My New Blog...

Though still fresh and under construction, I've moved my blog HERE at Wordpress. Can't get much easier to find me there if you'd like. Or if you might have someone in mind who maybe needs to read such words (and may like to share too), I'd love to interact with them. 

www.sharenwatson.com ... Yep. This is my new address. 

Will you join me? 

Palm Fronds through Window Panes

I didn't make the connection...

until this week. I'm surprised, to be honest, because if you know me, I'm all about the symbolic. I love metaphorical words, hidden meanings, and allegory. I inhale veiled nuance deep. Penned or printed words on a page are a feast for the eyes, but the story beneath the words is the undercurrent of flavor and aroma, layers of texture, beckons me into cascades of emotion.

C. S. Lewis wrote to J.R.R. Tolkien on December 7, 1929:

“The two things that came out clearly were the sense of reality in the background and the mythical value: the essence of myth being that it should have no taint of allegory to the maker and yet should suggest incipient allegories to the reader."

But first the story of palm fronds...

And hidden places.

My mom's bedroom was caddy corner from the room I shared with my little brother. A narrow wall separated the two, but it might as well have been a chasm deep with only faint echoes of the other side. 

He took me there when the house was empty...

"Sharen, I'll be gone with your Grammy today, but your grandpa wants to take you to the country club. I'm sure he'll buy you a soda..." A rare treat. 

I wanted to flee, with no where to go. 

"Can't I go with you and Grammy?" I pleaded. "l'll be good. I promise."

She assured me I'd be much happier at the country club with my grandpa. My unrelenting pleas to go with her finally led to a stern rebuke. 

"You're going with your grandpa." 

“You can sit in the front seat with me, Sweetie. Say goodbye to Mommy...” 

The glint in my grandfather's eye scared me. I didn't yet know what evil was, but felt every bit of this nameless thing as it crept up my spine, unfurling fear, landing with a thud in the pit of my stomach. 

As promised, we went to the country club where I followed my grandpa and his friends around the course. I busied myself by learning the names of different golf clubs and counting the number of strokes it took to reach each hole. My grandpa even let me put the numbers down on the scorecard. And his friends were so nice, happy to have their friend’s granddaughter tag along. One of them brought me a root beer (my favorite) from the clubhouse halfway through their game. I wondered what it would be like if he were my grandpa instead. Would he touch me too? Like that? 

And then it was time to go home…

The club wasn’t far from my grandparents’ house, and when we arrived no one was home.

“Can we go to my school to play on the playground?” I was scared to be at home with him by myself. I didn’t want to sit in that chair with him when no one was home, knowing Mom wouldn’t be calling for me to get ready for bed soon. The sun was bright in the sky and bedtime was hours away.

“Sure. But I need to run inside for a bit. We’ll go in for just a few minutes, okay?” Satisfied it wouldn’t be long, I took his hand and we walked into the house together. We didn’t go to the den, but to my mother’s bedroom.

“I’ll take you to the school to play in just a bit, but first, I want to show you how much I love you. I love you so much. So so much. You’re my favorite. Did you know that?” His voice was gravelly. Hushed. “All grandpas show love to their granddaughters like this. Here, let me show you.  And when he laid me on the floor, my eyes focused on the palm fronds just outside the large picture window. 

Pain...

yet I focused with all my strength on those palm fronds. The light danced across the green as the breeze moved them in waves across the sky. My hiding place. A shelter for my spirit. I found a sense of solace there, just beyond the the paned glass window. 

Palm Sunday and the story beneath my story...

"On the first day, you shall take the product of hadar trees, branches of palm trees, boughs of leafy trees, and willows of the brook" (Lev. 23:40), and "You shall live in booths send days; all the citizens in Israel shall live in booths, in order that future generations may know that I made the Israelite people live in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt." (Lev. 23:42-43)

Symbolically, these fragile booths, covered with plant material, such as palm leaves, represented temporary shelter meant to protect His people during their time as slaves and as they roamed the wilderness for 40 years before entering the Promised Land. 

The allegory isn't lost to me...

Though the pain and struggle were real. Though I was battered and broken, somehow the jade palm fronds called my spirit to a place of shelter. 

My hiding place.

