my eyes on a sea of faces
wearing my same eyes
crinkling and laughing as
we cock our heads exactly the same way
and we stretch out limbs
of exactly the same shape
nuanced in difference
uncanny we are in a room
where we find place
my baby brother appears to be
my grandfather shed of some seventy years
the richness of that context
eludes on days when
politics or religion trump
hope and faith and belief
uncanny we are in a room
when our same eyes meet
over a meal or just a smile
as we realize the place
family, context provided by one Divine
with our misses and our messes
we are our story
best told in pages bound tightly
“What oxygen is to the lungs, such is hope to the meaning of life.”
Tell me that you’ll open your eyes.
I made these pictures with my i-phone.
Today, a day to remember the thing deep inside that sets me always looking out, always lacing up shoes, always pricing tickets, always ready to go… Wanderlust or whatever this driving force is provokes hunger and faith and dreams. And they’re meant to be sought out, chased down and captured so that the next chapter looks wholly different from the current one. And it’s a good thing. Maybe a great thing. Wide-eyed I remembered some things about hope today and how it shapes a soul given over to it.
To live hopefully might just be the most beautiful thing I know. To live hopefully means to seek out One who is close and yet cannot be fully known. He’s just that big. That mysterious. That good. And I don’t know whether to run and hide like the children of Israel or to give myself over to His presence like their leader so fearfullyandfearlessly did. I think I am the former wanting to be the latter. Most of us stumble around that part, I guess. But one of these days I want to find my feet.
Hope does not disappoint, so says the epistle writer. Instead, a life given over to hope might just be a life that changes. Herself. And the world. Today I dared hope. Tonight I hope. (Will flesh this out with some words in the days to come.)
Tomorrow: Nashville. The Country Music (how I ended up going willingly I can only attribute to one very persuasive sister) Half Marathon.
Tater. Debo. Megs. Me.
GPS programmed. Race-day clothing selected (a half marathon in a skirt? of course.). Snacks donated thanks to Kendall. CRV gassed. Reservations made. Race forms printed.
We’ll road trip. We’ll run. I’ll take photos of a new little guy after the race. Meghan will stay to get to know him. What we gain in stories from weekends like this one fuels sight for the stories in the mundane and the much larger picture in tandem.
Life is good. Very good. We run for a variety of reasons. But I keep lacing up my old kicks (four pairs, in rotation) to discover and rediscover this.
a pair of mirrors that are facing one another…
then we shoved our hands into pockets
and stared at our respective shoes
with fragmented thoughts now abandoned
ever (again?) wanting something new
and drowsy silence coincided
this, I guess, is not what alive is
“Nothing is yet in its true form.
Some days, there is just this:
I am but a child, learning how to see.
In the midst of that statement, the world unfolds.
We wander towards gratefulness,
what a site to behold.
This is about that.
…love came down and rescued me.
love came down and set me free…
“I felt it shelter to speak with you.”
oh. she recalled.
is a love story.
and. she recalled.
it is better lived
as a means of
so. she recalled.
is all I want.
and the love story
is a trust story
and the trust
is fused with hope.
the day comes to a close with only this:
questions of what it was you have seen
mirage, of course, always.
the night wraps it’s sleepy arms around mind’s refusal to sleep:
would you dare hope? is that belief
that you caught glimpses of something bigger
in what was seen?
maybe you can fly.
maybe you are free.
or maybe it’s the mind
wait and see.
watch and see.
(and maybe throw some hope my way
you will call it fidelity of belief).