what they forgot to tell me...

he greets me, whenever we happen to be there at the same time with the same words spilling from his lips.

those words said in thickly accented and broken english that my ears struggle to decipher,  he says it slow because he knows - this white lady can barely keep up.

it is not a house. not. a. house, yes?

and he pauses because he wants me to understand.  wants it to sink deep and so i nod my head and wait for those words i already know are about to fill the space around us,

it is a palace, kimberley. a palace.  you understand?

and yes, i do. i understand that what bears the marks of tagging and the places worn and crumbling because of age and use is so much more here in the the hardened edges around us.

he laughs at my attempt to say his name; me, the canadian with no ability to roll my r's with the flair and passion of his spanish, but i try and he applauds and tells me i can say his name in english.

i want to learn how to say his name in spanish.

the children too - seem to delight in the fact that this white woman who sits in the hot sun at the playground completely and utterly butchers the beauty of their language, but they are determined it seems to teach me the basics, even if it sounds awful and makes bellies hurt from laughing so hard.

i was warned about which colours to avoid wearing when we came to spend time at this place. i made a mental note and double check us all before we walk out our door, but they forgot to warn me about the most important thing...

they never warned me that my heart would break.

i remember saying to him, in the days leading up to his final days at starbucks, i said that maybe i would stay away, not because i was scared of gangs and violence and drugs...i was scared of becoming attached again.  scared of opening up my heart. maybe, i reasoned, staying away would help his ministry if i stayed in the background.

he paused, like he always does before he says something hard but needed,

you can stay away, kimberley, and i would understand. but that would be the most selfish thing you could do.  Jesus asks us to lay down our lives and lose them for Him.  to hide in the corner would feel safer, but you'd be missing out on everything He has for you there.

i didn't know what to expect, that first day or two that we were there, but what i didn't expect was the warmth, the joy, the shy smiles. i didn't expect to fall in love with their names. 

 he was asked, in his interview, how he would point out Hope to those who came because sometimes, in the darkest places, Hope seems so hard to find...

but it's there...in the names of the children.  when those mamas first held those newborn babies and breathed out a name over brand new skin, they named with a longing for Hope.

it's all around me.

it's as they sit close at the dinner table, as they yell out, hey lady! your belly got big! it's when they ask what time they have to go and it's written all over their faces that they don't want to.

it's in the wiping down of tables together and the sitting close on the playground together and watching my three run and play with no idea whatsoever that their skin colour doesn't match those of their playmates.  of that little boy with the big chocolate brown eyes who comes up to me and throws his arms around my neck before he ever says hey.

it's the 13 year old boy, shyly sharing his poetry with me as he waits for his brothers and cousins to finish playing.

i didn't expect my heart to break wide open and find myself with tears streaming down my face as i leave that part of town for mine. which honestly, neither is really that different from the other. aren't we all broken? aren't we all hurting in some way, trying to dull the ache with whatever we can hold on to?  oh, the houses may look shabbier if you cross the tracks, or they may gleam and sparkle if you drive further up the valley road, but without Hope, without Jesus, aren't we all desperate? 

i stood in the dark this evening as i waited for our dog to finish running around the yard, finish sniffing out the last of this day when i looked up.

today had been particularly hard, for many reasons, and at the end of the day a perfect storm brewed and i spoke harsh words to a strong willed daughter and we were both left split wide open and in pain. 

sin permeates both sides of the tracks.

but it was that wordless prayer that groped and grasped for words i couldn't seem to form that He answered on that back porch in the inky black...

because when i looked up in desperation He had already pasted it there at eye level, perfectly level and still...

the big dipper.

i can love and i can fail within moments of each other and i can mess up in a hundred thousand different ways, but His love is always sure, always steady and it cups around my failings and He offers that perfect love for me to dip from, to immerse myself in so that i can become a channel that He can flow through.

and i wonder, does He allow our hearts to break, to shatter, not so that we will hurt and experience pain, but so that His Perfect Love pours out freely from the broken...

to the broken.

in the sun...

i stay wrapped up in blankets this morning;

the sun pours in and i open up those curtains.


while the little ones sleep, i sneak into the kitchen and grab those plants that sit by the sink...

i carry that green in my hands and sit them in the sun.

and i watch them.

for an hour, maybe a little bit more, i watch them strain and straighten,

reach for the light beyond the glass.


i think of two cemeteries visited today ~

two different cities,

for two different reasons.


one grave filled,

the other being filled,


both surrounded by ones who love.



he talked of his dad on the way home from getting food for the fridge,

talked of what he learned from the one who raised him

and i got quiet sitting beside him.