The Dream that Changed my Forever

The blanket Mom made for my baby

Nine years old and broken...

like Thumbelina, my favorite baby doll. I pulled her string and she barely moved. I held her close to calm her fears, but nothing I did could make her awaken to my love. I swaddled her in the baby blanket my mom had sewn for her, and pulled her close. And I sang...

Rock-a-bye, baby,

On the tree top.

When the wind blows

The cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks

The cradle will fall.

And down will come baby,

Cradle and all. 

I thought about the falling cradle, and pulled her closer to my heart. Broken and raggedy, still I loved her. Gentle, I swept her unkept strawberry blonde hair to the side. 

I'll never let you fall. 

Fear-filled every night...

blankets pulled clear up to my chin. Eyes closed. Frozen. I thought if I didn't move when he touched me, he would leave me to sleep, and sweep strawberry blonde hair gentle off my face. Maybe he would swaddle me gentle and tender. Maybe he would sing over me.

But his touch was of a wholly different kind. And pain joined my fear many times over. 

I wanted to die...

and every night, I thought about how I could just stop breathing. Vague memories of Dad telling me that Grandma had died and gone to Heaven taunted me with the possibility of escape. I pulled Thumbelina closer, and tucked her baby blanket tight under her chin. 

One night...

as I slept sound, I woke, not with a start, not abrupt and fearful, but serene. My body, mind, and spirit wrapped in tranquil warmth. Familiar surroundings eluded me as I was in an altogether different place.

Even now, I'm asking for God's words to flow a near close description of this place. I can only say that my presence there was something other than life here. Certainly other from life I knew as a deeply wounded, frightened child.

Fervent Love, radiant Light, peace-FILLED Presence. No fear, no pain. I belonged. His Presence was pure white, brilliant Light all around Him, through Him, from Him. The details of His face were veiled in Holy resplendence. Yet, even that was right.

I was loved. Truly. Completely. Eternally. 

Home.

When He spoke, His words didn't come audibly to my ears. They came as a whisper to my heart. 

You have to go back. It is not time. 

I responded not with words, but as He had spoken to me. My heart was begging. 

Please let me stay. I don't want to go back. I want to stay here with You.

His encompassing Presence didn't waver, but His Heart came to me again. 

I'm not finished with you yet. You have work to do. 

Again, my heart beseeched Him. 

Please, I want to stay. 

I woke in my bed...

and still the peace of His Presence lingered. I met the One Who loves me Eternal. Though I didn't yet know His Name, I spoke to Him each night until sleep finally came. I didn't hear any whispers to my heart as before, yet I knew He was with me. Somehow. 

Please help me sleep. Please help me not be afraid. Please.

Over and over again, I uttered these words in my mind. And when my grandpa came to hurt me, I somehow (a miracle, I'll never understand) found solace in silent conversations with this One who made His glorious presence known. Somehow, there was a sliver of safety there. I can't explain it. The physical agony, the emotional suffering, the shattered spirit of me, a raggedy, abused little girl had the tiniest of seeds planted into her being by the One Who loved her true. Through six years of torment, this hidden seed was my life preserver. I clung tight when I thought I would break. I felt its grip tight around me when I was sure to perish. 

Sharing the sacred...

here in this place for anyone to see is hard. There are those, I'm sure, who will find my words difficult to believe. I don't know why He chose to make Himself known to me in this manner, and have only voiced this sacred encounter with a select few trusted friends and family members. My intention was to keep this experience sheltered inside, guarded from the reproach of anyone who might tell me I foolishly misinterpreted a childish dream. 

But now, I am compelled to tell. And I'm willing to risk the consequence of naysayers. This is my story, and I'm sharing the sacred with my truest voice. 

Father, Daughter Dance

Daddy will be here...

I know he will be. 

"You look so pretty, Share." She finished the ponytail with a slight pull and turned me toward the mirror. "You're all ready now." 

I know he'll come. He has too! 

"This dress looks so pretty on you. You're grandpa is going to love it too. Wait until you see him. He's all dressed up for your special night." 

But Daddy's taking me to the dance. He'll be here. He'll knock at the door in a few minutes, just in time. 

"Wait here a minute now. I'll tell you when to come out." She said. I waited for the knock at the front door when she stepped out. I leaned close to the door so I wouldn't miss it. "Come on out, Sharen!" 

