does he still feel the nails

if you were to walk up those carpeted steps, sliding your hands up the old oak banister, you would turn left and enter my old bedroom. if this were any year  before 2005, you would find my little twin bed pushed up against the wall, a few feet from my sister's. under the rectangular window that faced into the woods and overlooked the swing set.

you'd see a life-sized cardboard cutout of tom cruise from jerry maguire. an old mauve vase with twigs from that big pin oak on the shelf above my bed. five of my favorite books. short, poignant reads like the old man and the sea and of mice and men. the bible. a framed picture from the first family gathering i attended with robert.

if you sat on my bed, flattening the old white comforter lined with pink flowers, you could see our old desk. the one mama and dad lugged up the steps and assembled before i can remember. where i sat and played oregon trail with my very first grade school boyfriend. where my sister still stays up and completes her college assignments.

it's one of those good, solid office depot desks from the mid-nineties. with a million little compartments and drawers that tend to come off their hinges if you pull too hard. inside one of those crevices, i placed a little statue i received in high school.

it's no taller than a coffee mug. just two pieces of hardware intersecting themselves on a wooden platform.

with a caption: "does he still feel the nails, every time i fail?"

taken from an old ray boltz song, the statue reminded me, and still reminds me, of the importance of good friday. of what happened, and how indebted i am.

i love easter weekend, probably more than any other.

because yes, there were nails. but more than the piercing and the beating, there was also love. and i know He still feels that too. above all else.

real love: in your words

when i asked you to tell me one word for real love, you delivered.your responses were personnel and beautiful and meant the world to me, so i wanted to commemorate them.
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from us to you, happy valentines.

we're headed for a long weekend at the coast.

i hope you celebrate it by showing somebody, somewhere, the words you shared above.

xoxo

let me know that you love me, let that be enough

this is the shed behind my house. it stores robert's motorcycle, a few lawn care items, and an old dog carrier. for a few blissful weeks last may, it was a makeshift home for four kittens i found. the old door handle is worn and rusty. this morning, dew was clinging to its siding. a tall strand of ivy is creeping up its back door, curling it way back to the concrete steps.

but at one time, about seventy years ago, this was a house. a teeny abode for two newlyweds. a few years later, they built the little brick cottage we now call home. it was two rooms. in the middle of the country flanked by cornfields and newly paved roads. shielded by pin oaks and cushioned by blueberry bushes.

whenever this world gets to be too much, whenever i think about the christmas list in my purse, bloggers who go on fabulous trips to europe, and the new boots in the window at the mall, i remember this shed. for its simplicity and smallness. perfect in its absolute minute way.

and if home can found in a garage, i do believe it can be anywhere. i'm learning to embrace that. and the idea that two rooms can be enough. very little can be enough. almost everything i have or think i need is too much. humans are simple creatures, when it comes down to it. love and food are necessities, the base and the roots of the tree. the rest are just ornaments, hanging and embellishing but never enough to stand, to complete, on their own.

the day after: a reflection

i am thankful for the feast. for the green bean casserole and the yams. the chicken and dumplings and the sweet tea. for the children playing in the living room and the adults gathered around the kitchen table. for the after-lunch walk down that country road. a solid, straight path of land, flanked by cornfields and oaks.

but when it's all over, when every single tupperware dish is pulled from the cabinets to hold leftovers and we sink into bed with full bellies after the ballgame, what i am thankful for most of all is this: time.

like my sweet mama and dad who came with me to the thanksgiving eve lovefeast on wednesday night. one town away, in a church we did not know. just to support me, love me and encourage me, feasting alongside me on sweet lovefeast buns served as we sang songs of praise to our Father.

the service was free, and the buns were small and cold. but mama held my hand when i prayed and i looked over and saw dad singing. and i remembered the intangible blessings of life, relayed through a handhold. a song. and a prayer. i am most thankful for this pocket of time, this sweet envelope of borrowed hours. to love every day. every single, glorious, God-given day.

p.s. the giveaway winner of the justaddsunshine contest is amanda! i'll contact you to claim your $18 gift credit! happy thanksgiving:)

my fourth: festivals, fireworks and family

 

 

 

robert and i drove downtown yesterday to visit the local independence day festival. it was a smorgasbord of funnel cakes, sno-cones and local banjo pickers. all under the blistering noon sun. i saw mamas holding onto their children through the crowds,  little flags stuck into holes on the sidewalk, and an elderly man selling shower heads. who broke my heart because no one (absolutely no one) visited his stand. the one with the faux shower set up and the pamphlets neatly spread out on a little wooden table.

we left the fun and went to a little diner for lunch. the best part of the day happened in the middle of my meal when, with my hands full of barbecue chicken and honey rolls, robert grabbed them and said, "i can't wait to have kids with you one day." it was altogether random and beautiful and filling. 

yesterday afternoon held a thrifting spree with my sweet sister, then we all gathered at my parent's house for our annual cookout. which would not be complete without my dad and brother shooting off some classic wal-mart fireworks. with names like "glistening rain" and "lotus flower," you know you're in for a real treat.

it did rain yesterday. but after it cleared came a rainbow. a double one, actually.

reminding me that yes there is conflict in this world. there's war and violence and innocent people die and we never really know why. but there's also a beauty to this earth. and the joy that comes in the morning is enough to stamp out evil. enough to rise and reassure. and remind us that never will humanity be washed away again. even on the hottest and wettest of carolina summers.

the only reason

my car has no air conditioner. after one particularly heavy spring shower during which the windows to my little honda were completely rolled down, the entire unit was ruined. now, it just shoots out warm air. in june.

on another note, there are four post offices near my work. they are all about five minutes away. the people there are typically friendly, except at the one satellite office staffed entirely by teenagers chatting on their phones.

these two stories are unrelated, no?

yes, except for this little fact. at least once a week, i drive 25 minutes away to a little post office two cities over. i brave the awful combination of a steaming car and the thunderous road noise that comes with rolling down my windows to let whatever semblance of a breeze wants to meander through. and i do it for one reason.

my dad works at that little post office. and i get to stand in his line, and his line only. and let other patrons pass around me and go up to the counter to be waited on by another person in a blue uniform. but i wait.

on the man who gave me life. gave me my brown hair and twitchy neck pop. my stutter and my penchant for peanut butter cookies. whose face lights up from across the room when i open the door and the little bell jingles.

happy father's day, dad. i know i'm going to have to remind you tonight when i see you to please log online and see this post. but that's just because the computer is last on your list of things to do. you're too busy living, and you're still teaching me how to.

for mama.

a good mother is the most convincing argument for God i've ever seen, for mothers don't just happen; mothers are Heaven-sent. mothers are God's goodness wearing an apron, God's truth setting the table, God's beauty tenderly saying, "goodnight, dear. i'll see you in the morning." -harold kohn

i could write volumes on my mama. but they wouldn't even begin to scratch the depth of her beauty, kindness, strength and grace.

but i do know one thing. i love her to pieces.

as i get older, and closer to being a mama myself, i find myself acting more and more like her. find myself standing over the stove with a wooden spoon like her, phrasing my sentences like her, and slowly, looking at the world a bit more like she does.

and i couldn't be happier.