Friday, June 13, 2014

Five Minute Friday: Messenger


Lately the only writing I seem to be doing here is for FMF.
I'll take what I can get.
This weekly community has provided a place to discipline myself to write at least once every week. 
Even if my other days are filled with other tasks, there is but a brief moment at week's end to come here
and write
and exhale.
Fo that, I am thankful.

Today's prompt: Messenger

GO

The pink peonies 
were ballerinas
dancing to the flow of the wind.

The tall stalks of grass, 
ready to go to seed,
were trumpets
heralding the pulse of the air.

The green birch leaves 
clinging to white branches
were acrobats 
that floated on the currents of the breeze.

I could have missed it, 
blinded my own busyness and care.
You are not visible after all.

Today’s grace was taking notice
of the messengers along my way
that prove Your presence
by synchronizing to Your breath.

Today, Father, 
creation testified to You.
Though invisible You are yet seen;
manifest in their inevitable response to Your movement. 

STOP


Friday, June 6, 2014

To Paul (FMF: Hands)


Linking up here and dedicating this post to my husband on this, our 16th anniversary.


GO

Today I took your hand.
Not an extraordinary occurrence as we make moments to touch this way often.





Our hands have held through courtship, 
dating as college sweethearts and choirmates
through changes in majors and growth in personhood.



Our hands held still for pictures following our wedding
as the camera captured the glimmer of our newly donned rings in the sunlight
streaming through the Park Place stained glass.
That was 16 years ago today.
All veils of white and tuxes of black.
A lifetime stretched out before us.
And we met the future with hands clasped tightly.



Our hands held through the inception of ministry
and growing pains of marriage
as we worked our way through preferences that stemmed from our origin and nurture.

Our hands held the hands of others - 
while they mourned the coming of death to one they loved.
while teenagers bowed their hearts before Jesus.




Our hands wove tight as an emergency C-section
ushered our first born into the world,
wrinkly and fresh and red.

Our hands have held little hands 
that feared ants
built forts
smeared paint
and climbed high.

Our hands have held more love than imaginable, more life then deserved, more hope then expected.

This anniversary, while holding your hand, I also stand with a hand wide open for all yet to be grasped, caught, molded by us.