Just because I didn't hear the front door open, doesn't mean he's not here. 

Eyes to my feet, I walked slow into the living room. "You're going to be the most beautiful girl at the dance tonight," he said. 

It's not Daddy's voice. It's his. 

"Shall we?" He reached for my hand, and I did the only thing I knew I could do. I put my hand in his, and he walked me to the car. 

"Have fun tonight!" I heard my mom's voice behind me, though barely. Her words pushed  through the reverberation of my silent cry. 

And so it went every year...

I finally gave up on the dream of Daddy showing up for Father, Daughter Dances, and accepted my grandpa as his substitute. At least he couldn't hurt me while we were at school. We were simply a normal grandfather and his granddaughter. Only not.

(As an aside... I would share a picture of my grandpa and me, but during my healing years, as an act of setting healthy boundaries, I got rid of every single photo of him. I'll share this story soon)

A Peek into the Nearer Present

As I tell this story...

a glimpse of spring appears, and touches of ruby-tipped cocoons emerge upon newly hatched ruddy leaves. Petals wrapped safe in blankets of green test the slightest glow of the sun and begin their dance of unfolding. Each fragile layer emerges, one after the other, until the rose opens radiant. 

And so it is as I reveal my story. The beginning... the only place to ever start any telling. 

Yet, I'm reminded, today is decades beyond, and I must interrupt the flow of telling to allow you a glimpse of the here and now. 

Because a few have expressed concern that I haven't healed, that only now the wounds of childhood abuse were opening, I must, for this post, defer to nearer present years, to tell a story of restoration. 

Mom...

It's true. She didn't believe me the first time I told her about the touching. And it's true, she dismissed my experience as a figment of my imagination. She did nothing to protect me. Instead, she turned away from her little girl (from me), refusing to hear the ugly truth of her daughter's pain. 

Until many years later. 

I was 29 years old, married, with three children of my own. My oldest, a daughter, had turned eight. Her smile, her infectious giggles... her precious innocence. How could anyone be so cruel as to take that away? My little girl's age triggered the raggedy girl inside of me. 

This confrontation happened months into my healing journey...

"Mom, I have share something with you. You didn't believe me the first time, and you may choose to not believe me again. The choice is yours. But I need to tell you now because I'm doing the work of healing in my life. I've already confronted Grandpa, and he is aware that I am telling you." The words spilled out without pause. Stopping their flow, however brief, could have halted the momentum. She had to know. And I had to tell...

...again. Will she believe me this time? 

"I remember. I'm so sorry. I remember." Her voice raspy through tears. 

She remembers.

Her words, though far too late to change the damage already inflicted through six years of sexual abuse, ushered in an emotional balm of sorts. 

She believes me...

And our relationship healed in time, as I did. Our bond was unbreakable until cancer took her from Earth into Eternity. 

Mom... Do you promise you'll be there when it's my turn? 

I promise. 

She promised. 

Safe to Cry Here

Moving between a fresh manuscript and this blog post...

I'm desperately trying to tell my story plain here, to speak in my truest voice. And I will. Yet even now, shame approaches, unwelcome, unbidden. It is expected. Embarrassment swells, slow and painful. Senses heighten, warning me to stop the telling. 

"Please stop!" I hear her innocent voice pleading within. "Don't tell them! Please!" 

I know why the telling is challenged. Her story allows other true voices to speak. And so once again, I sweep the little one, this broken, weeping, raggedy girl into my arms. I brush tears away as they fall, hers and mine. I hold her close. And together we tell. 

But first...

This is why her story, my story, was locked in a secret place for so long. Too long. Trembling with fear, my first attempt to tell left me crushed and hopeless. I remember the voice of disbelief. I remember the reprimand. 

"Mommy, how come Grandpa hurts me every night?" I searched for her response, waiting for ... something. I watched her wet a washcloth to wipe the cold cream off of her face. She paused for the briefest moment and then...

Nothing.

Did she hear me? 

So I added to my confession. "He touches me here." I pointed to my chest. "And here." I lowered my tiny hand to further portray my grandfather's offense. I gazed from my small hand into my mother's eyes. Tears welled, I felt them there, full and ready to flood. My posture moved slight to ready for her embrace sure to come. 

