Weekends Are For...

One of my favorite blog authors, Ann Voskamp, always writes "Weekends Are For..." and submits a short post, about what weekends are made for.

For me, these last two

Weekends were made for...

Teacups and Napkins

Gardens and strolls

Pictures in ponds

Tabletops for six

Dancing in Bookstores

Pjs on couches

Omelets and fruit

TV and tivo

Jewelery and golfing

Girly and giggled.

Airplanes and wine

Road trips by Jeep

Bekah and Ryan

Baby Hannah lapped

Red Pepper Quiche

Sauteed potatoes

Pumpkin spice muffins.

Drives down Homerich

Dad in the kitchen

Jaxson with fishes

Family on the pontoon

Kaylin on my shoulders

Kelly taking pictures

Mark in a suit.

Lanterns from rooftops

Wood ceilings and floors

Unity in candles

Songs and Speeches

Night-chilled air

Open top patios

Laura loosely there (wink, wink)

Stones for skipping

Business pants rolled

Laughter at tables

Boas 'round necks

Dancing and photos.

Coffee and muffins

Midst in the air

Drives down backroads

Tears at airports

Hugs upon arriving

Coming home.

Weekends are made for...

Me. You. These. Memories.

With Me, Mark, Morning.

I looked at him, aware of the absolute bliss and blessing of the morning, and smiled, peacefully, heart content, filled. "I never thought dating could be this good."

We sat as two, the waves gently lapping against the quiet shoreline. Eight am midst rising from the lake, covering dunes and wooded hills like the Amazon rainforest, our feet dusted with sand. We arose early, tidied our luggage, and packed the jeep, driving to downtown Holland for breakfast-to-go. A few minutes later, we meandered through dune grass, catching moments with my camera, and marveling at the scenic, picturesque beauty.

I smiled, laughed, soaked it in.

We wandered down to the beach, plodding through thick white dust, arriving at the vacant coast. Except a single old log, driftwood lazed up from the sea. Coffee cozied in hand, we started the day. Morning with muffins, doughy with freshness and plumped with blueberries; with cinnamon rolls, drizzled with icing and wrapped round goodness. With seagulls and ships fogged in view, with walkers and wanders clicking for pics, with goodness and quiet nesting us two.

With Mark, and with Me: Morning.

Date with Jesus.

I have coffee dates, dinner dates, Mark dates. I design dates with faculty, with students, with administrators. I create dates through phone, texts, and email. I pursue and plan and pour myself out everywhere, to everyone, about everything.

But tonight, I inwardly shelter back, covering, for a Date with Jesus. I sit strumming through the keys first, plodding to unwind my anxious thoughts, then let the rhythm of it overtake me and settle me. I look, lingering toward my piano, and await the ivory under my finger tips. I soften at the thought of pulling out my readings and journal and cards for prayer. Ready to unravel. Ready to be present. Ready to be dressed interally for him, bride of Christ. Ready to be on a date with Jesus.

Teaching High School.

You know you teach high school when you spend chunks of your day filing out student job references, internship recommendations, college application sections, peer tutor forms, drivers Ed academic progress reports, scholarship sheets, etc. Then you run staff campaigns, clubs, and chart forms and receipts. Oh and don't forget the last minute blood drive meeting, EC paperwork, hall patrol, and the meeting downtown. If that isn't enough, you'll also get asked to coach powder puff football, organize an office, and judge the talent show. All in two days. At least a student brought me breakfast this morning! :)

Hold Back Secrets.

I feel like I have to hold back secrets. Like the pressure of them build in my chest, wishing to be known. Secrets reside inside me, wishing to be given, waiting to be explored, gifted by the closest of friends, and held within them too. Yet this is my new art, my new pain, this pain, of holding back secrets.

For two years, I felt (I feel) like I have to hold back secrets. Hold back secrets of death and drunk driving, of dad, of court room trials, of media frenzies. Of the mess that exploded, tore. Of the pain that ripped through the veins of my family, shredding each piece and leaving us like strangled survivors. Hurting, broken, often ignored.

For two years, most couldn't hear them. Still today, most ignore. Adults shutter to listen to a court trial, to hearing my dad give words at the stand. They turn aside at descriptions of funerals and flowers and phone calls. They jumble at facts of family choices, of beating words, of lawyer conversations.

Very few people are able to hold my secrets. But they do. They listen to my coursing, they carry my pain. They let me curse and swear and yell and wail. They know the facts of jail and prisons. They acknowledge stories of sidewalk standing and stiffed speaking. They listen to me, this girl without an identity, taken away as daughter and mother and family and best friend.

These are the secrets I hold, for two years. Rarely heard, hardly held.

There's new secrets now, which some are hardened to. Finding instead themselves jadded or walled or wishing against my joy. They choose not to mourn, nor to rejoice. They find themselves sheltered by their own pain, and not wishing to enter my story. I feel the tenseness of their words, their stiffened reactions, their pulling away. I have secrets now too, good secrets, wishing and wanting for the willing to come within.

