When The New Creation Must Speak

Sometimes...
The midday still to know that He is God.
To wonder why I despise.
The works of His hands.
That made me.
Me.

And sometimes...
The way self hatred rises from belly button to throat.
Making me feel strange and strangled.
Undeserving of love.
Of human compassion and kindness.

How sometimes...
The old man rises up out of the grave.
Trying to scare the new creation I am in Christ.
Waving his old hands around and making a wracket.
What a racket!

That sometimes...
I still fall for it, and that old man.
Well.  He makes me fall right down.
And I must say aloud there at the kitchen sink.
Hands deep in scrubbing filth.
That I am alive in Christ.
And that no grave will ever hold me.

Just that sometimes...
Being brave means doing life afraid a lot.
How being terrified.
Wholly terrified.
Can draw you close to Jesus so you can become holy.
Like Jesus.
The One Who hung fear on the cross.

That we might walk out in all that freedom.

Bernadette

Choosing Mary

 I can hardly believe it, but I am just now sitting home alone in the deep quiet after a whirlwind weekend of graduating my daughter from high school and hosting an open house to celebrate her.  Working on the senior slide show from the dark side made me grey in a day, and I sweat gallons, I'm sure, staying up all night for nights on end trying to do something quite beyond my skill set.  Seemingly, beyond lots of people, and oh.  The agony.

I sit still and try to recover some of me that was torn away.  To process.  To celebrate and to grieve, again, that I am growing old and my children are moving on.  To thank Jesus for being my close friend, and to hold my cupped hands heavenward to give my life back again.  To say to Him..."Ah...I clutched it again, Lord.  I spent the whole week striving and stressing instead of walking and resting.  And.  I'm sorry, Lord."

Now to sit with Him and regain the knowledge of His presence all along.  That He is in every detail...even the wretched slide show, and in the frog-eyed salad.  That He is in my daughter's eyes, and in her smile at receiving such a gift from her grandfather.  In my oldest son's ever-resting arm on my shoulder that helps me to remember to slow and to know...that this life is blessed.  That Christ dwells richly here, and that we are blessed.  All blessed.  In all the laughter and all the playing of all those children!  In the capable hands of my helping friend who becomes more like family to this heart here.  Just her smile that helps me to know that all is well.  No fear.

And the reminder that came to keep the eternal first.  So that each morning as the pressure to be Martha crushed me beyond bearing, I sat alone at the feet of Jesus and opened His Words to me.  I.  Sat.  Listening.  And smiled anyway when time ran out and there they all were at the door...

And when the boys' bathroom was yet unscrubbed and just gross...

Jesus and me sitting in all that calm before the storm.

Bernadette

The Whole in the Middle

Sitting again in the old chair to rock the end of a day.
Cradling all her moments in my heart.
The tire swing's slow pendulum shadow-sweeping the grass.
On a rope that creaks.
While the tree holds steady.
And Sarah's hair hangs golden down.
The kids throwing frisbee in the yard.
Their faces turned sun-lit to the sky.
Laughing and teasing.
My Shoulder's voice on the phone.
Making me want to kiss his mouth.
A Soldier Son's birthday.
Someone who gets me.
Kids playing in the pool and splashing joy on their faces.
Friends with gifts I don't have.
For Bible time with Andrew and Mary.
Conversations about Jesus and grace and sacrifice and love.
Purposing in my own heart to be more dilligent.
Car Talk with a girl in love.
For my big brother popping in every so often just to say hi...right here!
Flowers from S. and K...."WOW!"
And for my HT1.
Finally...a clean basement and a very, very sweaty mama.
Just that I didn't actually blow a gasket this time.  Hats off to you, Lord.
That I'm so sorry for not being grateful.
For the air I breathe.
And for the lungs You made just so I can breathe it.
That You are good, God.
That your love for  me still makes me cry.
Because You have forgiven so much.
I want to kiss the holes my life made in Your hands.
And live every moment for You.
With You.

The Center of me,

Bernadette

When Your Son Becomes More

When her boy becomes a man, a mama becomes less.  And as she watches him walk out all straight backed and strong, she smiles bravely.  Waves and laughs.  And pulls little kleenex bits out of her pocket.  She shields her eyes from the SON shining on his future as he climbs high and hard.  Mama watches a bit breathless as his feet find a crag here, a nook there, his hands stretched sure and strong on the bare face of life's cliff hangars.  A mama's face is turned toward her son, and her prayers reach for him.  For his heart.  For his future.  For his walk with Jesus.

Happy Birthday to my amazing son.  I love you, Joshua.

