Tag Archives: love

tonight: twenty. love matters.

we’ll wish along the Milky Way that time will never fly…
Brand New Day, Orba Squara (listen here)

last night his knees pressed against the bathroom cabinets,
and I stood behind him and cut his hair
that wavy mop that first caught my eye in the prelude to our story fell to the floor
and I’d resisted this role, not wanting responsibility of destroying
the wild mess atop, but it needed doing
love in the shape of hands holding scissors,
our story yesterday

Saturday he raced his bike down South, but he drove home
so that Sunday he could wake up early and go with me
Sunday when I ran my own race, and he brought a bike and a map
he cheered me along the course
and he did this gladly, yielding sleep to cheer-leading, and he chose freely
love in the shape of feet peddling to chase a girl chasing a finish line,
our story Sunday

here I see we keep choosing each other
just two days that could have been any two days of us
we keep waking up to get-to-dos in this story, ours
and I keep finding myself wide-eyed in the midst of this truth
here we are, twenty months in with days and weeks of stories

learning love.
learning trust.
becoming, little by little, more us.

Maybe someday I’ll get back to regular blogging.

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today: valentine

He races his bicycle on the weekend, and he rides fast. He doesn’t always win, but sometimes he does well. And his pleasure in it is evident. He tells stories of racing weekends, face expressive and bright, relishing the fact that he gets to do this and that he does it well enough to be competitive. He knows that not everyone who has the desire to excel in a sport has the opportunity or ability to do what he does. He is passionate, and he is thankful. Collin was made, among other things, to ride a bike. It’s a window for him through which he sees how to live fully. I love this about him.

Getting to be with someone who has a grasp on what it is to live out of who he is moves me. Collin provokes me to want to live life alive in the way that he knows how to be alive. We aren’t perfect in our relationship by any stretch. In recent months, we’ve needed to learn how to disagree, fight and let go, and at times, we’ve both been exasperated and frustrated. I’ve needed to stare my selfishness in the face. It’s not always pretty. In the midst of growing a relationship, we find ourselves aware of our fragility and vulnerability, especially on the days that have been hard. And yet, that hunger to live so alive and so full, it drives us, both of us. These past months for me have been a process of learning to love and be loved right in the midst of life happening, good and bad, ugly and beautiful, allowing hope to trump fear.

Last night, we prepared dinner together and worked on our various tasks, chatting. He walked the dog to the mailbox. I made him a smoothie. The eve of Valentine’s Day was quiet and restorative. We are busy, separate and together. We wanted some quiet and normal before this week gives way to company and races and photo shoots and too lengthly to-do lists. We prayed before he went home, thankful for a great day and asking for good sleep and an awareness of God’s presence. I know that not everyone who wants someone to do life with has someone, and sometimes relationships break, fail, abuse, hurt or die. I looked at Collin last night, and I found my heart passionate and thankful that he is here and that he is mine. Collin is one reminder of God’s kindness in my life. He gives of his heart with confidence and grace, and he speaks words that welcome me into his story. He cultivates beauty in my life. He expects goodness.

I love that we are friends.
I love that we are taking our time.
I love that this is the page my life is on.
I love that he is my Valentine.

I was made, among other things, for this, here and now.

Thanks for indulging my need to record a little Valentine’s Day verbiage.

tonight: mud

“I love a God who makes mud on the Sabbath.”
-Trent Sheppard

I’ll wear this mud on my face from here to eternity
if it means sight for these blind eyes
because in wearing this mud, a reminder of this
God reaching down, reaching in, holding on
God making mud, setting free
hands letting go
feet running home
depth coaxing soul
life taking hold
this is the process of broken pieces
made whole
God reaching down, reaching in, holding on
God making mud, setting free

I do believe; help my unbelief.

today: month fifteen

It was fifteen months ago that Collin turned to me and said he didn’t want to leave things undefined. We didn’t have much of anything figured out. We did know we wanted to see if there was something there worth figuring out. And I suspected he meant business about pursuing me. Today I know that he did.

For this I am grateful. It’s been quite a year and a quarter. I see God’s handiwork in our story. I know that this is grace.

Yesterday Collin had flowers delivered to the house I’m staying at in Kentucky. I’ve been away for work for this past week. I love his thoughtfulness, ever looking for ways to make me feel beautiful, wanted, loved. I love that when I called to thank him I could hear the smile in his voice. I love that this is the page we are on.