How I needed that embrace. I needed her to hold me and tell me everything would be okay. I won't let him touch you ever again, the words I heard in my young, innocent heart. Words sure to come. 

She'll protect me now. I'm safe.

Only she didn't. 

Fury shown in her blue eyes. And the tears in my own vanished as I faced an unfamiliar rage. I backed away, and turned to wipe any remnant of moisture away. Quickly now, before she sees.

"Look at me!" I turned to face a mother I did not expect, one I did not know. An introduction to one I trusted, yet no longer. No more. "You're imagining things! Never, NEVER say anything like that again!" 

I never mentioned it again.

Not for a very long time. 

If only I could have told her then...

yet I'm telling this innocent child within (as I've told her over the past years). You were all kinds of brave to speak true. The bravest little girl I've ever met. So, I hold her once again, comforting the secret pain of the revealing. I brush away tears that never fell. She is safe to cry here. 

You are safe here, little one. 

Years Long Broken Goodbye

I remember goodbye...

Over and over again. But I especially remember the fracture that took a whole and made it half. Sundays. Mom said we could visit Dad on Sundays (or was it every other Sunday?). Where did Daddy go anyway? No one told me he was leaving. Why doesn't Daddy live here anymore? 

And so my little brother and I would climb into the backseat of our father's sedan once a week (or every other), and drive away from our mom's house - the home we previously shared with both of our parents. I remember driving away from our mother with a kiss and a hug. And a vague memory of our home slipping from view as we pulled away. 

Broken goodbyes, leaving Mommy. And then leaving Daddy.

And then came the violent shattering...

Two halves no longer, but lives broken into a million pieces. Slivers scattered invisible, like traces of glass left after an unexpected spill. Unnoticeable, until a tiny fragment embeds deep into the sole mid-stride. Acute, shocking, unexpected pain. 

I don't remember anyone telling me we were leaving. Not until that evening. Mom took us to say goodbye to our aunt and uncle. My mom and Aunt Pat were particularly close sisters-in-law. I don't remember much about the visit, but I remember leaving. Dad arrived to drive my brother and me home from there... So he could say goodbye to us too. 

I remember hot tears...

sliding down my face. I'd only seen my dad cry one time before - when he told me my grandma had gone to Heaven. He comforted me then with words of hope. She's with Jesus. You'll see her again one day. But this time, his tears fell hopeless.

My stomach reeled with each sway and bump of the car. I'm going to be sick. He pulled the car to the side of the road. He got out, opened my door, and helped me out. In the night, my dad picked me up and held me until waves of nausea abated. I clung tight to my dad's neck. I don't want to go! Will I ever see you again? But he eventually put me back in the car and took me home.

Palm trees loomed large...

above my grandparents' car as they drove us to their house, a new school, a new room with two twin beds  (my brother and I shared). A room void of toys, makeshift enough for two young children to sleep, but little else. Our mom slept in a room next to us, and we all shared the hallway bathroom. My grandparents occupied the master bed and bath in the front of the house. 

What happened in this home, stayed in this home for many years. In the darkest recesses of my little girl heart. I tried to speak in my truest voice. Once, and never again. Until many years later. 

And now I'm writing publicly for the first time...

and writing with my truest voice. I'll end here for today. But you need to know, I would not be here, telling my story if it weren't for God's intervention. And it is for that reason alone I share here, in this very humble place - a blog I deserted years ago. 

I thought I was finished writing. 

I did. 

Storm of Another Kind

Following a late night storm...

we awoke to a new tomorrow. My memory of the next day only comes in small mindful glances. But I remember the debris and a gaping hole in a roof down the road. I heard whispered conversations of a twister. And though I was too young to understand what a tornado was, I knew it was scary thing. 

I knew it came with thunderstorms...

and we lived in The Midwest in Belleville, Illinois. Raucous thunderstorms rattled windows spring, summer and fall, and lit the skies with lightening displays that brightened the darkest nights. I remember hallways full of children, each one of us with one forearm over our eyes as we leaned into the walls. The other arm over the back of our heads as much as we were able, shielding ourselves from debris if a funnel decided drop its tail from the sky and crash through the school roof. And when the sirens screamed all clear, we lined up (each of us trembling) and walked obediently back to our classrooms, thankful the ceilings were still in tact. 

2:00 in the morning!