he turned to me when i didn't respond,

asked me what i was thinking

and the words quivered out,


sometimes i wish he had made a different choice.



and it's those plants i think of for most of the day,

as graves and memories and tears run all together,

that it's here in the waiting,

in all of this waiting ~

we are striving,

straining,

reaching

for the Light Who is Home.


the tears that fall, fall because our hearts have loved.

they still love.


but i am learning, in small and simple ways,

that the way to find hope and joy in grief

is to turn my face towards the Son...


and someday,

some glorious, wonderful, amazing day,

there will be no more separation between Him and i.


all the striving and straining and reaching and turning that fills up this life,

this life that longs for Him but seems to always hit hard against the immovable unseen,


the barrier will be lifted and this path that leads up to that moment,

the one paved with tears and confusion and questions,


it will become the altar that i offer my thanksgiving on,

because all of this that this life is,

is leading me Home to Him...


and that which separates the seen from the unseen,

what allows these eyes to catch fleeting glimpses of His glory?

it only builds the anticipation...

when he's yelling of fireflies...

it happens every morning between 9 and 10.

doesn't seem to matter where i'm standing, his voice finds me before his little feet do.


his hand fits into mine and as he drags me from whatever point in the house i'm at, he's yelling about fireflies.


sweet boy.

every morning, he drags me to the same place.

every morning he throws his head back,

points that pudgy finger of his left hand

and breathes out wonder.


and i focus on him.


oh, i know what he is looking at,

i know that a reflection from that south facing window has cradled the sun and thrown all of it's glory 5 feet above my head.

i know that it twinkles and shimmers and dances across that cream-coloured wall.

i know that the wonder of it all holds my little one captivated.


and we stand there, we two;

one with his sweet little face raised up,

thrown way back...

and me.

head bowed,

eyes wide open to the wonder barely contained in his own.


sunlight captures the son grown in my dark.

always has.


as though seeking the other out, he is drawn to the warmth of that glow thrown down.

and oh.

oh.


how he longs to hold it in his hands.

and his beautiful innocence breaks through my indifference

and shimmering light named firefly reminds me to open my eyes...


to open my eyes and my mouth and speak out thanks.


because wasn't His presence found in that fire that didn't bring harm to that bush?




because the Light of the Son seeks me out  every. single. day.


and His Love, His Gifts are not something that elusively dance through my fingers.

oh no.

each one is fully given so i can fully grasp and hold the weight of Such Love close.



even in the hard times.

the harsh times.


the times where everything lays dying and broken.


it may not seem like it.

and that's okay.


He never expects one to flippantly pass through pain.


but the gift in those moments?

it's Him.
His Presence.

His Love that still arcs over and binds it all up from beginning to end.



and whether one is caught on the floor, trying to capture sunlight in hands that seem too weighed down with life,

or with eyes lifted up to the ceiling, lost in glimpses of the Holy...


He is there.

and we can give thanks...

through it all.

1211. his baby blanket
1212. the sky above me
1213. that sippy cup i can never find

1214. that old picnic basket
1215. the found - lost sippy cup
1216. gramma's bible

1217. their laughter in their bedroom
1218. a good school day
1219. those words every night

1220. each friendship here and there
1221. the deepening of our marriage
1222. this life we are making together

1223. laughter
1224. understanding
1225. hearts that are places of safety

1226. It Feels Like Home - because someday it will.
1227. the way he reminds me to breathe
1228. the life of my gramma

1229. that she is 6
1230. that sweet small baby i can still see in her face
1231. that she still snuggles up in my arms

1232. the truth found in colossians
1233. tony's laughter
1234. the stars He formed and that He knows their names too.

and i was asked about my numbers each week...


the ones that build on one another.


fall of 2010 i began my list of 1000 gifts in the middle of a season of painful loss.  you can read the first post here.


i reached 1000 here, in the middle of a blueberry patch and the heat of the summer, but afterwards the list writing continued without the same fervor.

the beginning of january of this present year, i read of this joy dare and decided to pick up my pen once more and plant the habit deeper...because He says that in everything we are to rejoice.

and i've learned that we can.


even in the ugly.


even in the dark.


even in the hurt.

and so i try...


maybe you would like to as well?  click here to find out more.

and you can follow the journey a bit more, if you care to, in the 1000 tab at the top of this screen.

look up...

the songs that fill the air keep calling for us to look up.

to search for Him,

to open our eyes to the light of that star that burned so brightly 2000 years ago.


and my middle one, the one who knows no middle ground,

the one who is rarely quiet,

yells out from the seat behind me,

mama!  was Jesus called Jesus Christ when He was a baby?

