-2

Can you run His race while bound, as if to a concrete block?

I think not.

Actually, I know not.

How do you count your blessings?

Are they measured and weighed upon your scale

or that of God's?

Can you freely count whilst you are bound?

* I am thankful to overflowing for all those

who have encouraged me and spoke Truth to me.

* I am thankful that God sees beauty

in a weathered and crumpled flower such as me.

* I am thankful for my husband's prayers, kindness, protection, and honesty,

even when I behave less than deserving of such gifts.

Join Ann and her friends as they meet Mondays to gather and give glory.

Healing Hearts (part 4)

Today marks the 37^th anniversary of Roe vs. Wade. If you have stopped by this place within the last year, you know that I zealously and unabashedly have worked to slow the political machine of America that is bent on making abortion not only easily accessible and mainstream acceptable, but also funding it with your tax-payer dollars. Why have I been so outspoken and bold? First, because I think God simply demands it of me. And second, because days like the Roe vs. Wade anniversary and the upcoming “Sanctity of Life” Sunday generally focus on the baby. The atrocity. And oftentimes leave the woman, a wounded woman, alone and flailing around in the dust of her dark and lonely path…

My Bleeding Heart series culminates now. And it all points to a place born from a whisper early one morning as my head lay upon my pillow. You see, God spoke to me. Oh, I have heard of others chat about hearing the Holy Spirit give clear guidance. And I admit, I wondered. I wondered if they flipped their noodle. I wondered how they made it happen. I wondered if they questioned it. And yes, I wondered what it would be like to hear His words. Would it be a whisper? Or a yell? Would it be a slight nudge with a way out if I didn’t agree? Would a burning bush be involved?

Christmas morning, while others around this earthen sphere were partaking in assorted festivities celebrating the birth of Jesus, His Father was ever so busy gifting me with whispers. Gentle, yet ever so strong and real. Urgent, yet ever so steeped in grace and mercy. Piercing my heart, yet ever so tender and True. I heard Him speak! As the rest of my home still clung to sleep, I padded out to the kitchen and grabbed my Bible. I figured that His Word would show me that I had indeed flipped my noodle. Setting out to prove Him wrong, He proved Himself right. Of course.

Scripture after scripture flew at me. Just when I found one and started reading, another clearly came to mind. I quickly flipped pages and looked at labeled tabs, searching for another clue. I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t read fast enough. So I started writing down the book and chapter and verse. After the divine biblical reference onslaught, I made some coffee and sat back into the chair. Amazingly, the Spirit had taken me on a journey of Truth, mingled with direction, insight, and guidance. Baby Jesus birthday parties were surely in full swing by now. Neighbors were likely done with their chores and were probably reveling in the wonders of Christmas morning. Me? I sat in the kitchen, a pen and scratch paper and Bible in my lap, with a nearly full cup of cold coffee nearby and I knew without an inkling of a doubt what He wanted me to do…

Initially, I would like to introduce you to Darlene. Me. Yes, I am A Simple Country Girl, but I am also a real person with a real past. One year ago I penned a letter. Oh it was a most definite divinely inspired letter. I clearly remember typing it with an unknown fury, as if my fingers were on fire. Friends, my Father God told me to share the Letter with you. So it is with great humility, a hope-filled spirit, God-given strength and bold courage that I give it to you.

Dear Pastor/Church Leader,

Consider for a moment the way the church acknowledges “Sanctity of Life Sunday.” Facts are spewed, data is presented, images are shown, pamphlets are handed out, books are dispersed, and preaching is perfunctory. And wait a minute, what is happening right there in the church pews?

In some, folks are squirming with discomfort of public discussion regarding such a horrid topic. It is an atrocity they cannot even imagine and don’t want to spend a lot of time thinking about.

In a few, people even are shouting “Amen!” out loud as a battle cry to join forces and money and prayers to hinder such an appalling act.

In most, congregation members are joining forces quietly. They put money in the offering plate for their local pregnancy care center, while some even make baby blankets sewn with love and prayers to donate to those moms who keep their God-given babes.

