on the edge of memories

My mind is now imprinted with the most memorable of days with Nana - the growing up. The old house on McInnis Drive, yellow-tiled floor, sink overlooking the sloping backyard and bird feeder, toast piled high at breakfast, the mini-glasses filled with orange juice. The sheets hanging on the clothesline, twin beds with Garfield and Smurf sheets, Nana allowing us to sleep way too late to then quietly make her way down the hall to wake us up, the Big Wheels in the driveway, yard work - dreaded yard work - and rolling down the huge hill.

I know that I cannot go back, I know. Some of these memories I've not thought about for years, years. They're so vivid now; I'm standing there right on the edge of them, in the doorway of the kitchen, behind the hedges, watching my 12-year old self rake leaves. I am there again.

And at 3am I am there, too. I wake up to these former things that are coming back to life in my memory.

___________________________

Grandmother. I imagine people taking me a little less seriously when I tell them my "grandmother" has passed on, that maybe this doesn't affect us as deeply as the death of a parent or spouse. And so I am more eager now, than ever, to call her Nana, to make her more human, more personal to everyone.

He was right - she's the most selfless and humble person we knew. She gave us every ounce of her; yes, everything, at any time. And this was her Round 2. Perhaps what she'd screwed up the first time would be come her teacher, presenting her the opportunity give again, teach anew, mother again. So, she did.

And she changed the course of our lives.

Who would we be without her? Where would our paths have led us if she'd not walked them with us?

Our thankfulness runs deep.

{Written October 12, 2011}

the desk, the garden, the writing pen

She crawls out of bed, shuffling to her bathrobe which she grabs by sheer memory, with eyes barely open. The shower warms her awake, and she hopes for the darkened coffee, pressed and hot, to help her make it out the door.

It does.

She swipes the nametag - access granted - then makes her way to the half-moon cubicle. Waiting ensues; the computer is slow. Emails, finally, projects, the iPad, restrictions lifted - access granted - and sooner than later, the paid workday is done.

Not many blocks 'til home, driveway empty, skies gray. She is ready to prepare, to step, to begin.

Friends, driving, Diet Rockstar. They pass the field of horses, stables just ahead. Their work is cut out for them - find the wheelbarrow, carry the shovels. Dig up the things discarded; bring them home to give life. To nourish. To be needed.

She spreads the earth, evenly, purposefully. Can it already be the time to work, to sow, to wait? Is it really time for death to be over and for life to begin?

The rain is starting; she is finished, in perfect time.

Now, she spins her pen between her fingers, passing to and from, piecing thoughts together. And she writes. Too, she sings (and sings). All day, it's been in her, to write. She picks up her pen; she writes.

new way made, old day laid to rest and be remembered

things we prayed, heard, now seen; and we are thankful

the revisiting

there are a million memories I'd love to relive

of times when our knowing was new

bookstores and drumbeats and candlelight glow

so many good things we'd behold

but too many things that couldn't be ours

led down two different broken roads

still this Grace brought us back here

to embers that sing of the Love we've always known

and 10 years is too long to speak of

there's so much we won't understand

I don't really want to go back there

but I do want to know you as friend

I do want to call you my friend

tired sabbatical

To go or to stay, I'm asking to hear

to keep or release, these things familiar.

Living in the land of anxiety, questions,

I cannot understand; answers

I care not to find.

I am tired.

Security, I have; what has always been.

But will this be a reason to hold on?

I'm unable to hear, not willing to be still

You might answer... and I am afraid.

I am tired.

And what might they say if I

choose another way? "Look what she's

given up - stupid," could they say?

Truth, I know. No matter their words.

But real are the voices all the same.

Of these thoughts, I am tired.

Rush, rush. Tomorrow, back to the

rushing around we now know.

Will I stand sure or will I collapse,

pronouncing us...

tired.

{Written September 25, 2011 in Nashville}

Sorrow with joy: year in review

"Abbye, walk carefully in the night."

Profound? Actually, just a word of caution from an old friend upon our departure from Starbucks tonight. But it seemed profound, so I had to include it!

This post is about what we've gone through, lived with, carried together.

When we turn the pages of magazines, change the channel on the television and click NEXT on our browser to read the next blog entry, we will see a lot of looking back on that year we knew as 2011.

Musicians and actresses will be heralded as the 'best of'; red carpet walkers will hear, "What were they thinking?!"; and Biggest Loser contestants may resolve to make this the year to finally gain control of a life that's spun out of control for far too long, chronicling for us viewers the straws that broke the camel's back in the final months of this last year.

But if most of are honest, this year, and all the ones before and ahead, are sorrow together with joy. Sorrow because things are not right; joy because this is life lived incarnate, being word in flesh, because Jesus is the Word made flesh.

Sorrows are real. Friends sit in darkened living rooms from unpaid utility bills and unexamined hearts. Children suffer under the evil of abusive caregivers, powerless to escape, believing this is what family is doomed to be. Truth without grace crushes; grace without truth cheats one from real depth.

Yet, the joy is real, too! A neighbor and community volunteer, whose heart beats for the children who play on our streets, has found gladness in paid work. Employment, praise God! Music is created and shared and loved in our living rooms and front porches. Meals are cooked and laughter is heard in the kitchen.

Once more, another year later, we remember that joy and sorrow can dwell together; after all, the rest of us do...

Remembrances: the footstools

Stacked in the corner,

remembrances of you.

Green, orange, black,

of childhood tumblings

and vague happiness;

its exactness, I cannot recall.

A wide open pond; the biggest I'd known,

yet small enough for our two pairs of eyes

fishing poles

turtles

later, fried shrimp

the taste, remembered on my tongue.

Stacked in the corner,

remembrances of you;

worn places, from years of movement.

Lean back, prop your feet,

feel the brandy go down.

Though I did not see; yet, I know.

So little did you allow,

yet these feet-proppers became

chairs for the wee ones

until one day, I'm sure,

we became outgrown and

recognized your raised voice, come down hard.

Stacked in the corner

of our home now -

what most do they remind me of?

Family and fireplaces and

dogs running 'round

and the corner of old,

where eventually they retired.

Another chance, I will give them

to be used and loved

as before they became old news.

Stacked in the corner,

remembrances of you,

and a chance to begin again.

{Written October 22, 2011}

a Family to fall into

"If we didn't have Family to fall into, we would have just fallen into... nothing."

What's happening, amidst student Christmas parties and dinner invitations and homemade pumpkin muffins, is that Family is being made. We knew in our heads that we were Family when we began a journey of living together, but now we know because we're actually living it.

Meals are cooked, promises are broken, desperate phone calls made, jobs lost (jobs gained!), cries heard, prayers desperately prayed. We bend, we stretch. We come, we go. In weakness, we are made strong.

Sitting in the car on a too-cold evening, we agreed: where would we fall if not into the arms of Family? If we, the Body of Christ, aren't near enough to stretch our arms and catch each other, then we're not near enough.

photo credit: breezy torres

breezylucia@gmail.com