To those who hold those secrets with me, thank you for being. For being present amidst joy and pain. For giving, allowing, releasing what's within me. For being the steadfast, the friend, the beloved Jesus to me. Thank you for catching and capturing goodness, for caring and trusting, for being Love into me. Thank you for coming into my world so I no longer have to hold back all secrets.

Come Into My World by Amy Grant:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPRWat6OeSg

Morning in the Mountains.

I'm wrapped in my Mother's blanket, the quilted garnet one that she cherished. It folds all into itself and zips around, like a life well lived. It's spent many a nights pulled around me, laying on my Mother's lap, or her warmth tucked over my feet, the sound of waves cut by meandering pontoon boats and my family's stories. We would sip coffee and tea and eat dessert from a white rolling cart, peddled down the dock to our boat and tour the lake, remarking on cottages and waving at other passer-byers. These are my favorite memories. Stomachs full with Southside Pizza or grilled burgers, and hearts overflowing with love. Looking across out over fireworks or turtles, trolling by fishing boats, and sharing the life of family...

I'm here in the mountains, brown adirondack chair beneath me, blog on my lap, camera and phone beside me, and books and journals piled crossways at my toes. Chocolate truffle coffee creamed in my hand, sipped in slow motion, melting it in. My heart is finding rest, looking for steadfast, waiting for calm. Stirred by emotions, rumbling with thoughts, looking for ways to pour. I bring up my journal to my chest, pull it close and begin to unravel...

It's morning. Morning at the lake. Morning in the mountains.

My facebook status: "Blogging on a floating dock in the mountains of Virginia... waves slowly lapping at my side, coffee creamed in my hand, books and journals at my toes, and friends cozied under covers" inside... Morning. A good morning."

Tending Soil.

I got home today, my heart dried and burdened, heavy. Like wilted leaves and droppy flowers browned with heat, saddened by the stories of students, the hurt in their faces. Weary of running, rushing, busy like a tornado at school, feeding joy into students and charisma in smiles and words, but finding myself emptying to them too. A heart tired and weak, limp with energy, loose with emotion, leaking tears. Pursuing calling, purposefully used, prospering in the lives of those who need, but faltering in strength under its weight.

I trudged up the steps to my home, my heart a mirrored reflection of the flowers at my sill.

Filled with prayer - a longing for wisdom, desire for balance. My heart, a cry to be steadfast. My thoughts filled with my day: the tasks, the faces, the papers. My soul, yearning for home. Wishing to wipe away my complaining, to erase the traces of embittered fear. To rest, to be.

I lay the leathered bag at the door, and slip my feet into soft sandals, orange dress still snug at the waist and trailing behind in fullness of flow. I pad down the crusty soil to reach for the hose spout, stretch for the wooden handles of trowel and spade. Darkened, rich black soil fills my work, my handles gloved and smeared with earth. My dress a sash around the greenery of leaves dancing upward in the water trendles.

I feel this deep in my heart, the enriched soil wishing to be tended, the Masters hand at work within to grow roots, dried and exposed. I know His touch, his kneading, I make the choice to respond to His patience. To evaluate the soil levels of my soul. I hear my own voice, knowing it, telling me to rest. To be home. To linger over red wine, to write, to fill the tub of lavender and soak. To encapsule time to love well: to mail letters, to respond to words, to mold friendships. To plan spaces for prayer: for wisdom and discernment, for prodding my soul, for love over my friends.

I find myself, my soul, in the garden. My heart, like hydrangeas in tended soil, once broken and cracked, gaining strength and life from the rich dirt of heaven, of home.

Catching Fireflies, and Keeping Them.

Mark and I were walking along the paths of Raintree in the quiet harvest of the cooling sun. A quaint night, lingering along the lines of golf greenways and meandering under crested trees tilted in dusk, dancing with darkness, encompassed by ponds, and speckled with bright little specks of light, fireflies.

Mark leaned over, with my watching eyes of delight, and reached to catch fireflies...

I feel like that these days. I feel like I'm catching fireflies -- little bright moments of great, bursting joy and goodness, held carefully in my hand, and close in my heart. I'm catching fireflies right now, and keeping them.

~ Greeting Mark with red wine and pasta and my joy from his early flight home, and wishing on good things during dinner, then masquerading like a movie, enchanted, through the courses of green that roam my backyard... Wandering, lingering, loving such places...

~ Riding bikes with Trish on a Sunday afternoon, relaxing under the shade of tree and friendship, letting no walls or barriers come between us or conversation... Greens of so many leaves, a canopy over us, the sun sharing bits of its color, and my heart rested and full, peddling the pattern of hers...