But in an alarming number of those wooden, hymnal-lined pews, women are dying. Dying because they have never felt the forgiveness offered to them by their Heavenly Father. And they are dying because they haven’t taken His hand in order to forgive themselves. One out of every three women sitting in church pews across America are suffering unknown pain, agony and torment come “Sanctity of Life” Sunday. Often times they do it discretely and silently. Some even do it right next to you, but behind a mask. A great deal of our church-going women are being overlooked. Neglected. They line the pews.

“Sanctity of Life” Sunday is an honorable and worthwhile day, but for many, it is a day that bashes them against the cold, hard brick wall of their reality. They had an abortion. They did the unspeakable. They committed the sin of murder. They killed a baby. They broke God’s heart right in two. While “Sanctity of Life” Sunday revelers spout the statistics and pass the offering plate, the broken sit in the pews. And they bleed all over the place.

If they haven’t taken their burden to the cross and have not rested their head in God’s forgiving lap, they remain broken, bleeding, and dying. And what is the church doing about it? Rubbing their faces in it. To those precious women sitting in your midst, it feels like their sin is being held up front for everyone to see. It feels personal.

How do these women cope? Why don’t they seek help? Many may harden their hearts and push it deeper down into the pits of their being. Bury it way inside. After all, they are sitting in a church pew.

What would the other proper ladies think? Would they turn away in disgust? Would they shake their heads, lower their eyes, and walk away from me? There is no way I could confess my sin. Not here. Not in God’s House. No way.

If I tell them of my history, will they understand my choice? If I tell them of the troubled teenage promiscuity I experienced, could they relate? If I tell them of the rape, would they pity me? If I tell them of my drunken stupor, would they still listen? If I tell them someone else made me get the abortion, could they, would they, comfort me?

And what about my family? My husband. My children. Do they know they are living with a murderer? How could they endure the shame? The whispers? The guilt of being related to me?

I should tell somebody. I hear that God forgives. But how could He forgive this mess? How could He forgive me? Why would He? Look, it is a big deal they are making today. It even has a name and a national day of recognition. Oh, I would mess up their service with my truth. With my pain. But I feel like I need to talk.

Oh, no. I won’t even bother. The service will end soon. Who will care after today? It’s a touchy subject. What does the man preaching know about women anyway? Who could I turn to? Not the pastor’s wife, she definitely won’t understand. Not the elder’s wife, she couldn’t possibly relate. Nope. No one.

So, I will stuff it down. Oh, my. I am bleeding all over the pew. My tears. Oh no, does anyone see? What’ll I do with the mess I have made here in my pew? Smooth it over with a weak smile. Wipe it up with a donation to the pregnancy center. There you go. Shove it back inside. Until next year.

It may cross the mind of a suffering woman to find help, but when the focus is on the atrocity, on the act itself, and on the innocent baby, the broken woman, although surrounded by Christians, often sits alone in her very own church pew. Hoping no one is on to her. Her secret. Her past.

I know. I was that woman. By God’s grace, mercy, compassion, and infinite love, He helped me lay down my burden. I am one of many who bore that cross, but only one of the few to lay it down. To really lay it down. I had a couple of trusted women on my side. They knew. They prayed. Twenty-two years after the abortion, God spoke to me and filled me with a supernatural strength. I reached out and someone was there. Right there.

Very soon after, and in God’s strength alone, I literally went to the cross and wept. I did it when no one else was at the church. I placed my heavy burden of guilt, shame, fear, sorrow, remorse, and depression right into God’s hand. I wept for the baby. I wept for myself. I wept for could-have-been grandparents. I wept for the doctor and nurses who took my baby’s life. I wept for the baby’s father. I wept for my family.

That night when I gave my burden to the Lord, I accepted His forgiveness. And I forgave myself. You see, that is the component of the equation that often gets overlooked. Forgiving ones very own selfish self.

Forgiving the one that is being talked about at church. Forgiving the one who feels like her sin is absolutely unforgivable. Now, that is hard to do. And the burden gets oh so heavy every “Sanctity of Life” Sunday. So heavy that I, being free from my sin, but knowing other women are weeping and bleeding from their wounded past, felt God gently tapping me on the shoulder to write this note.

