Here Is Another Day

The wind’s coming straight off the lake, eastern gusts.
In the distance, the chime of a bell.
Crow cawing, calling out to the world.
Ice weaves its way up the pane, engraves detailed designs in the glass.
Geese honk and chatter, fly overhead.
The lighthouse wears a shawl of misted air; collision of heat and frigid, sky and water.
I count the beats of my heart, trace the cadence.
Breathe.
Marvel, “Here is another day, another glimpse of mercy.”

 

Advertisements

Wide-Open Waters

For years, I was always curious why I felt so much,
why I broke with the news of lives lost,
desperate situations and the heartache confessed
by friends and strangers alike.
Why I bled with the sorrow of the world.
Why, when I loved, I was a typhoon.
There was never halfway with me,
my heart coursed and spilled until almost empty,
then found a way to refill.

They say I have an opening in my heart
that lets extra blood into its chambers.
From birth, a closure left undone
when I came into this life.

That’s why my heart lets in every shard,
every dagger, an ocean of hurt that hounds me
with the howls of humanity.
Why when I am cut, blood pools and falls
over the crumbled wall that was meant
to divide my chambers in order and,
if I choose to believe, emotion and reasoning.
To me, they always run together.

I have lived with a hole in my heart from day one—
it’s filtered every torrent of feeling swept right in
without proper search of self-preservation.
I’ve been drowning in my own heart,
always open, cycling through one hurt to the next—
there’s nothing left to break, I suppose,
as boundary lines shattered when I pulled in
my first breath.

It’s a wonder I’ve made it this far,
that I could take in the aching, magnified pain,
add it to the wide-open waters and grow
this expanding chamber of irregular beats.
Each stutter whispers another name,
another promise to endure.
Endure and never tire, take this blessed burden
burned into my DNA and let my love
spill upon the parched, caked crevices
of every heart that’s cries echo this earth.

Suspend and See

I alternate between walking on sidewalks and the road, depending on what has been plowed and what holds the untainted deep of snow. My neighborhood is draped in white amidst a heavy gray sky sodden still with more snowfall. My hands bury in the pockets of my blue jacket, puffed with cotton and stuck with microscopic shapes of snowflake designs. Earlier, my parents came to shovel my front walk, my steps, my back patio. They are not letting me lift much in my recovery, and today I did not argue. I just trailed my mom and got in my dad’s way, allowed them to bend their backs and clear away walking paths stabilized with salt, thanking God in my heart for their love and kindness, that I am here in this moment.

And then I’m off, out my back-alley and up the street to houses with leftover Christmas decorations, clusters of snow caught on bare branches in front yards. I check the traffic at the curb and cross, not many cars in my quiet town out this morning. I walk under overhanging trees, step around slush piles and find myself hearing silence differently. Lips push crystalized breath into the air, eyes line the lane and find a few people out in the cold for their own reasons. Give a small smile, nod and say, “Good morning,” to neighbors, the tall man masked in a scarf and hat shoveling his walkway, the woman rosy-cheeked and bundled in black parka on her own stroll through town.

This is what it’s all about—small moments stitched together through the seconds, stillness in each breath, snow crackling underfoot. Taking in the sharp, clear air, letting the cold massage my face, bending into the wind and marveling that I’m alive. I am alive, and all this world is glory.

All this world is glory, from God on high who has complete control over each swirl of snowflake, each shape of my scars, the One who holds my delicate, desperate life in His hands.

This day, I am here, inhabiting this Wisconsin winter, fresh snow, the slow and steady rhythm of my heart that is a merciful gift. Nothing is guaranteed. We are all brittlely finite. But this, too, is beautiful. Our porcelain hearts, the days we are endowed. How, then, do we spend them? Are we aware that all is grace, that there is more beyond this veil of earth?

Today, I measure out my steps in boots that bury in mounds of soft white powder. Oh world, I want to say, how beautiful you are. How beautiful the God who made you. How much He loves, how much more there is to come.

I stamp my feet before crossing the threshold into my house, boots already pooling in water as the temperature flares from inside. What a world. The cold still stings, sticks to my body as I light a candle and heat my tea kettle on the stove. Out my window, tips of houses, glimpse of ice-capped lake.

We are here and it is a gift, and I want to recognize the insignificant moments as the parts of life that really matter most.

