The Blessings

From an upstairs window, I see the first of our friends, our Blessings, arrive. My curly-haired friend, baby swaddled in her arms and her tall husband turn their heads at the same to watch, and wait on, their laughing toddler as she picks her way merrily along behind them.

 

Tables have been set, candles lit. In the background, Charlie Brown retells the story of the First Thanksgiving and the door is not yet shut behind these first friends when others begin to round the corner.

         From all over the world people have come to our home tonight.

 

Voices fill our doorway; shoes and sorrows are kicked off for the evening. Sweet Potato Casserole, in all its marsh-mallowy glory, joins The Bird on the kitchen counter. The Bird is a purpose-driven bird. 

          Everything in its life has led up to this very day. An honorable deed, indeed!

 

More laughter cascades through our doorway, pumpkins and cornucopias of thanks, peace on earth, goodwill towards men cascading through our halls and the ringing of voice upon voice upon voice grows louder and louder as blessings pour in and fill our home.

The shedding of shoes and sorrows continues.

 

Bright eyes, young and gentle, peek curiously around, seeking out her friend. The excitement of familiarity, their little hearts leap at seeing each other and with a twist and wiggle she slips from her daddy’s arms and darts away with a sister-friend. The pat-pat-pat of bare feet on bare stairs, up to play they go.

            

               Adventures await!

 

Souls. Long-burdened but thankful,  Blessings are spilling through our doorway, down the hall, into the kitchen. Trays and platters, sweet, savory, laughter, hello’s and “so-good-to-see-you’s”, fill rooms to the top, spilling out the window and into the heavy evening air around our home.

 

From the kitchen, I hear the Preacher call the Blessings together. Heads bow and eyes slip closed around the room to greet the Thanks-receiver: The He who began all and gives all. The He who gives us faith and the reason for faith and hope and patience. The Provider. The Storm-calmer. The baby-grower, the burden carrier. The One who wipes away our sins and will wipe away all our tears. The One who was before. The One who will be after. Thanks be to Him who gathers us here together. The One who has provided us with a place to worship, who is the center of our worship.

 

The Preacher is still praying, I secretly peek.  This gathering is wonder and amazement to me. His laugh, her smile, the baby still growing inside. From the corners of the world they have gathered here today. The Blessings.

 

And all God’s people said….Amen!

Letting the eating commence!

 

As joy and sorrow and peace and puzzles are heaped on our lives we heap The Bird and sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, bread (He is the Bread of Life) onto our plates. This feast is a foretaste of the next great feast when we see His Glory and taste the fulfillment of his Great Plan!

 

The feasting slows, evening grows darker, laughter washes over Blessings as they wash pots, pans, mugs, and serving spoons.

Shoes are found and laced back on, the sorrows kicked off earlier now seem to have been lost, or their burden not so heavy now. The Blessings, family by family, sleepy child by sleepy child, take laughter and light with them into the darkness.

The last friends leave, down the corridor, toddler in arms, the echo of their footsteps behind them.

I shut the door and evidence of Life remains. Full to the brim, the Preacher and I sit. Thankful.

The Numbers Keep Going Up

 

The number of  2, 3, and 4 year olds in class at church

The number of friends in our house on Friday for Home Group

The number of ladies giving their time and energy and hearts to serve the children and babies at church

The number of people around us whose lives have changed because of the gospel

The number of texts I get daily from friends

The number of loads of laundry

The number of friends we have with accents entirely different from our own

The number of coffee cups I wash after people leave from meeting in our home

The number of stickers I stick at the top of my kids papers when their school work is well done

The number of dust bunnies (mice?) that scurry around in my corners

The number of new friends Abby wants to invite to her birthday party

The number of times Josh comes down the stairs after he’s supposed to be asleep to tell us what he’s just read in Acts

The number of hugs I get from the kids during the day

The number of shouts of “I LOVE YOU”  ringing through our halls at random intervals

The number of times I get to say “It is so good to see you!” (and actually mean it!)