Someday maybe I’ll write some thoughts on dating and love and how we’re walking things out. But that’s for another day. Today all I want to say is this: it’s a good story we are living, fifteen months in.

tonight: joy, alive

“Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.”
-Emily Dickinson

I’m a slow blogger of late. Hoping to remedy that soon.

wide-eyed with revelation, this
oh but life is joy, and here
we are alive, very
the wonder burrows deep, these
oh and roots cling deep, and here
we cling to life, desperate
oh taste and see the goodness, the goodness
oh hear and speak the fullness, the fullness
oh but life is joy, and here
we are alive, very
bright and bold, the beauty rectifies and redeems
the broken
life is joy, and here
we are alive, very

tonight: sunday morning and coffee…

“Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure-that of being Salvador Dali”
-Salvador Dali

Sunday morning and coffee and prayers
a walk with the dog canopied under cool and blue
quiet is the early
grateful is the heart
awakening, awakening, awakening
this: grace
Sunday morning and hope and wonder
a recognition of new mercies this morning
steady is the faithfulness
grateful is the heart
awakened, awakened, awakened
life: gift

This I know: God is near.

today: stroke jokes and superheros from ordinary folks

“Those issues are biblical issues: to care for the sick, to feed the hungry, to stand up for the oppressed. I contend that if the evangelical community became more biblical, everything would change.”
-Tony Campolo

(Dad, Mom and Jakey towards the end of his undefeated season.)

In case you didn’t know, my dad had a stroke a few weeks ago. We are thankful he is doing as well as he is, but he did spend a few days in the hospital. He will spend a few more, as he needs a couple of surgeries to get his health in order. He had one this week, and he’ll have another in a few weeks. The thing about his stroke is it snuck up on us. It wasn’t like he woke up with red stroke flags warning him that his brain was about to freak out over some clotted arteries (the cause). Instead he had a seizure which led to a trip to the ER then a hospital stay then a lot of doctors appointments then surgery and more surgery. He can’t drive for a few months, and that first hospital visit, well, it was not fun.

We have a lot of kids in our family and a lot of balls in the air on any given day, so it was amazing to see how our community pulled us through the initial diagnosis and surgery. I need to tell you that before the ambulance arrived to help my dad, a friend arrived at our house. He took my mom to the hospital, where more friends arrived. Virtually every waking minute he stayed, friends were there. My mom was never alone. He was never alone. The doctors and nurses noticed. We kids noticed. I’m pretty sure God noticed, because He’s answered prayer after prayer and been so faithful to bring protection and comfort to our family. My little brothers never seemed fearful about our dad. We explained things to them as best we could, and when they visited him at the hospital, they were glad to be there with him and quick to make stroke jokes. I think a lot of their security was anchored in the way my parents remained calm (if a little stressed) in the midst of everything. My parents security was anchored in God. It was good to see.

After my dad got out of the hospital, he has had to adjust to six months without a driver’s license, a medical mandate for people who’ve had seizures in the state of Texas. He’s on medication, but he won’t be behind the wheel for a while. My dad drives a lot for his job, and it’s been beautiful and amazing to see people come out of the woodwork to help my mom and dad. Life is busy, and yet when he needs to go somewhere, there’s almost always a driver. I’m sure it’s frustrating for Dad to be unable to just up and go, but I hope it’s encouraging for him to see how many people love him and are willing to help out.

A lot of the support in the midst of this has come from people from our church. Our extended family and friends and significant others have been amazing too. It’s incredible to consider the genuineness of community we’ve experienced in the past few weeks. My parents have attended our church for 20-plus years, and they try to love people well. The church teaches that the Kingdom of God is something we are meant to bring to others, and it looks like praying for the sick and sitting beside the hurting and meeting the needs of the poor. We believe that’s what Jesus did. I love that this is exactly what we’ve experienced in my parents’ hour of need. We are overwhelmed with just how blessed, how loved, how cared for we are. When people live the way they’re made to live, ordinary folks become superheros. For us, that’s looked like meals on the table and rides to appointments and ears for processing.

I say all that to say this: in the midst of this mess that is my dad’s stroke, we know we are loved. And that, my friends, is a gift, light in the darkness and hope that there’s more. Thank you.