A Way of Thinking

did we ever think
before age 30 or
did we assume that
someone would
always bring us
coffee as we
preferred it black
as marbles of coal
or milky white
with non-diary
creamer and a
sprinkle of
aspartame to
finish off a
cocktail of
synthetic powder
in a novelty mug
mine says something
about not speaking
until I imbibe
caffeine maybe not
those words but close
I have gravely
underestimated the
gravity of someone
being intimate with
my coffee being on
a first name basis
with it retrieving
it proactively in
steamy vessels
without ever
inquiring

Eraser

There are marks on my walls. They trail down the hall like the tail of an unruly comet. In the closet they are more compact, an imploding black hole of brown crayon. In another place, the marks are a delicate blue on the pale pink wall, a singular flower of concentric, yet irregular circles gracing the space just above a toy box.

There are marks, long and thin and leisurely, and fat ones, staccato and powerful, everywhere. On the walls. The lines are drawn in crayon, pen, marker, and if I am lucky, pencil. These are the easiest marks to remove. There is hardly the need to try, those pencil marks disappear so easily, although, once removed, there is always a faint smudge of black, almost like a bruise that couldn't muster enough zest to look anything more than dirty. I can, and do, remove these marks frequently, but in a couple of days, they inevitably return, usually in a more grandiose fashion, thanks to the abundance of easily accessible pencils my son can find around the house.

But the others, the pen and the marker ones, those are tricky. Or, they simply don't come off at all. They stay on my walls and taunt me every time I walk by them on the way to the laundry room. I have tried Windex and a magic eraser, but at best, the thicker marks fade almost imperceptibly. I think about how I need to find time to paint over them, every time I pass them, but that time hasn't come.

So, the marks remain, all in some fashion, either as a bold mark of stubbornness, or a weak version of something that was much more impressive, or the one that is only a gritty spot on the wall. These marks sometimes infuriate me, because they simply make every surface imperfect. Imperfect. I can fight to take them away, but the ghost of them remains, or they return like arrogant soldiers.

I often chase Ethan down the hall and wring a pencil out of his hand before he does more damage. Sometimes I don't make it in time. It's the way of it. To fight for perfect is like fighting windmills. I remember my mother saying, when I was a little girl, she wanted to paint over some of my pencil drawings on the wall. My grandmother (who always did favor my messy state of being as a child, with my pants twisted and my hair falling out of its braids) told her don't. That those pictures meant something.

Sometimes I think I am wasting away waiting on perfect. I think of my mistakes, things gone wrong, words I have said or  thoughts that I have had that I can't take back. They are all like marks on a wall. They stand, taunting me as only pencil smudges can do, saying, I am here to make sure you are not perfect. I really have been put in my place by them, the incessant marks. I face my imperfection in sad acceptance.

I am standing, staring down a new mark on my wall, armed with a new Magic Eraser. Mr. Clean is still etched in the foam, but soon I will turn him into a grimy sliver of synthetic muck in order to get the mark. Then Ethan comes up beside me. He says funny things, like, "Mommy, what is your favorite word?"

"Love", I say, "because I love you. What's your favorite word?"

"Poopie," he says through a mischievous smile, and runs down the hall. I see a pencil clutched behind his back.

Imperfect. But the marks. They mean something.

A Crack in the Wall

I'll put you in a place
I'll put you there and
Hope the light doesn't
Reach you I'll put you
There somewhere
Behind a wall
Separated from
Everything
I claim is
Me
Stay there in
Your place and don't
Watch me
Brush my teeth or
Cook a roast and
Please
Don't poke your
Finger into my mind
Like it was a jello salad
I am not as resilient
As all that
Instead the wall cracks
Every time you tap it
It begins to tumble
Like a poorly constructed
Contraption of cards
Best to stay there
In your place
Where I put you stay
There and don't
Move

Rain

We are on the way home from school. The windshield wipers work frantically to direct the torrents of rain away from the windshield. Visibility is limited. The world is gray. We have had so much rain. For days, it seems. I just want to reach our house, a small refuge in what seems to be rainforest. We are so close; I decide to take a short cut, one I use a lot, a narrow one lane road, that is a bit treacherous on the sunniest of days.

I turn down the road, and must abruptly stop. Emma is a fretter. "What's wrong, Mom?"
I put the car in reverse without answering. Emma then sees the problem.

A creek that normally flows underneath the road, through a large pipe, is swollen and overflowing. The road reaches into the water and disappears, coming out some distance on the other side. I don't risk it; I am not sure the depth of the water, and Emma comes by her worrying honestly.

I manage to turn the car and make it out onto the main road. Once home, Emma looks pensive and edgy.

