The Rush

Oh, my Jesus.
Here it all comes.
Sports and music and home school and travelling.
Laundry and meals and house work.
Making the bed.
Getting out of the bed.
And I find my soul dying.
When I can not spend those deep times.
With You.
Alone.
With You.
Can't help feeling deeply sad.
Even as I drive the deeply privileged children.
How it makes me feel far away from you.
And why can't I be one of those women?
That thrive in the doing?
Instead, I grieve.
Even sometimes at the way You created me.
As if You didn't know what You were doing?
As if some how You made a huge mistake?
Even though I feel like one sometimes.
Help me to remember, my Jesus.
That I am Yours, and that You love me.
That You are with me.
In all this.
Rush and pressure and missing You.

The God Who never leaves,

Bernadette
 

Joy wings

Boy Blue so sore from football that he is walking around the house like a penguin.  Gingerly placing each foot on the ground.  Waddling back and forth.  Making his mama laugh out loud.  Making him laugh to see me laughing, and oh, there needs to be more of this.  More of the kids seeing my face turned up.  More of that joy that is so miraculous.  Sets hearts flying, now doesn't it?  Precious joy, I am thankful for you.

Wind beneath my wings,

Bernadette

Sleepless in Billings

Half made bed.
Face, red.
Violin and Cello.
Music, hello?
Volleyball, number five.
Soon to drive.
He fills the van with the smell of sweat.
Football beast and no regrets.
Distant heart.
Living apart.
His college days.
And Silent Deep ways.
Shoulders work the ground.
Deadlines pound.
Swimming.
Here.
And I should never write.
Late at night.

Sleepless in Billings,

Bernadette

On Treasures

"FOR WHERE YOUR TREASUER IS, THERE WILL YOUR HEART BE ALSO."  LUKE 12:34

Silent Deep in his new dorm room standing tall.  Smiling.  I study his face and wonder if this is what he has been waiting for his whole life.  That one...always in a bit of a rush to get on with it.  How many lists did I find in his bedroom over these years so very gone?  All the dreams he was dreaming then, and the written schedules to accomplish them.  Did he just open his eyes to them come true?  And how does it feel now that he's living it?

I watch him walking with his sister, and I can't help it.  This vivid picture of the two of them crowded together in that little plastic car, his arm thrown around her shoulder, crowds my mind.  Makes  me a bit melancholy.  A little sad as I think about all the legos washed out of his pants.  Remembering all the rocks, matchbox cars, marbles and the big dreaming life of that one brown eyed boy that came out in the wash.  All those objects lying at the bottom of the machine even after I had checked his pockets would leave me shaking my head.  "Where does he keep all these treasures?"  And I wonder now...

"Son.  Where are your treasures?"

Just a little whisper-prayer as we leave him now to his life.  Something I contemplate all the way home.  Not crying. (Way to go, Mom!)  But lost in all these precious thoughts toward him.  These silent, deep thoughts of my son.

A treasure,

Bernadette

Answered Prayer

So good.  To find, once again, that you are loved by Him.  To be reminded that He is thinking of you, and that He hears.  Understands.  You.

Your feet are dusty, right?  Don't we all feel it?  But, oh, He sends precious lives to walk this foreign land with us...to share the burden...to fellowship and breathe into each other.  You might be feeling right hopeless when He suddenly sends someone to hold your hand.  To hear your voice.  To read your words.  Like the arms of Moses being lifted during battle.  You don't even know how to say thank you.

And I wonder about some things.  Like, why aren't we doing this more for each other?  Why do I become consumed with all that needs to be done and so quickly lose sight of what the REAL holy "to do" is.  People.  Relationships.  Encouraging and building each other up?  And can I let go my pride enough to let that laundry go a bit?  Let the dust pile some more so I have time to pile on love?  Remember the mortar?  How can I be mortar in between bricks that build a house...a home, if I don't have time to love?  What then?  Will this love I have for Him even matter?  Am I destined to be a clanging gong?

She asks.  I say "YES!", and my spirit wants to laugh.  Knowing what this means, and why she is insecure.  Knowing.  But making that decision because this is good.  This is God.  Women in fellowship and prayer.  Ahhh. Let's beat back THAT kind of dust.

He is listening, this Jesus.  He is the answer to every prayer.

He is the answer to mine,

Bernadette

A Prayer.

Precious Jesus.
Breathe life.
Into the sagging.
The flagging.
Create again.
A new heart.
A "love" spirit.
Within.
Me.
I reach my arms up high.
Reaching for YOU.
If I can just get my hands on Your coat.
And all that love.
Acceptance.
Understanding.
To stand in the light of YOU.
So I can be more of ME.
The me You have in mind.
And wash the dust, Lord.
That clings to these hands.
Make me clean, now.
So I can look...

Like YOU,

Bernadette

PERHAPS TODAY

Forced function these days as thyroid drags down and on.  Everything in slow motion.  Life moving in a sort of fog.  Walk slow.  Talk slow.  Think slow.  Blink slow.  Little butterfly gland wraps her wings around my throat, making me feel all the preciousness of one, simple breath, and how do you live this way?  Waiting for the medicine to really take hold.  Must hold my tongue because everything is irritating.  Everybody too loud.  Too needy.   Too much.

So this is how we start our school year.  Me sitting in that chair reading to them though my vocal chords are being pressed.  Though I keep looking over at the couch and wishing I could lay down.  Sleep and sleep.  School all day before the driving begins.  Hold the wheel tight.  Hold myself awake and alert.  And what in all the world am I doing?

Pick the Kind and Compassionate up from football practice, and he trusts me so much that he begins to vent and cry.   He wonders what is the point of his life, what is all the meaning behind the sports and the scholastics?  Why is this important, and shouldn't he be doing something important with his life?  Shouldn't he be doing something for God?

I tell him he should read the book of Ecclesiastes sometime...maybe just once.  To know that he is not alone.  I want to tell him how I'm feeling it too...just the wastedness of life sometimes.  And why would Jesus die for it anyway?  Why would He die for this life falling apart, and this body so clearly fallen? 

It is a dusty land we walk, and I feel all that grit between my toes.  Somedays, I just feel dirty.  Low.  Down.

Sometimes, the best part of the day is that it's over.  My soul sighs, "Thank God!" as I lay my head down on pillowed comfort.  To rest my head and close my eyes.  To sleep.  To dream.  To hope for a better tomorrow.  To remind myself that He is coming again soon.  He.  Is.  Coming.  Again.  Soon.

Perhaps Today,

Bernadette