My eyes startled wide open, adjusting to the dark room. And I heard it again, "Do you know what time it is?" The yelling, screaming from the kitchen. "Where were you?" I crept from my bed into the hallway near to where my parents yelled loud and frightful. My heart beat faster at every word hurled furious between them. I peered around the doorjamb, the very moment hands met faces hard and jarring. I turned and ran back to my room, leaped into my bed, and pulled the covers over my head. Yelling, slamming doors, more yelling... Please stop...

When I was barely eight...

Mom moved my brother and me to Southern California, land of orange groves, strawberries, Disney, and long stretches of sandy beaches. And if thunder ever rumbled, it was vague and unobtrusive. My heart learned to rest at the sound of rain in this place.

Yet another storm was fast approaching. This one, far worse than I could have ever dreamed. 

 

A Breath and a Prayer

Before the telling...

Here's the thing. This is hard. Truest voice telling is daunting. Yet, I believe truth-speaking (and hearing) reaches into the furthest depths of souls who yearn to give of and live without hesitation their authentic selves.  I'm reticent to say I've always lived with full disclosure. Yet I would say I've longed unceasingly to do so. But what would others think? And for all intents and purposes, I wonder the same now. In this place. Here. With you. 

But this is a part of my journey. And I am not afraid. 

But once upon a time, I was...

Afraid. My first memory of being afraid crashed into my life with sudden ferocity. I was four (or five). And I was sleeping sweet until he rushed in, swept me up, and bound down the attic stairway. I clung to his neck as he swept through the main floor, and dashed down another set of stairs into the basement. He tucked me underneath a table in the corner of that damp room on top of a makeshift pallet, and beckoned me to sing with him. 

Jesus loves me this I know

For the Bible tells me so

Little ones to Him belong

They are weak but He is strong

Yes, Jesus loves me...

My mom must have been there too, but I can't remember seeing her. The only memory I "feel" is fear. The only sight I carry in my mind of that night is that of my dad's face. The fear written there. Songs and prayers filled with panic and doubt. 

Fear broke through...

And held fast for years to come. If I could only comfort the little one I was then. If I could hold her and sing to her, mother her. If I could open the door to her the night I woke to my first nightmare. "Go back to bed, Sharen. You're not coming in here." Tears fell silent outside my parents' door for what I remember to be hours (but who knows how long). Exhausted, no longer able to stand, I walked, quiet and reluctant, back to my own bed. 

Truest Voice

Only now am I more consistently recognizing my real voice...

because I'm finally learning to speak with it again. So many years I've "tried on" the voices of others, seeing if they may possibly be a better fit than my own... and because I learned not trust mine. 

I tried to speak my truest voice...

in the most important of times, when it mattered. All of it matters always. I spoke my voice, but it was ignored or torn by other voices around me. Voices I should have been able to trust. Voices of those who could have and should have protected, nurtured. Voices that instead flippantly cast my words aside without regard. Voices that said, "don't talk and never ever tell."

A layer grew thick until it enveloped my heart... 

and the journey beyond the loss of my voice only served to wrap the layer tighter. Suffocating. Self-protecting. Until my truest voice hid in the deep, shackled by fear. The great intruder. 

My truest voice attempted to speak on occasion...

and a few stopped to hear. Truly, some listened. And some understood. Yet still others did not. And they tore. Again. And the shroud pulled tight over my heart, soul-shredded once again. 

Yet an holy intended fissure unnoticed among the chaotic shredding waited...

as a seed grows purposeful, emerging through the bramble, forging a path to the sun. 

My truest voice...

broke through the fissure at His Calling. 

My beloved spoke and said to me,
    “Arise, my darling,
    my beautiful one, come with me.
11 See! The winter is past;
    the rains are over and gone.
12 Flowers appear on the earth;
    the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
    is heard in our land.
13 The fig tree forms its early fruit;
    the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
    my beautiful one, come with me.”

Proverbs 2:10-13 (NIV)

Awakening

after a two year sleep (longer if you count my time away from here)...

or so it seems. I'm a bit groggy and stretching as far as my body and mind will allow. Putting one foot in front of another, slow and a bit unsteady. Yet surprisingly, I move forward. 