Please know that there are precious daughters of Christ right in your midst who sit broken and bleeding and dying among you. Some may be young, some may be up-town, some may be down-and-out, some may be elderly—but all are children of God who deserve grace, compassion, mercy, their Father’s forgiveness, and your tender love.

Consider for a moment the way the church acknowledges “Sanctity of Life” Sunday.

Sincerely,

Darlene

Since you have read the Letter, you know something of the real me, the Darlene with a heavy-laden past. Now, I would like to introduce you to Healing Hearts, Renewing Minds. It is a ministry dedicated to post-abortive women. A place for wounded sisters to come and prayerfully find inspiring encouragement, Truth-filled words, and gentle guidance, all pointing to God’s wondrously overwhelming forgiveness, mercy and love. It is also a place for church leaders to come and discover more about the hearts of such wounded women so healing can begin and renewing can be reached.

My favorite singer/songwriter, Nathan Clark George, has ever so graciously granted me permission to use his song, “Set Me Straight” in association with the Healing Hearts, Renewing Minds ministry. Please, review some of his words below:

Someday you might find me on your doorstep

Someday you might find that this one fell

Could you take what I might tell you?

Would my tale be like a bombshell?

…

Would you help me up?

Would you set me straight?

Would you give me love?

Don’t shut me away.

Could you carry love

To give a little grace…

Those lyrics speak to me. What about you? Do you have a “tale like a bombshell” too? Do you shut anyone away? Would you give someone love? What about a little grace?

Please, if Healing Hearts, Renewing Minds is somewhere you want to visit, I welcome you. With mingled tears of freedom and humility, I would be honored to grasp your hands inprayer and gently balm your heart with encouragement. Just remember, my heart used to bleed with bright red drops of shame, pain, and unforgiveness. But now my heart beats wildly with grace, forgiveness and His enduring love. It is my prayer that yours does too.

This Bleeding Heart series may be over, but God's glorious healing has just begun!

* Set Me Straight lyrics shared (permission kindly granted from Nathan Clark George)

Clinging Hearts (part 3)

See that above photo of the bleeding hearts? Oh, it indeed is a beauty, is it not? I snapped that photo last summer in the heavy-shaded woods of western Oregon. Those wild bleeding hearts litter the dense forest floor--their delicate beauty is protected by vine maples and thick ferns. While I squatted to snap a few memory shots, this particular flower caught my eye.

Three larger hearts with one dainty, yet deeply colored little heart bursting forth. The way they hang together, clinging as if one. The way the three larger ones shield the smaller, as if nurturing and protecting it. But look close, do you see that little itty-bitty one peeking out too? Nestled close to the top. It is dull and not yet formed into a vibrant heart. Oh, the possibilities of beauty that exist.

Me, I am that one vibrant with color and dangling there, yet nestled between the three. Aren’t we all like that as we walk with Jesus, trust in God, and rely upon the Holy Spirit?

Me, I am also that little, shy one just waiting for the right time to boldly step forth.

Which one are you?

Words that God has laid upon my heart to share. This is Ann’s prompt for today’s Walk With Him Wednesday at A Holy Experience…

“For it is the God who commanded light to shine out of darkness, who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

~ 2 Corinthians 4:6

Glory in His holy name; Let the hearts of those rejoice who seek the LORD!

~Psalm 105:3

Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

~ Romans 5:5

that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love

~ Ephesians 3:17

and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

~ Philippians 4:7

that their hearts may be encouraged, being knit together in love

~ Colossians 2:2

He comes with healing,

Every time you humbly ask, God is there

Always and forevermore. His grace is

Righteously steeped, and

Truth-fully proclaimed. Cling now, to your

Savior!

As you see from today’s post, the header photo and my previous two entries, hearts are heavy on my mind in this place. And, it is because God definitely laid words upon me. Not only Words, but a vision and a mission. Please, come back Friday as I share with you what He so clearly whispered in my ear...