"What's wrong?" I say. I am doing motherly things in the kitchen, looking through backpacks, dusting crumbs off countertops, those kind of things.

She says, "I am afraid of the water. I am afraid it will swallow our house."

I look at her; she is growing up, knowing things that I think she shouldn't at this age (like having boyfriends, or wanting cell phones), but still clinging to child fears. She is in an in between time, and I want to grab her and wrap myself around her so time and knowing can't get to her. But, I know this is a childish thought, too.

I still am mom. For now. I still have the power to make it ok. I still have the power calm the rain, and reassure that there are no monsters under the bed.

"Honey. Nothing is going to happen to the house. We are safe here. Don't worry."

She relaxes a little, and grabs something to eat out of the pantry. I go about my kitchen, performing mom duties. This is what I do and this is what I am.

So thankful for that. I need to remember this. Remember. In the inside of me, hidden under grocery lists, and work issues, computers, and splatters of spaghetti sauce across my favorite shirt, I am still what is important to me. I need to remember it. Remember. Remember, Remember.

Outgrown

Ethan unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on my mood, has learned to dress himself. If we find ourselves for any length of time at home, he favors his old school style Spiderman pjs, disregarding entirely regular clothes. Which is fine, when we have time to fire up the TV and watch some circa 1960's Spiderman cartoons, when, in the opening cerdits, they advertise proudly that their cartoon is now in COLOR. And Ethan usually puts his shoes on the wrong feet, which is all very cute until you realize the lady behind you in the grocery line is staring in dismay at your child's feet ,and you, the mother, have allowed him to walk around in duck-like disarray for a matter of hours.

I do try to keep Ethan in clothes that fit, but over the summer, he has really has grown, and I haven't had time to clean out his closet. So, I get him ready for pre-school in some pants that I just bought, perfect in length, and as I am applying my mascara, thinking all is well, and that I would be getting him to school on time, he traipses into the bathroom, sporting only his Lightnening McQueen underwear and an old pair of jeans that appear to now be capris in length and too small for him to button around his middle.

"Mommy, button these. Button them, please." He stretches them at the edges, and hopes beyond hope that the button and the snap will actually meet. He stands there looking like he is ready to wade a creek, as we say in Kentucky, but there is no creek, just Ethan pleading with me to make something fit that clearly won't anymore, and me, fuming in my impatience that he doesn't understand that his pants have been outgrown.

I can be honest and say that life to me is like an all too small pair of pants. I have been so dismayed, even to the point of utter sadness, that my life doesn't fit anymore. I also imagine that God is in his bathroom trying to get Himself presentable for the heavenly host with me begging Him to make my old ways fit again. He looks at me and says,"I have provided you with a new pair of pants. Just put them on, for crying out loud."

The problem is, I am still sucking in my stomach, laying back on the bed, gripping the zipper in a pair of pliers in hopes that I can zip it all up. And even if I can do that, I will still be a picture of misery walking around in a pair of pants I have been poured into.

But, sweet Lord, I want to wear those pants for some reason.

I need guidance and reassurance that I will look better in some other kind of life, one crafted by my Maker, instead of the misfit one I am currently sporting. I don't care if it is even a Spiderman costume, complete with fabricated fiberfill six pack abs (which, by the way, is what Ethan wil be wearing this Halloween; society miscreants beware). I just hope to find the courage to go shopping with God and hope He knows what looks good on me.

God Behind the Door

"I love what God has made. It is awesome." --Emma Allman

I am beginning to understand. Life does not provide you a blanket of happiness. There is no perfect wool blend of good feelings that God knits together with huge, gilded knitting needles. I think we all, as tiny brained mortal humans, believe this is what should be given to us. A woolly blanket of utter joy in which we can cuddle up day in and day out.

I am in full realization that perhaps this is not the way of things. I am often trapped in the shell of my existence, almost fainting at the thought that life is life. Just that. A chain of days bound together by breath and bone, of cups of coffee, and e-mail, of strangers passed in the grocery store, or in cars on the highway. It's a long line of days that we won't remember. We live them, but yet, the content of them is lost about as soon as we fall asleep.

I am beginning to understand that life is about dots. Random dots, like the flashes during a picture, that stop the continuum of days and make us remember. And often, flashes come in the form of children. In my case, children at Vacation Bible School. And in particular, in a story about Peter.

Now, each evening at Vacation Bible School, there is a Bible lesson. And each night, the room in which the children hear the story is quite the theatrical display. One evening, my group of second graders stealthily moved about the church, steering clear of "Roman Soldiers", looking for a small private room in which to gather as professed Christians (this secure area, in Vacation Bible School times, was the church prop room).