This blog entry is a step. A tenuous one. One that creates a bit of anxiety in me. This was so easy to do before. Words flowing from deep within, spilling into this place. Sharing so vulnerably, no hesitation. But that was before. 

I lost my voice. The truest sense of my voice...

and I think I may be finding it again. As I speak (write), something is different. My voice has changed. The tone, clarity, volume. The sounds are peculiar, yet they beckon.

I think I'll linger in this place awhile...

and explore the newness of this. I think I like the distinct sound of this truer self, this new melody I'm just beginning to learn. 

I don't know if anyone else is listening...

but it's okay if I'm lingering alone. In the still quiet, my heart and my soul gently awaken. And I'm listening.

God is here. He is speaking. And I am leaning in to hear every Word.

Morning Reflection - A Moment to Linger

This fire is burning warm and delightful before me this morning, and I invite you to share in its beauty. This is my here and now.

Comforting...

Join me for a moment of quiet? A moment of linger? A moment of gentle approach to the gentlest of fathers... The Father? His desire is our here and now.

The flames leap high and the embers whisper quiet. And in the midst of gazing at the dance of the fire, I lift my head, my hands, and my heart. His voice whispers in the embers of my spirit, sparking a flame for His glory alone.

In the solitude and quiet of my here and now, He speaks ... Hear and Know. 


Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it."  Isaiah 30:21 (NIV)

Know therefore that the LORD your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep His commands.  Deuteronomy 7:9 (NIV)

Quietly. Gently. With a tender heart.

I offer no excuses. None. I haven't been here in a long while, and I apologize. I could offer all the familiar reasons for my absence, but I won't. I simply haven't been here. I'm sorry. Please, will you forgive me? 

And now, simply, here I am. Quietly. Gently. With a tender heart. I've asked the Lord whether or not He's granting me permission to pick up my pen once again. I humbly believe He's answered yes. But I also believe He's hovering protectively as I move quietly into the realm of opening my heart again. 

Just a stirring, my daughter. 

Yes, just a stirring. And while I wait... 

I'll linger in days of the Holy Advent. Loving my Lord Jesus. Quietly. Gently. With a tender heart.

Linger... a magnificent portrayal of God's care

Like so many of my friends, I've been enjoying an eagle's nest livestream video coverage. From the laying of her eggs to the exchange of duty between mother and father eagle during incubation, to the hatching and care of new life, all of it captured on a camera hidden strategic, from the eagles' view. The eagle family's day-to-day events are taking place live via www.ustream.tv/decoraheagles.

And what a magnificent portrayal of God's care for us...

I watch smiling as the mother eagle tenderly tucks her tiny eaglets in. And then, like any other toddling youngsters, they stray from the safety of their mother's feathered shelter. Diligently, patiently, she tucks them in once again. And when the the little ones sleep and all is still, mama eagle never lets down her guard. She scours the landscape and sky above ready to protect her young ones from danger. I watch as she spots something loom too closely above, perceived as a possible threat. She hovers close her head and breast dipped low, but never her eyes. She, guardian of life downy, is fully present. The danger passes.

The chicks hunger. And mama responds. Her nest full of lifeless prey. Fish, squirrels, chipmunks... they are all there. A platter of delicacies to fill the child princes and princesses of this majestic bird. She rises from incubation as tiny beaks squawk impatient. Gingerly she rises and walks powerful talons around her young. She takes a small bite of a fish, works to prepare it for easy digestion. The eaglets stretch and lift beaks high and open, ready to receive nourishment they trust is coming. They bicker over who's beak finds food first. Sometimes one receives more than another. I'm sad for the neglected one. But their mother knows best how to raise her own, and I have no say in the matter. I trust her chicks' care to her.

I do the same for me...

... and mine. Alert and present fully He watches and protects.

He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. (Psalm 91:4, NIV)

the still commotion of His Creation...

A headache keeps me home today, yet the day is beautiful and good. The tempo of pain out of sync with breath drives me to quiet. Physical body slowed, mind settled with raw concentration of rest to restore.

I'm outside, and the sun is bright today. I lean back gentle in my wicker chair and capture the warm comfort. Breathing deep and even, I close my eyes and listen. And then a fluttering and a melody. I raise my head careful and slow to find a pair of red birds on the feeder. Yes, a couple. He, vibrant and crowned. She meeker in color. Cardinals. I smile and thank my Father for painting Creation lovely.

