When You Feel Like You're Just Hanging On

It had been hanging by a thread for a while.

Silver filament too flimsy for such a pendulous weight. Mark had even warned me.

"Jen, are you sure this chain is strong enough?"

"It's fine," I said, sliding the round silver Courage pendant onto the silver chain.

This morning in the dark hours before full wakefulness, I had flipped and turned. Thoughts of our upcoming Vow Renewal flashed happy in my mind and I mentally made a list: tea light candles, a miniature amplifier to boost volume in my parents' backyard.

Wide awake but trying not to be, I had switched to my stomach, stretching chest smooth and tall against the bed, and swinging right hand under my neck to sweep long hair up across the pillow.

And then just like that, my courage had fallen off and slipped away.

Mark stirred beside me.

"Mark, my necklace broke!"

"Oh no," he murmured, voice husky and drowsy.

My courage had slipped away and fallen from sight, and the irony is not lost on me. My sweet silver-haired Dad on hospice has recently been coughing and breathing in shallower breaths, and thoughts of him inhaling and exhaling, and looking all grey and ashen are never far from my mind this week.

And did he lose weight in his face since I saw him two days ago? His temples gape empty and I pressed my fingers in them wonderingly yesterday, gently caressing his stubbly face.

"Je t'aime, Papa," I had murmured then, brushing my fingers across his cheek and short hair, and leaning in for another hug.

I had kissed my mom goodbye as well, and driven home in a daze in evening rush hour. The sun sank orange and crimson behind Interstate 35, cars moving in stop and go patterns. A crashed car stacked up the left lane for miles, and a caravan of cars snaked careful through crushed glass and I prayed heavy for the people and police on the side on the road as I passed.

And then this morning in dark pale light, I swiped hair aside and tore the last filament of Courage from my neck. I find myself reaching unconsciously up to slide my finger in the silver ring's center, ready to brush fingertips across the burnished edges and fading Courage font, and then stop when my neck is naked.

And perhaps it's best this reminder now of where my courage lies. It's not in a faded pendulous pendant on too flimsy filament.

And I hear it in my mind, and scramble to find the full verse and reference. "For the eyes of the Lord range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are committed to him," and I grab it and trace the empty neck, and for today, this is enough.


Welcome! I've missed being here with you. Sorry. My Monday night college-level class that I'm teaching takes up much of my time, besides loving being a mom, wife, home schooling mom, and daughter to my dear family members. I think of you though, and am glad to be popping back in here today to greet you. How are you? How can I pray for you this week? (Feel free to comment here.) 

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Oops, God.

Groggily walking through the kitchen, I buttered three toasts, drizzled honey, and cored apples, quartering them.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Amanda Slater, Creative Commons cc license

Strapping one blonde-haired nephew into his blue high chair, I watched the two older boys climb into their chairs, cheerfully talking. Hot toast crumbled and steamed on small white saucers, while an oatmeal stewed warm in a bowl nearby.

"Okay, let's pray," I grinned at the boys as seven a.m. darkness still hid the deck outside.

"God, thank you for this morning, for breakfast, for _____, _____, and _____," I said, naming the boys while running my hand affectionately across the two necks closest to me.

"Thank you that you hear us when we call and that you make us stout and brave-hearted," I continued, remembering a verse from yesterday. "Amen."

Conversation resumed and boys hummed happy, chewing and moving in their seats as they ate.

"Oh!"

My prayer's words suddenly hit me.

"That's not right. You make me bold and stout-hearted! Not stout. Thanks, God. You know what I mean," and I grinned at God in the dark. 

Join me in sleepy prayers, sticky tables, and real life.

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Beating Burn-Out and Burning Long

It floods and crashes, this wall of raindrops thundering and crescendo-ing around us. This is the second sheet of water this afternoon, long roaring showers that drift in my open windows, batter the leaves, and rush in tiny tsunamis down the side of the road.

Photo: DeShaun Craddock, Creative Commons, cc license

Water soaks into the green lawn, and pools in puddles, reminding me of where I need to extend my gutters. And I breathe it in, this heady scent of rain, soil, and wet leaves.

It's been a dry month. Tomato plants are yellow bones with drooping withered fruits. Today's rains soak deep into the ground and run racing in channels down the streets.

Back in the kitchen, I scrub hardened egg off saucers, rub dried tea stains off mugs, and catch a glimpse of the flickering candle on the counter. Green mounded edges curve towards the light on a candle that needs to be glowing for several hours. For best results, keep candle burning for six hours at a time, the label says, and I've seen it. How the hardened candle needs to be in the light, next to the fire, and kept simmering there for best results. How it's the heat and the light over time that burns the candle for the longest use and most even life. Otherwise, the label explains, the candle will burn unevenly and flare hotter deep within, but leaving the outside cold and unaffected. Soon, the candle would be burnt out inside, with the exterior useless, no longer able to reach the flame.

And it reminds me of me. Because any task can be worship, and my desire is to meditate long on God's word --his light and heat -- to stay soft, useful, moldable. The verse that's been flickering through my heart this week has become a mantra the last few days. I whisper it to myself on tired mornings, speak it out as prayer in bleak moments, and singsong it as joyful song.

"The Lord gives strength to his people; he blesses his people with peace." I've seen that this week, and asked him for that, sinking deep into its truth. Our Creator God spills out barrels and gallons of his strength and sends crashing waves of his peace despite storms.

I can still see the rain outside my kitchen window. It's simmered to a warm mist, and the world is washed by it. My green candle burns long, its edges curving inward. I dry my hands and, with even pressure, gently slide the top wax towards the heat. It glimmers and glows, and it feels like worship.

Photo: Michelle Muirhead, Creative Commons, cc license

The Promise that'll Change Your Week

Hijacking my attention, I no longer heard his voice as the speaker continued, my thoughts captive by a sentence underlined in stubby pencil on the page.

Photo: Pedro Ribeiro Simoes, Creative Commons cc, license

Sitting on blue upholstered interlocking chairs this Sunday, I read and re-read the verse: God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything.

Later, minced lemongrass, ginger root, and garlic cloves bubble to the surface of a light green Vietnamese soup. A lemony onion and garlic fragrance hangs heavy in the kitchen air. My hands in hot soapy sink water, I smile at the scent of ginger coconut soup and keep an eye on the timer as I scrub plates and pots with my matted green scrubby. Faded used tea leaves drift to the surface of my dish water, skirt around a soap sud, and swirl in tiny eddies.

Sunday's verse bubbles in my mind again, a frequent occurrence this week, it seems. God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything. The verse, it comforts, it teaches, it strengthens me. I hear it simmer in my head in work settings this week, and smile to find it rise unbidden from my lips on a phone call with my mom who is in a hospice room for my grandma. The promise swirls and eddies in my mind while I tutor geometry homework with my daughter, dice cilantro for soup, and slice into juicy lemons.

The verse speaks hope deep within me during a tremulous conversation with a loved one, and my lips trace its truth in quiet trust. God is greater than our hearts and he knows everything (from the Bible book of 1 John 3).

Rinsing my hands of the floating tea leaves from the sink, I step over to the stove and stir a swirling pot of minced lemongrass, ginger, garlic, and onion Vietnamese soup, and the truth -- it simmers up in me too, smelling sweetly.

Hi friends, I appreciate you. What have you been reading, learning, or thinking about lately?