The number of years I ‘ve been by the side of my best friend

This week Matthew and I celebrated 15 years of friendship.

That night, that many years ago, we sat idly on a swing, close together, trying not to shiver on a crisp, autumn evening. His feet on the ground, pushing the swing back and forth, my toes, just barely touching the ground.

We leaned on each other, keeping the chill from sneaking between us. My nose was a little red and starting to be a little runny.

 

“I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

 

We had been sitting there for over an hour. Really, we had been sitting there for months. Sitting in that swing under the tree, sitting at a table near the campus bookstore, sitting next to each other in class. Sitting in church. Sitting in my sister’s apartment watching a movie. Sitting in Chapel, sitting in Hardy Hall eating mystery meat. Sitting and talking, sitting and talking and walking and talking and working and talking and sitting and studying and talking.

“What’s your hobby?” My sister had asked him a few weeks before.

“Spending time with Bonnie!” was his reply.

 

“What’s your question?” I replied to him on that swing.

 

“Will you be my girlfriend? Officially?” He looks into my face, searches my eyes as he asks this question. “Can this finally change things? Can we get on the path of spending the rest of our days together?” His eyes asked.

I am lost in his eyes. Those brown, thinking, determined, gentle eyes. I know what he is asking.

 

“Yes. I thought you would never ask.” Sigh, smile, laugh a little. Here, next to me, sits the most amazing person with whom I have ever spent time. The tree above us whispers a laugh and another gust of November wind lifts my hair and bends his curls. My nose is redder and colder, and my eyes are stinging a little now as the joy-tears mix with the wind. The stars are bright specks of light in the Texas sky.

 

I look in his eyes. The same eyes I will look into for the next 15 years.

He smiles, and laughs, the same smiles and laughs I see and hear for the next 15 years.

He kisses me. Our first kiss. Our first of many, many kisses.

 

So the number of blessings is going up.

The number of memories is going up.

The number of years I have been best friends with Matthew...

The number of redeemed arguments and hard-times and failures...

The number of never-doing-that-again’s…

The number of glad-I-tried-it-but-its-not-my-favorite’s...
The number of times we stay up late, talking each other to sleep…
The number of times we ask for forgiveness…
The number of times we say “I love you.”



 

It was a still and quiet afternoon

Early evening sun crept in under the curtains, pooling lazily on the tile floor. Children’s voices and quiet, after school playtime laughter drifted down the stairs. Legos mingled with Strawberry shortcake, adventures played out in the hands of childhood.

My feet up, the glow of the computer screen in front of me. The weight and warmth of the machine, plus the long stretch of this day lulled me into the eyes-half-open stillness just proceeding a much needed catnap. With it’s usual click-clunk, the AC comes on. A gentle, recycled air, breeze lifted a few stray hairs off the side of my face. Stillness. Listening. Sweet children. Long blink. Longer blink.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see it. Gray. Heart stops, muscles clench. No-please-no!

It has wiggled past the chair in the corner, behind the Thanksgiving decoration on the floor. It is gray. It is fast. It is behind something and I can’t see it now.

GET UP! I will myself. Off the couch. Oh, God! Why now? Matthew left an hour ago!

Half standing, half bent I glare, paralyzed now, in the decoration and the “it” behind the brown and gold basket.

MOVE YOUR FEET. Ok, but where, I internally argue. Do I look behind the basket and risk it running out? If it runs out do I catch it? Ew. With what? Smack it with a broom? Ew, EW ew!

If I walk (run like a madman) to the kitchen first to get the broom, what if it gets away? Then it will be running amuck in the house? EW. EW EW!

 Why did Matthew have to be gone this night? This one night? He’s never gone over night, AND NOW THIS?? Seriously.

 

Friends flicker through my head…can I stay at your house tonight?

Another flicker…will all my Arab neighbors think I am extraordinarily crazy if I run out into our courtyard screaming for help?

Deep breath. There is no sense to my actions now. I lunge for the basket to shift it and scare it, at least I’ll get a good look at it.