The phone rings and I answer. The love of my life on the other end of the line. I melt in love all over when I hear his voice. He asks if I'm feeling okay. I think he hears the headache in my voice. He wishes me better... I tell him about the pair of red birds on the feeder, and how they still feed even as I speak quiet on the phone.

... and then another lilting song. The familiar tug on the sides of my lips and I smile, careful to be tender. A bluebird sings on the fence. I share the view in words with my husband, and he says, "Sounds like Sharen heaven in the back yard today." And I laugh light and say, "Yes, it is, isn't it?" Before we hang up... "I love you." And "I love you too."

A coolish south breeze lifts the fringe from my forehead, soothes the thrum, thrum, thrum of the headache. The cardinals still feeding, the bluebird diving from the fence to the grass and back up again. A commotion calm and delightful.

I lean back into the chair, and a tear squeaks from the outside corner of my eye. Not a tear of pain, but a tear of grate-full-ness. I know the aching pain will pass, but even in the midst, today, I find another smile light. And the warmth and comfort of the Son brings peace. I praise Him in the still commotion of His Creation. And I feel it... He delights in me, His daughter.

The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing. (Zephaniah 3:17, NIV)

linger... even in the clutter

The Kiwi carpet guys came by today. It was a last minute sort of visit. I let them into my son's house to repair a puppy chewed corner of carpet, and they asked if he needed a carpet cleaning. I told them his carpet was only two months old, so not yet. But a good carpet cleaning piqued my attention. And the idea of another job, piqued theirs.

So, they hopped in their truck and drove right over. I asked them to start in the loft because I needed to pick up some clutter in the master (mostly the closet) before they started in there.

... and then the mad dash. Stuffing unused pillows here, dusty silk vines there, an unhung picture on top of the stuffed pillows, and bags of various kinds hither and to. And more. The carpet, now completely visible, was ready for a good cleaning, deodorizing, and Scotch Guard-ing. Finally finished with preparation, I took my worn out self upstairs to let the Kiwi guys know.

As they sprayed and buffed my bedroom rug, I sat my weary mad dash self on the couch to catch my breath. I did my part, and now it was their turn to complete the job. De-cluttering takes effort, but finishing the job is for the pros.

All of this leads me to ponder...

A simple fact: sometimes I'm just a mess. And to clean all my life clutter would leave me exhausted, and mostly... unfinished.

... and still a mess.

Yet thankfully, God invites me to Him just the same, clutter and all. So in the middle of my sometimes messy life journey, I can simply rest in these Truths:

1) Jesus invited children to come to Him. My mothering days made it very clear that children are seldom clean. Mostly dirty from play, and messy from mudpie baking, Jesus held their messy bodies and loved them in spite of the mess.

2) Jesus washed the filthy feet of His disciples at dinner. Those sandaled feet had seen the dust of many dirt roads. And He actively invited each disciple to offer their mess to Him, so He could make it clean.

3) Jesus made mud and placed it over a blind man's eyes. Yes, He used a mess to heal.

The fact is, I can de-clutter my messy life only so far. But there is only one way to make it clean, and with no effort on my part.

... except complete surrender.

four seasons in as many days...

These past four days I've cried. I've also laughed. I've smiled sublime - yes, a gentle, reflective, liquid smile transformed then to a smile preceding laughter, unwavering and planted there.

... and then, quiet

This thoughtful place, Linger, has suffered my absence. Yet maybe it hasn't, but I have suffered as result of its neglect. I haven't written words of what Linger looks like in real life. Authentic, raw, time-consuming, emotion-draining day-to-day life. So many seasons - days four - a fast, a fury-some journey.

A friend remembered... and laid to rest. His wife grieves deep emotion from a place where only one who has lost the promise of, "until death do us part." Her dad holds her, patting her back tender as she pours hot, heaving tears. Winter as day one. (And will you pray for Kay?)

Day two begins as day one draws to a close... Not in the thought of day as between sunrise and set, but day two in season. An evening of celebration (and public signing) with a dear one who's words are finally birthed new - as spring - in print for all to see. Her wisdom available to any who need a warm, tender book "conversation" offering support to parents of adult children. (Secrets to Parenting Your Adult Child, by Nancy Williams)

Day three rises with the sun... and laughter, summer and carefree. Not with anyone else; only me, alone. A day unfolding with joy. A gift, I believe. A grace moment of holy joy. And a time to learn, and linger with sister-friends who gift my life with presence.