Bleeding Heart Series:

1st here: Bleeding Hearts (part 1)

2nd here: Haiku Hearts Bleed (part 2)

Haiku Hearts Bleed (part 2)

unhealed bleeding hearts

broken by their untold sins,

do not bloom in grace

tender hearts dangle,

desperately wanting love

and forgiveness in

shamed hearts hide from God,

convinced He won’t understand

their life before Him

hearts gently open,

letting God in and sin out.

encouraged by Light

God mends our hurt hearts

with His grace, love and mercy,

and binds them by Truth

Ann of A Holy Experience dares to ask, "How do you gather God in the moments?"

Me? I gathered Him like the heart-penned haiku poems suggest. I was a bleeding heart--unblooming, unforgiven, and hiding. Then He shined His Light deep inside. Sins fell as withered petals. All the ugly got re-worked into the soil to bring forth His beauty. Blooming for all to see.

Please join me this week as I unfold

how God actually gathered me...

for such a time as this.

1st in the series--go here.

Bleeding Hearts

2nd in the series--go here:

Haiku Hearts Bleed (part 2)

3rd in the series--go here:

Clinging Hearts

4th in the series--go here:

Healing Hearts (part 4)

*haiku: 3 lines, 17 total syllables

line 1 is 5 beats

line 2 is 7 beats

line 3 is 5 beats

*I wrote as the words flowed and in the end I see how one haiku merges into the other...

*poetry inspired by this (In)Courage post

*poetry always offered to & inspired by this lady (L.L. Barkat) and this place (High Calling Blogs/RAP)

Bleeding Hearts (part 1)

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

As an addition to this post, and because my heart bleeds for Haiti, I am sharing a prayer...

Lord, we cannot even comprehend nor fathom the magnitude of destruction and pain and suffering in Haiti. It hurts to ponder her plight too long. Stones fall and crush and kill. Stones separate one from another as babies wail and mothers howl, both in gut-wrenching pain. Children shed tears steeped in fear and loss. Father God, this hurt in my heart permeates my mind and my day and my night. It haunts me for I feel helpless.

Father, there are stones every place I took today when I search Your Word…

Luke 19:40—stones cry out

Luke 17:18—You are the Cornerstone

Luke 21:5&6—stones are thrown down

John 2:3-10—water pots of stone fill with wine

For this reassures me that you are there. And here. You are indeed among and in and part of the stones that litter Haiti and pierce my heart. Lord, I pray with a bleeding heart, that souls rush to You, the Cornerstone of Life. I pray that the thirsty turn to You, the only One who can truly quench and satisfy.

Give me direction for my heart and mind and hands and possessions.

Bless the hurting with relief.

Give the lost direction.

Strengthen the weak.

Find the scattered.

Heal the wounded.

Encourage those searching & working & digging & praying & giving.

Lord, above all, shine Your mercy and Love upon Haiti in her time of dire need. All of this we ask with trusting & hopeful hearts and all of this we pray in the Life-giving name of Jesus. Amen.

Go here for ways to help Haiti...

Jennifer

Laura

Hope for Haiti

Blinking-Breathing-Thinking

a photographer captures an external instant

with a clever mechanized

click.

an image caught

between blinking.

a poet conveys an internal beauty

with a heart inked

beat.

a feeling caught

between breathing.

our God, both captures and conveys

with a wondrous love-graced

gift.

too few lives caught

between thinking.

Is this why we capture--so we can reflect?

Is this why we convey--so we can reach?

Is this why we desperately create and share our own inky beats

--so we can be closer to God?

Originally, the first two blocks of penned letters came last night. I was thinking on photography. And poetry. Wondering how some make it beauty? How some make the two-dimensional come alive and dance upon my brain and wriggle in my heart? My son, next to me at the kitchen table, was doing a word search. Seeking, finding, spelling. Trying to tie letters together in a way that made sense and order out of a jumbled chaotic mess.