~ Being tossed around and laughing, swirled and swung, strung along like joy on a string between the dancers of Chantilly Hall... Grinning wildly at Mark and Brad and Trish, and watching their faces enthralled with dizziness and release and fully present... Eating ice cream cookie sandwiches afterward; letting it melt in my mouth like the soft cherishing of the memories being made with friends...

~ Charmed by Mark, walking with him through streets of Dilworth and remarking on homes and houses and character. Resting in the conversation of each other, the calm of afternoon strolls, the little wooden bench strapped to the side of the walk, and the doors of wood enamored... Marking days and hours by nothing over than our laughter or thoughts or words...

~ Giddy with my nephew, exploding with fullness, hearing his voice over his first day of school. Learning about his bus, his teachers, his orange plaid shorts, and his backpack. Hearing his words at the end of our stories, when I blew billowing kisses over the phone. His replies captured my heart: The first, he said, "I missed it." The second, "I didn't catch it." the third, "I caught it... but I let it go." The fourth, "I caught it, and I'm going to keep it!" And hearing his voice in a final, "I love you" with my heart reacting with complete embrace.

~ Being alongside Mark, praising and joyful, a steadfast heart in worship. Remembering the wholeness of everything captured stained-glass window affront, hearing the voice of my Pastor, and believing good things for us both...

I'm catching fireflies these days, and keeping them.

~

"Mary treasured up all of these things and pondered them close to her heart." Luke 2:19

Violated.

I had a situation a couple of weeks ago, where a friend made strong comments and shared stories that were above the rapport of our friendship. My words, chastising as I thought, were not strong enough to stop him from violating who I was. Though his physical actions remained in check, his demeanor, tone, words, and innuendoes left me squirming inside. Feeling completely used and uncomfortable in my own skin. Eventually, I melted and cried over the whole episode to two friends, still feeling inner angst and disgust. Wanting to be clean of his use.

This morning, I was working in my classroom when someone came over and made a few comments that left me uncomfortable. I just shook my head, thought he was creepy, and walked away. But then this afternoon, he came back. He came back with looks in his eyes and gestures in his figure and words about me "messing with him" that left me again, crawling inside, wishing there was more places to hide, and wondering what it is that calls for me to be violated.

I stood at a cash register today, grabbing a bottle of herbal pills, with little else on my mind. A man came in and stood close up behind me, then loudly bursted words about other types of pill usage that I wouldn't even repeat here. I tensed and stood my ground, not wanting to turn around or look at the faces of him or the male cashier. Just handed my dollar bills. But the awkward silence stayed until the man made another comment. Then the cashier played into it too, using words I would blush at even in front of girlfriends. I just grabbed my wallet and stared at the floor and said nothing until the cashier said, "Wait, do you two know each other?" The male customer said, "No, not yet, but I'm working on that." And I frantically just said, "Uh, this is awkward" and strode out the door. Again, cringing, crawling inside, feeling violated.

I'm not his. I'm not theirs. I'm Gods. I'm future husbands. I'm my own. This body is not a figure, not a thought, not a piece of something for any of them to think beyond that. But their looks, their words, leave me cringing inside and creepy in my own skin. Wondering and praying and reviewing my words, my actions, my dress, what it is that I've called for that would bring this obtrusive behavior.

I think of the words of Paul in I Corinthians, "You are not your own, you are bought with a price..." (6:19-20). And how that price of of the Lords and the man I will be with. No one else gets to chip away at the dowry. No one else should put up betting terms. Paul commands: "The wife's body does not belong to her alone, but also to her husband. In the same way, the husband's body does not belong to him alone, but also to his wife" (I Corinthians 7:4).

These men have chosen, stolen, the opportunity to abuse this command. They have taken something not their own, whether in word or look or gesture, and made it feel used, cheap, and violated. Today, they violated me.

Restored.

"I will restore to you the years that the locusts has eaten...." Job 2:25

Restoring the years of the locusts. What beautiful words. Restore -- what hope. It makes me think of fallen, broken pieces, tenderly gathered and nurtured back together with tender, loving hands molding each piece into new form, gently, carefully, graciously.

I look over the last two years with wonder, with rest. I see the broken; I am the broken. But now I see new hands. Big, strong, Father hands. I see the Potter, I feel my heart of clay. Wounded and weary, now massaged to be anew. Believing.

I see the years the locusts have taken. But now, I also see restored. I see friends and family gathered near, around me in Grand Rapids, alongside me in Charlotte. I taste the freshness of food, of the flavor of life cooked over my stove and shared in the fullness of love at my table. I listen to encouragement and gather hugs of church women. I greet smiles of students, and fill with giddy excitement. I lay in the crest of a man, his arms with mine; we hold. I linger for hours with friends, life our conversation, language like love we share.

He has restored to me the years the locusts have taken. He is restoring me. I am a heart full. I am a woman loved. I am a believer blessed. I am restored.