The little ones gathered in the small room, with a cross lit by a "fire" (it was only a Halloween prop, no fire involved, but dramatic nonetheless). It illuminated a cross (the brass one, from our sanctuary, but again, very dramatic). They awaited Peter.

For back story, the leader of our church's praise band had agreed to play the role of Peter. My oldest nephew, who was my VBS helper, noticed right away that that "Peter" was dressed in a garment that very much resembled a plush blue Snuggie. My nephew inquired, "Hey, is that a snuggie?"

To which Peter replied, "Yes, it is. A Biblical snuggie."

Later that evening, as Peter entered his secret room filled with second graders, dressed in a Biblical snuggie, perhaps he didn't realize that it would make me hear God through the door.

I stood outside the secret room, listening to Peter tell the children how he denied Jesus three times. Denied ever knowing of Jesus. Through the door, I heard little children sounds. Some giggles, some gasps, some muddled little children conversations. Peter reprimanding the children for getting too close to the "fire".

Denying Jesus. Interesting. Denying the good of him, the gifts, out of fear, or apathy, or anger, or sadness that we are not bundled in a blanket of perpetual comfort. Have I been a culprit? Turning my back on the gifts, so selflessly given?

The Bible point of the day was, "God loves you no matter what." No matter what. No matter if you turn your back.

After Peter left, when it was time to gather back in the sanctuary, a little girl, who had rewarded me daily with little back rubs and hand massages, pulled me down to her level, and whispered, "That man looked like he was wearing a dress." She smiled in the secrecy of her shared thoughts. I squeezed her hand a little.

"They wore things like that back then," I whisper back. The now infamous Biblical snuggie.

So flashes. Through wooden doors. Things you remember. Light that illuminates moments. Moments that perforate the chain of days.

And a God that always calls you home. No matter what.

God in the Closet

God,

I am in the closet again.

I think this is the best place to find you. In the dark. Perhaps you won't notice my flaws. I turn off the lights in hopes you don't notice them. Because in the light of day, they are all I see.

The thing is. I am lost. Hopelessly lost. Not lost like the little guy in a Dr. Seuss book, because that little guy eventually found his way. Yes, he did indeed. 98 and ¾ percent success guaranteed.

But, I am lost. I am lost in a way that books or maps or old fashioned ingenuity will not be of benefit. I am lost in a way that is black in its murkiest form. It's lost in a way that has no definition but lost.

I am outwardly fairly put together. I have always done what is expected, moved through the course of this life in a way that society examines and approves. I have had many people say, "You make this look easy."

But if they could only see me in this closet.

Surely, God, this is not what you imagined for me. This drudgery of day in and day out. I cannot fathom that my God would fashion any of for this for His beloved. His inheritance. Did you know most people don't think about this at all? That the drudgery is enough. I am on an island, it seems, longing for something more, something on which I can't place a black and white label. I know this longing only as a physical, palpable pain that I pack up and take with me everyday, like an item in my lunch bag. It is a portable pain, like a hard, bitter apple. It's the thing I never eat, but always bring along.

God, I am not asking for you to change anything. I am not asking for a way out. It's just You and me in the closet, fumbling about among disheveled pairs of khakis, and I want to be as honest as possible in this stripped down place. This space of absence. Although, now, I think I have accidentally placed my foot in the dirty laundry basket.

God, I am hurting. Hurting in a way that no one sees. And that is OK, for them, but not for You. You have always known me, right? Before I was ever conceived, right? You had a plan for me, didn't You?

Didn't You?

I am not in a position to question the Creator of the Universe. You wield the galaxies like swords and drop stars through the sky just to see children marvel. I get that. I imagine You opening your arms and embracing the expanse of space, like taking up a loving child. But, God, I am just a piece of dust, not even that, on the fabric of the universe, but I am hoping You will see me, and just pick me up on the tip of Your holy finger, and squint at me, and think: this one. This tiny bit of one, needs Me.

Again, I am not asking for my life to change, or for you to drop a big, glowing red arrow into my living room to point me in the right direction. Actually, I would LOVE a big red arrow, but that might be a little impractical. All I want right now is Your comfort.

Here, in the dark, I would like Your comfort. Enter this place and envelop me in Your capable arms. My Father, I need your comfort; take the bitter apple from my lunch bag and replace it with Your peace.

My children are banging on the closet door. They are inquiring, "Mom, are you in there AGAIN?" I do find myself in here a lot. But, God, I need you a lot. Consider my request? I would much rather pack a big slice of Your love in my lunchbox any day and ditch the apples.

Your forever faithful servant,
me