and i pause, because i'm pretty sure of the answer, but i don't want to give the wrong one...

when i look out my window,

and i lift up my eyes...

and i see Him.


and you can argue that my eyes had landed on the path of 2 jets crossing.

and you would be right.


the deep blue of a winter sky was full of the echos of the airplanes that are bringing loved ones home.


but He uses the simple

and the weak,

to declare His amazing glory,

and how can i deny that He spread His message across this beautiful sky?


this season we celebrate is more than the empty cradle.

more than the empty blood-stained cross.

more than the empty tomb that stands there, defying death.


it's all about Him and the full life He offers.


so lift up your eyes, sweet reader of mine.

like the wise men of old, come near to His Light.

He is so very close


and He loves you so much.


and who knows what He'll write on that sky above you for your very own eyes to find...

when sorrow begins to turn...

they sizzle and pop in that pot on my stove,

those onions all translucent in butter.

and i reach for that old wooden spoon,

the one that he gave to his gramma that year.


and i don't really remember what year that it was, only that it was given on a shoestring budget and a mama who got all creative.

i can picture him, with his eyes all bright and his mouth held just-that-way, holding that tool in his hand.

and he engraves his name,

burns it into the wood all soft

and over the years and the washing and the time...

he is still there.



i hold time in my hands as i cook food that nourishes,

and his name embedded in wood is embedded on my heart.


we decorate the tree and name it george,

little ones run and pull off the ornaments and cry when they can't put them back on just so.

and i think of their papa

and the christmas tree he searched out that very last year,

the second of two because the first one wasn't just right.

and how quickly it came down when he was finally found and how the passage of time doesn't diminish the mark that he left on this heart.


and tonight, mingled with the sadness is a small measure of joy...

joy that i knew him,

that i was given the chance to love him,

joy that i will see him once again.


hope.

a precious word.

a word that continues to give.


and in this season of quiet dark, where sadness could be so easy to get lost in,

His people shine like the stars around us,

drawing us into a family that share dna bought by His blood.

and our family of 5 that found ourselves here,

alone and unknown,

is growing...

and the hearts that didn't have to,

 do.


what was broken that dark december morning almost 2 years ago,

what was uprooted and displaced a little less than 11 months ago...

is finding us home,

finding us healing,

finding us trying to love well

while being found loved well.

and a season that bears the mark of great sorrow,

 continues to point me to the One Who bears the marks of Great Sacrifice...

{all family photos were taken by our mr. bob...}

when it's all wrapped up in cinnamon...

i couldn't find my mittens as i rushed out the door this evening.

the happy grey ones that keep these fingers toasty.


and while my fingers can barely bend to type out these words,

i wouldn't have traded that conversation in chilled night air for anything.



they crowded around me this morning, those three little ones with the big, big eyes...

as soon as i opened that large jar of cinnamon they were there, tangled up around my legs.

tongues start licking lips and eyes begin to twinkle and small hands clap with glee at the thought of warm cookies to fill small tummies and  pretty soon three little bottoms are plunked right on that mat laid down in front of the oven door.


His gifts are like that,

once you begin to catch a glimpse.


in the beginning moments, when life feels like it is being whipped within an inch of itself, none of it makes sense.

and sometimes, there are parts that never will this side of what we will someday know...

but He has Hands that can take every moment, every pain and joy and make something fantastic.


i think that's why i love the smell of cinnamon.

why i love watching those three press their young faces up against that glass window.

why i love standing and visiting in a backyard while the little ones run.

why i love standing out in the freezing cold and catching up with a friend who i've missed.


why i love to tap out these words with fingers just beginning to warm up...

because 23 months and 3 weeks ago my world completely shattered.

because 11 months and 3 1/2 weeks ago my life was completely uprooted.

and when i couldn't see outside of what i thought had been secure,, 


He was so faithful.


when my life became so unrecognizable that it hurt to even look at,

He remained constant.