Slowmotion takes over, I life my foot, point my toe, extend leg fur t h e r... as my foot swats the basket shifting it ever-so-slightly I fall back! Tripping over a chair, landing hard on my side, Ow! Scrambling, twisting to see it, what is it! WHERE is it?!

Nothing. No movement from it.

Furrow brow. Well, where THE HECK did it go.

Now seated, with an extended leg, I shift the basket again. There is something grey, pinched between the wall and the basket. The sun is nearly set now and the room is darker so I squint, and look.

With a cautious scoot forward, I step closer, move the basket with my hand.

It is gray.

It is stupid.

I roll my eyes and rub my bruising side, turn and get the broom and dustpan from the kitchen.

There is too much dust in this house. Dust bunnies. Big as mice, rats.

Sweep it, the dust, into the pan. Throw the dust out. Sigh.

Sweet voices float down the stairs. She’s laughing at his ideas and he laughs back.

They will come down soon, wanting food.

I open the fridge and take out something for dinner.

Beautiful

"Mom" She says.
"Hmm" I absently murmur, book in hand, mind on a farm, looking at snow covered barns, color streaked evening skies, the plot thickens, I am drawn further in....

"I'm gunna need a piece of paper. Two pieces of paper. To be drawing with. To MAKE something."

Blink, look away from the page. Snap back to NOW, my living room. The chill of late autumn snow, fiery leaves, melt away and I am now in my chair next to the window, sweating because it is hot, in a room now dark from the sun's setting.,

"Mom, I'm doing crafts."

I shake off the image of markered carpet and a million shards of paper and all that I need to have cleaned up in half an hour, before friends fill our doorways.

I look at her, really look at her. Last time she came downstairs, thirty or so minutes ago (was it an hour? really, did I read that long?) she was just-came-home-from-church Abby. Now she is Snow White.
"Mom!" She jumps off the last stair." Why are you laughing? I need a piece of paper. I need TWO pieces of paper."

She is delightful. She has built a rocket out of stickers and a paper towel tube. "AND..." (yes, she speaks in all caps) "THIS one is a restaurant." She points to a sticker, outlined in blue Crayola.
Her eyes dance. There are no wrinkles or indentions on her forehead from worry. Her cheeks are pink from the joy of creating. Her brown curls, ringlets down her back and around her shoulders. Snow Whites blue, blue, and red sleeves don't fit right and they hang off one shoulder. 
She is explaining to me how two pieces of paper with something inbetween, and then take a color and go "tshhh tshhh, tshh", moving her hands back and forth and that it is going to be BEE-YOU-tiful. But I am not really listening because I am caught off guard at her preciousness. At her beautifulness. At her young, creative, I have-nothing-to-worry-about-ness.

I set my book and deep thoughts aside.

I start to say something, but she goes chattering on about her other creations. The mermaid who spent too much time in the water and got all wrinkled up and the other one who turned green.
I am pretty sure most of the time she lives just inside a sparkly fairy land, full of glitter, smelly markers, mermaids and Jesus. That line she walks is a clear reminder of how she is made in the image of a very creative God.

She is going on again, asking what day it is and if today is Friday, does that make tomorrow Tuesday or Thursday when she gets to go out with Daddy and can she have a little more Pepsi and another piece of candy?
I stand up, hold out my hand which she grabs, we walk towards the kitchen.
Yes, to the little more Pepsi, yes to the candy. Today is Friday and that makes tomorrow Saturday.

Tonight, after our friends and their laughter leave and our house is quiet again, I'll enter into her world of smelly markers, scissors and stickers. I'll enter into that creative world of childhood, and catch a glimpse again, of our creator-God, the God of imagination and sparkle and laughter, bedtime stories, Narnia.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, up the stairs she goes yelling for her brother.

Stomp, stomp, stomp,back down the stairs she comes, "Mom, can I have a piece of paper? Can I have TWO pieces of paper?"