While he sorted, I did the same. Seeking, finding, spelling--all while inking letters together in a way that bled my heart onto paper. I thought of L.L. and gifted her the first portion this morning. But as night's dying darkness rolled back to reveal a soft light touching hilltops, I realized it is all a desperate hunt for Him. My humble-laden camera clicks and ink beats are all because of Him.

And for Him.

It is my way of gifting God. Actually, I am only re-gifting what He already gave me.

Humble Love

Loving like our Father God loves. At times I reckon each of us fully casts aside His beautiful Love coat as we pull on our own ripped-n-ratty, sour-hearted sweater. Oh, why oh why do we do this? What goes so wrong that we only focus on our own selfish selves? And in doing so, snag a whole into the sweet, sweet love cloak adorning those around us?

As gentle Ann over at A Holy Experience asks us to share how we can love like God, I opened a drawer and found this stretched out hunk o' my heart. I pray that this piece doesn't fit me at all anymore because I am absolutely the wrong size.

Praise God for His littlest children. My little fella always seems to Truth me back into the reality of God's grace and love...

Guilt trip. That is the journey I tried to embark my son upon one frozen morning last week. With his daddy gone, extra chores, an injured horse needing special care, an injured mamma (cause his colt stomped her foot a mere 16 hours prior), and a near-empty barrel of whits--it felt like my only choice...

I stood at the door, dressed for morning chores in my long underwear, sweat pants, similar layers of shirts, overalls, crusty ole coat, Muck boots, hatted head, gloved hands, and apparently a bitter, cold heart underneath it all.

"It is your cat I am feeding. It is your horse I am tending to. And feeding. It is your dog I am taking out for exercise. You just sit here while I do the work. You know, I am tired. Myfoot hurts. It is getting late. The animals need fed. I have to let out the chickens. Feed all the horses. Too. It is late. You just stay here. Don't eat anything while I am out there. I don't want you choking. Oh yeah, I have to carry in all the firewood. You better clean up some of this fort you built on the couch. I am going outside. See you later."

Hmph. I turned and walked out into the bitter cold. I muttered and sputtered all the way to the hay. I fed the cat. I even talked to that crazy, scare-me-from-under-the-hay-tarp cat. I grained the upper horses. I gathered their grain feeders for tomorrow's grain chomp. I fed them hay. I dunked water for the cat from their trough. I hollered at the pup. He came. Tail wagging. I weighed hay, filled grain containers, loaded the wheelbarrow and set off for the other pasture.

Greedy mare and hungry colt greeted me at the gate. Oh, if that child of mine were here to help with the gate, this would be easier. Grained the mom and babe. I could hear foot steps running through the house. What in the world is that kid doing in there? I trip on tromped mud frozen into rock-hard pasture obstacles. Whince at foot pain. Lock the gate, head up the hill with the one-wheeled barrow.

Oh, I forgot the produce scraps for the feathered hens. Open the front door and stick my head inside. Looking for the kid. "Hello! I need the chicken stuff!" My loud, demanding voice flies into the house. Searching for him, I catch my son with his mouth open, little boy hands clutching something to his chest.

It is his hat, held tightly to his heart. His coat dangles on the bench. He is standing next to the muddy boot pile near the wood stove. "Uh mom. I am hurrying. I am trying to get ready for helping with chores."

Well, I am half done already.

He continues, "I tell you what. You go back out there. You said you have lots to do. And I will bring the chicken stuff. You go now. I will hurry."

Gulp. I purposefully gave him the rotten road map route for a trip along Guilt Avenue. He innocently gave me the road map to Regrettable Words. And actions. And attitudes.

"Okay." I backed out into the bitter, cold morning. Dragging my bitter, cold heart along. Oh, Lord, forgive me for being that way with my son. Your son. Bitter. Cold.

All you had to do was ask. Okay, God.

Look, he loves you. He is a good boy. This mess with his daddy being gone impacts his little heart too. He sees you hurting. He knows your heart is breaking without his daddy here. He even knows your foot is swelling and purple. It all impacts his little self too. He is a gift. You remember that. Okay, God. I am humbled. I am sorry. I am ever so sorry.