And as the sun cools and the evening breeze blows twilight near, the love of my life and I shared dinner, family style with the dearest of friends. And then movement of twilight into dark night brings slumber. Day four... Autumn settling the flow of four seasons in as many days.

And my soul is transiently quiet...

And again... another set of seasons arrives today, morning autumn strikes furious with storm, another beloved family. And they set their face as flint...

I pray this Scripture.

Because the Sovereign LORD helps me, I will not be disgraced. Therefore have I set my face like flint, and I know I will not be put to shame. (Isaiah 50:7, NIV)

... and I prepare to journey through the seasons again.

Linger over thoughts of laughter...

Today, I woke up laughing, and for most of the day, I've enjoyed at the very least, a smile. The day started like any other. Morning woke to bird songs and a puppy stretching at my side. A typical spring day. But there was this feeling of joy bursting. Not the kind that needs a precursor of something to react to, but a rogue tickle-type feeling. No, not a physical sensation, but one that came from nothing I suspected.

So what did I do? Well... I went with it. I giggled, grinned, and laughed at myself for being so ... so ... tickled. And I continued smiling and chuckling through the day. Scrubbed floors silly, danced with the mop. I swished toilet bowls, and polished countertops. I tackled the vacuum cleaning with equal humor.

Really, it's been a nonsensical sort of day... but I've enjoyed it.

... and I remember with lips upturned (which makes me laugh more)...

God named Abraham and Sarah's son: Isaac. His name meant laughter, yet God established His covenant with him. An everlasting covenant. Almost a conundrum of sorts... laughter in the mix of a serious Promise. I think that's why I love this portion of Scripture so very much. God has His plan for all of humanity, and in the midst of our reactions and actions, He goes with our "oh so human flow," and allows us laughter.

I wonder...

Does He know how simply overwhelmed we would be if we really attempted to understand His entire plan? Maybe... just maybe, laughter is a joyful reprieve for our human hearts.

But God said, Sarah your wife shall bear you a son indeed, and you shall call his name Isaac [laughter]; and I will establish My covenant or solemn pledge with him for an everlasting covenant and with his posterity after him. (Genesis 17:19, Amplified Bible)

a chain of swaying friendship unbroken...

Today, I'm lingering with thoughts thankfulness for precious friends...

I've heard it said there are friends for various seasons that fade through time. Perhaps. But I much prefer friendships that span the years - and even miles.

As a Brownie, I remember a circle of little girls, including me (and my mom, who was our leader), crossing arms and clasping hands. A chain of swaying friendship unbroken. We sang...

Make new friends,

But keep the old.

One is silver,

the other's gold... (author unknown)

My husband's career has relocated our family three times over the years.

Friendships forged through time blessed in each place are all (and each) golden to me. Email, Facebook, Skype... keep us in touch. Even though warm hugs may be lacking, warm hearts are abundant. And together, we form our own swaying chain of friendship unbroken.

And to quote the last line of the above poem/song...

Across the land,

Across the sea,

Friends forever

We will always be...

His ever open arms...

I remember the open arms, the pure availability. Those arms that wrap warm and tender, that never grow weary from my attendance. Yet if I choose, I can wander as they release me bidding exploration, to enjoy the dwelling place... and others (family) - also equally welcome to the open arms - who reside with me here.

Yet the arms which release call me, not with a voice that calls for an obedience of attendance, but a beckoning invitation. A wooing of gracious, forever Love. I smile, knowing the always open arms, and am welcome to come and go as I please, by His grace and prompting... but always in the cover of His dwelling. Never far from His presence. Always in hearing distance even though I explore far and wide. His Creation is lovely and all expanse. I wander, and enjoy. It is all His.

And then, I return to... He. Altogether beautiful. Altogether lovely. Altogether worthy. He... Jesus. His arms. The Shepherd, and I His lamb.

And I gaze upon the One Who loves me pure and wholly as He holds me in His ever open arms.

One thing I ask form the LORD, this only do I seek; that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the LORD and to seek him in his temple. (Psalm 27:4)