He remained sure.


and when He said, I know in the quiet of changes emerging,

He was also asking me to trust.

they finish baking up, those snickerdoodles that make me laugh.

the smell of cinnamon wraps itself around this home.


and we give them away,

because that is what Hope, what Love, does.

and when we have given it all,

He fills us up again...

the month of here {day30}...when you can't find Him

can you join me for a bit?

will you sit with me one last time as i gather up the very last of this month and enjoy it in all it's broken beauty?

i wondered this morning, as my eyes slowly opened, why november couldn't have a couple more days.

i'm not ready to enter into december.

but, i am guessing, should november 32 suddenly appear on that calendar on my wall, i still wouldn't be ready to tear off the sheet then either.

sometimes we just have to push through.


i have slowly begun to go through boxes, placing bits of christmas here and there throughout our home.

but i can't find Him.

the wise men three stand perplexed and mary seems adrift near the space that should hold the Christ child.

i can't find Him.


except for {day22} that somehow slipped through my fingers, i have gathered up the blessings that He has given and treasured them through words.


this month has opened my eyes to the Wonder of His Love in ways i couldn't have imagined...but i stand on the edge of the coming season and i feel confused.


i thought this year would be easier than the last.

instead, i fill up this air around us with the songs of Christmas and Good Cheer and i feel as though i can barely stand.

i come to the last day of this month and the one who sets out to kill, steal and destroy has been working hard this long morning, trying to wreak havoc on the joy that i've found.

he mocks the gifts that God has given me, belittles me for being so naive.


and when i turn my ear from His Voice to the lies,

i can't find Him.

i know that we are not alone in feeling great loss during the holiday season.

songs that drift out longings for home and hearth and family leave so many others barely able to breathe.


at times, the celebration of His birth can seem like a cruel mockery to those who find themselves alone during the dark nights of winter.


i line up my window sill with the yellow daises that give me hope,  as though to defy the one who tries to break my faith.

i won't let him.


i can't let him.


i read the words in that old book of prayers...the one i clutched tightly in my hands as we drove from there to here.

o God, the Father of the forsaken, the Help of the weak,

the Supplier of the needy, Who has diffused and proportioned

Thy gifts to body and soul, in such sort that all may acknowledge

and perform the joyous duty of mutual service; Who teachest us that love

towards the race of man is the bond of perfectness,

and the imitation of  Thy blessed self; open our eyes and touch our hearts,

that we may see and do, both for this world and for that

which is to come, the things which belong unto our peace.

strengthen me in the work i have undertaken; give me counsel

and wisdom, perseverance, faith and zeal,

and in Thine own good time and according to Thy pleasure, prosper

the issue. pour into me a spirit of humility; 

let nothing be done but in devout obedience to Thy will,

thankfulness for Thine unspeakable mercies and love

to Thine adorable Son Christ Jesus. 

amen.

~ antony ashley cooper, earl of shaftesbury (1801-1885)

He gives because that is Who He is.

He gives because He is love,

but each gift is meant for more than our filling...


i stand on the edge of a season that leaves me fighting overwhelming feelings of grief.

i don't want to move forward because it means reliving each horrible moment.

but He has given hope in the days since...given not just for my benefit, but so that i would learn how to share His Hope with others.


i piled them up on our front stoop this afternoon with the little ones; 30 stones to be exact.

i needed to touch something tangible, to feel that weight of it in my hands.


and the tears poured down as the strains of O Holy Night followed us out that door,

as i piled stone on top of stone and placed the reminder of His Love behind.

His Love is there to grasp hold of,

to anchor us when we feel as though we don't understand His reasons.


hold on tightly to the way He Loves you, dear one.

don't. let. go.


let Him use your hurt and your pain,

let Him turn those tears of ache and brokenness into jewels of hope.


don't let it be stolen away.

and i give thanks on this thirtieth and last day of this month that finds me here...and for the thirty, tangible ways He Loves.

i won't let go.

the month of here {day19}...and the daisies that are yellow

i snap pictures in the dark of bright yellow daisies.

seems rather silly now that i look at the darkness of the photos.


but they remind me of the light He gives in the moments that seem hard to see through.


of the way He speaks to this heart that begged tonight to hear.


and they sit, all happy and yellow and bright in the middle of a snowy grey day.

and i give thanks on this nineteenth day that finds me here...and for the gift of yellow daisies and the  happy bobbing of their heads.

the month of here {day17}...steaming milk

it doesn't take much to make eyes grow wide and smiles even bigger.


it doesn't take much to pour love into them and watch them settle.


milk all steamed and frothy poured over a touch of chocolate melted and thick,

they lean in close and giggle loudly as whipped cream becomes the final touch.

it doesn't take much,

to do that one extra thing...

the one that makes them feel special and known.




we snuggle on couches that have settled here, but really have cradled us all along.


our bodies have made their own comfy impressions and we each have our spots that are our very own.

yes.  we are very particular about this.


and he cradles those grapes in his sweet little man-hands.  and i snap a picture because they won't be that little for much longer.

i look at his face and see the wonder there as he counts slow and steady,

one...two...free...!

and before i know it, these days will be over.