 Thank you that you laugh with me.
That your heart is so tender with mine.
That you love Jesus with yours.
For the strength of your character.
For all the grace that you pour out on your dad and me.
For the way the tone of your voice changes when you talk to Mary.
That you love Sarah so.
That you are engaging your brothers more.
That you always say, "Thanks for dinner, Mama."
For who you are.
For Who you stand for.
That you are brave...even if sometime you think you're not.
For being kind to everyone.
For playing your guitar when I'm stressed.
For serving your country.
For lots and lots of forgiveness.
For giving yourself to this family.
For being mine.
For not being mine.

For being God's man.

The best kind of man.

Happy Birthday, Son...

Love,

Mama

Thanks For One

Happy Mother's Day to the friend who has mothered my heart these last weeks in her prayers and in her emails, and aren't we the surprised ones?  She writes words that untangle the knots in my heart...you know...all the "nots" and it is good to find out you're not alone anymore.  She doesn't have children, but she has rocked me gently in arms far away, and she has whispered great words of comfort even as my own words seem to be slipping away.  She has encouraged me and built me up.  She has given me gentle advice, and she has nudged me forward.  New ground yet, and my thoughts are of her this early morning...as the week brings the crushing rush once again in preparation for my daughter's graduation.

You have loved me well, dear one.  I am so thankful for the precious gift of you.

So thankful,

Bernadette

How Mamas Can Point The Way

My Mama pointed the Jesus way.

In the way she lit candles and invited everyone to converse around the warmth of her heart.
The way Jesus calls us all into the Light.

In the way she sang on her knees at night over my precious little brother.
The way Jesus sings over His kids.

The way she listened to every word after school.
And isn't Jesus just the best listener you've ever known?

How her hands kneaded the bread dough, and how my hands still need hers to hold.
How often Jesus spoke of Bread.  Broken Bread.

The way she would tackle and tickle, giving us the touch we didn't know we needed.
Jesus wrestled Jacob, giving him a humbling limp that healed him of pride, and how He still gives us the Touch we don't know we need.

Just that Mama loved all children, and the way that made me feel safe.
Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me." 

Mama showed me Jesus' love because she loved me even when I was her enemy.  When I was casting stones and whipping her hard with my teenage tongue and...

When I was breaking her heart.

She loved me anyhow.
Like Jesus... My Mama loved me anyhow.

She showed me Laughter and Grace and Love and Safety while living with the most excruciating chronic pain, and she was always a Mystery to me that way.
Now I know that Love endures nails and thorns, and before I knew Jesus, I watched my Mama pick up her cross.  Every.  Single.  Day.

She created enough Mystery about the Love of Christ in her living that I grew past rebelling and started reaching.  Reaching for the One Sure Hand that holds all things together, and I wonder if she hadn't been mine, would I have just kept plunging head long?  If she hadn't been mine, what would have become of me when the storms blew in?  And this....especially this...if my Mama hadn't prayed for this one life here, would I yet be drawing breath?  Wasn't it just that close some days?

Sometimes I close my eyes and see her sitting sun-lit at water's edge, swatting plagues of horseflies and mosquitoes while I let cool river slide around summer swim.  I catch her eyes in my dreams, and they look so much like His.

Always watching over me.

Bernadette

When Girls Grow Up

When Little Girls Grow Up.
It makes your chest hurt a bit because you can't stop remembering.

The girl climbing trees in purple flower dress and white patent leather.
The girl digging a hole to China in the back yard while sucking a Tootsie Pop.
The girl who bossed her older brother, and wrapped her daddy's heart like the gift it is.
The girl that fell for Jesus when she was only six.
The girl who came to the world slippery.

Delivered straight into my hands and my heart.
Oh, girl.

The girl who prayed little sister into life.
The girl who spooned her body close to her at night and told her about this Jesus.
The girl who heard little one's prayer under blankets of love, and a big sister's life.
The girl who seems to see everything.
The girl who often holds her own Mama in arms of comfort.

Saying, "I love you.  He loves you.  All is well, my little Mama."
Oh, girl.

The girl who sang her lungs out in her room.
The girl who cried and punched holes in her pillow.
The girl who still sleeps with beloved baby blanket.
The girl who reaches for the lost.
The girl nearly lost, and how all this growing up makes me think so often.

That she might not be here at all...
Oh, girl.

The girl who knows it too.
The girl who seizes every opportunity to suck the life out of life.
The girl living hers for the King.
The girl catching every drop of living all up in her sails.
The girl unfurling and here is the wind.

And how is a Mama not to cry?
Oh, wind.

Always blow her heart on home,

Bernadette