Because we are not guaranteed tomorrow. We do not know when time is up, what God has planned, and dependence on His breath in our lungs is the only thing that gets us through the hours.

Snow keeps falling. And sweet Jesus, so does grace. It falls for us all.

Will we take it?

Will we slow enough, suspend, and see?

Lord, I want to see. Every second. Let the seconds expand into eternities, split like snowflakes dancing their way down a smiling sky.

 

Grace of Again

Here we go, life.
Another turn around the galaxy.
What will this world spin into?
Are we ready?
Are we watching?
We get another chance
to learn, to love, to leave
an imprint on the soft earth of hearts.
Here we go, life.
Blessed with
the grace of again.

Wanting More

Is it worth it? Wanting more from this life? Daring to hope, suspended breath, afraid the smallest exhale will scatter all you’ve longed for?

Keep breathing out your prayers. Keep walking into the days, daring to hold hope in your heart after all this time.

Reminders

Cardinal flits across the road, flash of red sticks out among muted brown and gray. Cardinals stay through the winter, through the cold, the barren, the unyielding hard.

I am to do the same.

Water. It calls to me after being cooped up for weeks. I make the short drive to my old college campus, wave to the young girl at the welcome desk kiosk, wind the narrow road that wraps around the lake.

Today, a tired sun is making its way through milky clouds. It lights the world nonetheless. There are shadows cast along the damp grass, my body outlined on the row of rock arched around the bluff. Clamor of metal hitting together of the new business building construction echoes behind me—this campus sure is growing.

Water and sky blur together from the haze, gray foam of cloud barely atop a steel teal of lake—everything seems washed. From somewhere at the bottom of shoreline, soft waves roll to land. Dead prairie grass leans along the sloped bluff, tan and brittle. Long, spindly arms of empty ash trees hold their perch along the ledge.

It’s quiet, and I am alone the day after Christmas. A few hours ago, I unstrapped the four lead electrodes from my chest and abdomen, shut off the phone monitor, packed up the Holter unit and dropped the box at the UPS store in the Pavilions shopping center two minutes from my parents’ house. It will be on its way to Illinois to be processed, results calculated. I don’t know when I’ll learn if they noticed an arrythmia, maybe at my cardiologist appointment in January. I’m again in full trust mode as I acknowledge God as my monitor, His watchful gaze on my heart, on my head.

Another phase down, another step towards healing, or answers, or living in the unknown.

We all live in the unknown, really. Every day. Who ever knows what comes?

Curled leaves lie at my feet, half covered by the overgrown grass. Hints of previous seasons making themselves known well into winter.

There are always reminders of where we’ve been, who we were. They trail behind us quietly, catching hold of the wind to make no sound. Sometimes they pull ahead, catch on our sneakers so we stop to see what’s changed our stride, peel them off and examine all that has transpired, how we have transformed.

Keep watch for the good. Count each detail as a keepsake. Always remember. Taupe, pointed leaves nestled in the grass. Calm of Lake Michigan floating in its own movement. Break of spindled sun, light cutting through days of clouds.

Heart free from its surveillance, no more metal monitor heavy on my breastbone. Every day a miracle. Every miracle, great grace.

Rights All Things

Whirl of images, blurred and unbalanced.

Out of nowhere.

My living room, a spinning funhouse. Walls rocking like sides of a ship, sharp, yet unable to focus and still the swirl.

Then, rubber. Left arm shaking and bucking its control. Loss of feeling, all I could do was watch it move up and down, around, unable to grab hold of anything solid.

The speech. Slow, slurred. My brain knew what it wanted to say, and say at a normal rate, but the words wouldn’t come when called. Stutter, heavy, anchored to another dimension I wasn’t meant to reach.

I am so glad I was sitting on the fold-up chair at my table. If I had been on two legs, I would have found myself buckled by them and on the floor as the world lurched on and I could not catch up. //

How in the world did my brain throw off balance?

How in God’s unfathomable grace, did He still the spin and set me right again?

Monitors blink into the inky night, murmur of nurses muffled down the hall. Here, all begins anew. One breath, one beep, at a time. I hope the needles can come out of my skin soon, but now, they are reminders, along with the leeds strapped along my chest to check my heart, that my life is not my own.

