My girl naps peaceful beyond the window just behind me and I sit outside on my "porch in the trees" listening to the summer sounds; the humming bug thingies that I don't know what to call that drone and fade out and drone again? Those. It's a gift this porch, this time unclaimed. I should be nervous because time unclaimed is time not working and that means less money to buy.....say.....food and electricity. But here I sit, hollowed out in His hand, a strange place of grace that fits on me like new clothes. They look good, they feel good....I'm just not used to calling them mine. I'm not sure what God is doing with my near future, but I'm quite sure He's very present. I will know. I will know soon enough.
I moved through today like visiting a hometown that you drive into the edge of and realize the bowling alley has been remodeled and none of the businesses have the same name. It's the kind of familiar that makes you cock your head to one side and smile quizzical.....this.....is my town. But. Twenty two years strong I've schooled my six treasures at home. This year, though, a new wind whispers and my girl, my last one at home, and I have been gathering up the necessary paperwork and new backpacks to make ourselves ready. Today was her physical, the last piece of the puzzle and going back to that doctor's office, a few years passed since I'd needed to go there, I sat in the same chairs where, so many times, I'd kept watch over my young flock all runny noses and rashes. The aquarium, which had been at their eye level, seemed so small now. I thought sure that'd been near ocean size at the time, as I'd gotten down on my knees beside them and looked at it through their eyes. Today, though, my 15 year old gave it only a glance and I smiled wistfully. Remembering. I captured a shot of the waiting room on my phone camera and sent it to my older kids so they could remember with me.
My mother has come with us today and I maneuver the car close to the building so she can get in easier. She leans on a cane these days and her legs hurt her, her back, her feet. Her heart threatens to fail her and I catch my breath as I glance over at her. This new found ability to be with her, even near her, I only understand through the lens of His grace over me; over her. So much has changed. My father is in heaven a year now. My heart has grown new skin that has patched over wounds grown deep and made a small path that has made room for my mother. I don't understand it. But it comes softly and at His hand. We sit over lunch and laugh. Actually laugh real laughing and mean it. It doesn't escape me unnoticed. I look up to see a friend I have on Facebook but never actually met in person standing beside my table. She'd seen where I'd "checked in" and came across the room to find me. What a joy to meet and already have a heart connection. Those things, I treasure quiet. It means more inside than the outside can show and we take a quick picture to hold the moment forever.
As I type my son in law, who, if we get down to brass tax (which, what does even mean?) I barely know but love full up to the top, sends me a message just right out of the blue that he's thinking of me and praying for me. Tears well up the minute I see his name, for he represents God's unexpected grace to my oldest girl and I am so grateful. But to have him take the time to tell me that my name went across his mind? That's pure gold. We should all do that. And often. On the heels of that, my wacky friend drives by my house and honks loud and calls me on my phone to "demand" lunch with me this week for no reason but that we're both alive and it is good to be alive together in the same room at the same time now and again.
This day I've gone back in my mind to memories, seen torn hearts being mended with His slow and deliberate stitching, met new friends, heard from others "old", and rest peaceful in the unanswered for the days ahead. Except that He is and He sees me and I hide safe in the shadow His wings.
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