Door opens and unzipped-coat-boy steps onto porch. His five-year old hands are covered with his daddy's big ole sledding gloves. Guess he wants to be close to a part of his dad too. "How about I zip that coat for ya?"

"Okay mom. Hey, did you do firewood yet? Cause I loooove to do firewood. I am strong ya know. Oh, here is the chicken stuff. Mom, come on. Let's go. We have lots of chores to do this morning. Animals are hungry. Wood needs brought in. Mom?" He talks fast. Finds my hazel eyes with his baby blues.

Sorry son, mom was chewing and swallowing her humble pie.

We run the chicken stuff over to the coop. Let the red ladies out. I give him the feed. He tosses it in. Some lands on the ladies. He giggles. My heart warms. The bitter, cold melts.

As we head back toward the barn, one of his gargantuan gloves grab my free hand. He is skipping. I am walking. We make it to the wood pile. We work side by side. My little son and I. Day breaks forth with a new glory. We carry so much wood to the porch that we won't have to do it again tonight with the evening chores.

Now the little fella wonders where I am. "I am here. Looking for your pup. Oh here he is out here behind the truck." My son runs up behind me. "Hey mom, look at these trees and branches. All over the place. All over the road. Let's do some more work." He trots off and starts picking up storm-blown branches. Grabbing. Tossing. Pulling.

As he works, I marvel at his kindness. His work ethic. His desire to do good. And I am ashamed at mine.

When finished, he asks if I want to help him in his tree-climbing area. "Ya know, since chores are all done, I could really use your help in here, mom. I need to clear out some of these branches. Could you help me? Please?" I look to the door, thinking of an ice pack for my foot. Hot tea for my hands. I take my camera inside.

He probably thinks I am done-in. He is probably standing there with his big blues searching the front door. Waiting. With his pup and his scattered stick heap.

I come back out. Warmer gloves. Warmer heart. "Okay, little buddy. What do we need to do first?" I help him. He shows me what to do. He tells me what to do. Simple. It works better that way. It works best that way. Ask for what you need. Share what is on your heart.

When we are finished he looks at the door. Somehow my foot pain has ceased. The bitter, cold air has invigorated me. Him too. I look at the swing set and back to the five-year old trying so hard to fill his daddy's shoes. "Let's go swing for a while, okay? Do you want to do that before we go inside?"

"Oh, yes mommy!"

We laugh and play. And throw sticks for the pup. We even let the old-lady dogs out to join us. They all tussle for sticks and scratches behind the ear. As we head inside, we plan our breakfast. Chocolate pancakes. Fruit sauce. Hot cocoa.

Uh, what about these muddy boots by the front door. Hey!

Settle down, daughter. He is washing his hands cause he knows that is what you want him to do first. Swallow. Seems there is still some of that humble pie left.

My son cuddles on the couch with a blanket, a book, and a growing boy appetite. "Mmmm. Itsmells soooo good," he tells me from his cocoon.

Oh yes, son. I am glad. I am so glad. You deserve it. A detour from the normal mid-week breakfast of fruit and oatmeal. I walk in to him and kneel down. I grab his red-cheeked face in my hands. "Honey, I am sorry I gave you a guilt trip this morning before you came out."

"Mom, I don't know nothin' 'bout this guilt. And a trip? I just wanted to help you with chores."

He wrinkles his brow while he thinks about this "guilt trip."

Oh, Lord this humble pie. Thank you for sharing it with me today. Thank you, Lord.

I hope there is enough left for tomorrow.

That piece was from the archives. And even though my family lives together again under one roof, it is very hard for me to read and relive some aspects of my sour heart that autumn morning. But, to see God's love permeate my cloak of stink, is nothing short of amazing.

Won't you join Ann's wonderful community over at A Holy Experience today as stories unfold, revealing God's ever so gracious love today?

Let us not become weary

in doing good,

for at the proper time

we will reap a harvest

if we do not give up.

~ Galations 6:9 (NIV)

A Little Sunshine

because sometimes I need a little sunshine to land smack-dab in the center of my foggy, winter daze...