Blinds down, shade the hospital room. The world has righted itself, but still there are pieces of me frightened it will happen again, that I will lose my place in this life and oxygen once more be doused from my brain.

But He is here. In the still, in the holding cell, the sweetness of His presence in a terrifying topsy-turvy turn of events filling me with gratitude more than I could imagine. He is Emmanuel. God with us. Even in the upside down, the out of control.

I rest my mind, my body as best I can with the heart monitor in place and IVs poking my veins. God is near, and He has never removed me from the palm of His caring hand. And so, I believe. Believe in Him who sees me through, whose mercies never cease and watched over my ordeal with careful, unblinking eye. Believe in Him who keeps the stars aligned and time itself in balance. Believe He remains faithful, that there is more left for me to see and love and align with His heart.

He rights all things, our hearts and our heads. Keep believing. Great is His faithfulness.

 

 

**

Continuing my attempt at the Five Minute Friday weekly writing challenge. Five minutes to write on the assigned topic. Raw and unedited. (Yikes!) This week’s topic: Balance.   // symbolizes where five minutes started and/or stopped.

Clear To The Bone

It’s come again.

That nagging ache of alone. The built-up dreams ballooning in my belly, the air released and shrunk to nothing. I’ve busied myself, distracted and detached, afraid to feel the latest jolt that rocked my heart’s already easily breakable frame.

It’s heavy, the weight of disappointment.

// What cuts clear to the bone? The hopes that I allowed to linger, only to smash in a thousand pieces at reality, unmet expectations, bitter disappointment and heart collapse. This life I live looks nothing like I thought it would. And I don’t know what to do when I fall into myself over and over, to the depths, dusky void black and blue ink stained sorrow.

I had wanted to much from this life. I thought I had so much to offer, to be, to do. But I am shaken, stuck in the manifold mundane, day in and day out, rote and worn.

To the depths, the soul in me cries. Get to the depths, leave this shallow water that has staled and stalled and turned lukewarm. Get to where you have room to breathe, where you can breathe at all, where you can live alive, ignite.

We are all thisclose from going under in our blank hearts and never resurfacing. I am thisclose from settling into mediocrity because I don’t know what else to do, though the fibers of my being reel and recoil against the notion. But what should one do when all they know is disappointment and new worlds they never wanted? //

Oh, how I have wanted.

And here I am, smack in the heartbreak and backwards. Where do I go from here? How do I submerge amid the deep, the faraway and dimly lit scratch of sun from under the waves?

For now, all I have are questions that are left unanswered. And I’ll content myself with this continual quest among the heavy and deep, swathing myself in unknown. Be still. Embrace what has yet to form.

It is a quiet wait, but I want my heart to heal. I want to see this life with new eyes, to be pulled deeper still into what is just ahead. See the surprise of the unexpected, how it just may be better than I dared to dream before.

Just keep trusting. Keep sight of belief, and choose yet again to not settle. It’s too important for my soul not to. For it must keep beating, must keep hope.

Hope is the echo reverberating in dreams yet awakened.

 

 

 

**

Continuing my attempt at the Five Minute Friday weekly writing challenge. Five minutes to write on the assigned topic. Raw and unedited. (Yikes!) This week’s topic: Deep.   // symbolizes where five minutes started and/or stopped.

Rebuild The Jagged Edges

Too early to rise, yet I am lulled out of bed, wide awake and aware stars still gleam in the sky.

Coffee quickly brewing in the kitchen, my lifeline. This is how I arrive today—heavy eyelids, leaking heart.

This is a lonely season of my life. I am weary from holding back this truth.

Tell me that the night will end. Tell me that the light will come.

Teach my heart to wait in You, to be still and trust.

 

All that is within me wants to see the other side right now, to know the goodness comes my way, that what I sow in rows of tears will reap an abundance of joy.

You are always good, but this does not feel good to my heart right now. How do I hope when days stretch to weeks, to months, and then I somehow notice it’s been years?

You alone know the ways I am to walk, where each step leads, the trails, the turns, the unmarked maps.

How do I listen through the din of despair, when I stare it straight in the eye, stand at its edge, rock my toes over the ledge? How do I be still to see You go before me to make a way where there is a wall?

 

 

It’s been awhile, but I’m back over at ALTARWORK! Head over to read the rest of the post.