so i'll make it, those moments extra special, because nothing compares to the joy on their faces.

and i give thanks on this seventeenth day of this month that finds me here...and the three small ones to steam the milk for.

the month of here {day16}...a wonderland

i sat with my back to the window this morning, bent over math pages and focused on numbers.

i didn't see the first flake fall.

or the thousandth.

until the phone rang its ring and the happiest voice on the other end asked if i had looked out the window yet.


and that friend here thought to call, thought to make sure i had seen the snow, and my first gasp of delight was a shared one with her.

there is joy in those moments.


and the little ones dropped thoughts and pencils faster than i stood up and plastered my face against the window.


the first snow fell and not-bundled-up-enough-children pushed past their happy mama and bounded out onto the grass waiting to be tucked in for the season.

it's beautiful, this evening.  the air is hushed underneath the soft covering of white.


here the snow finds me, still captivates me with it's beauty and wonder.

and my children, with faces raised to the sky dropping downy white flakes, leave imprints on my heart that time can never melt away.

and i give thanks on this sixteenth day of this month that finds me here...and for the wonder that first snowfall brings.

the month of here {day14}...3,646

i kind of like books.

i have a few i'm reading right now,

not including the two in my purse and the three in the van and the five on order at the library.


i love the words inside.

the characters, the places, the thoughts and ideas that find themselves buried within pages of text.


they pile up beside our bed.


there always seems to be one open somewhere.

and since becoming a mama, i tend to flip back and forth between any number of books at one time.


and then that doorbell had to ring.


and that deliveryman just had to drop off 3,646 pages of unexpected sheer delight right here on our front step.



and it doesn't seem to matter where one moves to, where they have come from...


if one carries timeless words with them, they are never really that far from wherever here finds you.

and i give thanks on this fourteenth day of this month that finds me here...and for the gift of 3,646 new pages to get lost in.

the month of here {day12}...and mr. bob

i sometimes wonder about the timing of things that lead up to chance meetings, or the way two lives intersect and connect.

do you?

i find myself fascinated by the befores of everyone involved, oblivious to the fact their hearts are about to grow bigger.

he didn't have to open up his heart to us.

when i think of the loss he had already experienced, it would seem reasonable that he wouldn't.

when i think of the children and grandchildren that already fill his life, 3 more small and loud ones could seem like 3 too many.

and the one who brought me daises, opens his home to us again and again and they run to him, those 3 who have lost so many.  they run to him and he opens his heart and his arms to small lives he doesn't even know have been broken.

elias, he walked around all morning, after i told them the news that we would get to see him this afternoon.  kept asking for mr. bob and his truck that is red.

and here, where we first found ourselves alone and unknown, the heart of a father and friend beckons us in.

and they play frisbee in his big ol' backyard, rake leaves and jump in piles and the smiles grow wide and they know they are loved.

here, where He keeps reminding me that we are not forgotten.  that He had set a plan in motion before it all fell apart and as the seasons change once again and the leaves flutter down around us, i hear Him deep in my soul,

[He] sets the lonely in families,

He leads forth the prisoners with singing...

psalm 68:6a

and i give thanks on this twelfth day of this month that finds me here...and for hearts that make room for each other.

the month of here {day11}...friday mornings

i learned it from her.

the gramma from scotland.

how opening up one's home opens up your heart...

gives warmth and keeps the heartbeat within these walls going.

i don't know when it happened...or how.

okay.  i *do* remember how.  i kept pestering asking them until it just became the norm.

for the almost 3 years before we left, friday mornings meant coffee and until the one moved far, far away, the 3 of us and our brood would gather in my little old kitchen and i'm pretty sure that's when my baking began to take off.

friday mornings, to me, mean friendship.

friendship that grew over time and over 2 cups of steaming coffee and that one lone pot of tea.


i thought, when my life changed, that friday mornings would too.

and for a while, it did.

until i find myself in the kitchen here with my oven heating up and my kitchen aid whirring and the coffee brewing for the two cups waiting and that lone teacup sitting for the water that is boiling...


the faces that sit around my table have changed.  the conversations are different, but the laughter?  the noise of children learning to play, learning to share, learning to be?

neither one cancels out the incredible way He has brought together dear friends there or here, but it is a gift that i don't take lightly that He continues to fill those chairs, that table, my heart when i could have said so easily to Him, nope. i'm done.  i'm done opening myself up to the possibility of pain.

and here, He has given me a reason to bake again. to fill up that pink plate again ~ the one that the dearest of friends found just for me.

and i give thanks on this eleventh day of this month that finds me here...and each friday morning that finds my house...and my heart... full.