Mornings

I love the way my husband slips out of the room every morning, early, and as I hear the door slip shut, my mind drifts back into a confused dream land. I hear the way the water turns on, an hour later, and my mind slowly creeps and crawls its way to an awake-fog, even though my body is still and my eyes are closed. Then drawers are opening and closing and arms slip around me and hold me tight, telling me to wake up. And as I lie there willing myself to come to clarity, husband makes coffee for me to tempt me out of the warm covers. I hear him cracking eggs and opening bread, preparing our morning meal. And as I stumble out to our small table, with the straight-backed chairs, I love the sound of his voice as it prays over our food and our day, even as my ears can barely distinguish the words, just the sound.

I love sitting on my couch--the tan one my husband carried up the steps before I was here and called to tell me about and sent me pictures of--listening to the steady ticking of the clock. It tells me that I am enveloped in stillness. Each soft tick quiets my groggy mind. And I sit, thankful for the Word of God, even as I drift on in thought. I find myself staring at the bright, trumpeting daffodils and small, purple blossoms and I'm glad for life-changing friendship and the person who taught me about the joy flowers can give to a chaotic home. Even in the midst of the mess, I taste beauty--the outside beauty, the kind that comes from sunshine and fresh dew and shoots that fight their way through the ground.



I make sure my phone is near, because it's likely I'll get a text or a call from my husband, sometimes about what he heard on the radio, sometimes to say he loves me. And even though I'm not a morning person, I'm thankful for these mornings, looking out through my porch doors, reviving.

House Sitting

I sit at the counter and my long legs dangle from the tall chair. My hand brings the small blue and white mug to my mouth, feeding it with cooling coffee, as my eyes pour over each word on the page. I pause.



I hear the soft ticking of the clock behind me, marking each passing second. I let my eyes focus where they blindly stared and I see the roads of lights making their path across the wall, hiding and illuminating the large blue and green painting. The beams hit the clouds.

I think about how many hours I have spent in this home. Helping my best friend to maneuver her crutches, making breakfast, sitting out by the pool in the quiet of the morning. Plugging in my computer and situating myself at the study table for hours as I methodically typed each word of poetry paper. Laughing in the hot tub. Falling asleep trying to make it through West Side Story. Crying through Dead Poet's Society. Soaking up each jab and tease as the baby is passed around and Easter dinner is prepared. And the best of all: Walking through the glass enclosed room, the house exposed, and finding people hidden everywhere. Tea pot filled, tea cups prepared. Sandwiches waiting. Gifts piled up. Waiting for me. Waiting to celebrate my impending marriage.


I love the feeling of my sock-clothed feet padding, and occasionally sliding, across the tiled floor. I love the wooden ceiling, and the beams everywhere. I love the memories that I was welcomed into here. Invited to take part in. An open home--where light streams in from the skylights--was opened up to me. And today I just sit here, letting my fingers pluck away at the piano, wondering with Watts. "Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were a present far too small."

Les Miserables

Rach and I will be off to see Les Miserables tomorrow. We wanted to have read the book together before we saw the play but - sadly - that seems like it may now be impossible; since there is now only 26 hours till we'll be watching the wonderful musical. Is there anything more amazing than experiencing the raw and transforming grace that Jean Val Jean goes through at the beginning of this story?

Recently Married

Do you ever feel like you have too much stuff? It probably only happens when you move. Rach and I have recently found out that, even though we've never lived on our own, we still have accumulated way too much stuff.