For clean, blue sky; for grass that grows.
In my lungs; beneath my toes.
Of flower and nature, of weather and light,
I will be thinkful. And thankful.

For ice cream cones; for fast food stops.
Food in my pantry; in the school lunch box.
Of turkey and potatoes, of hot coffee, iced tea,
I shall be thinkful. And thankful.

For laughter and silence, for all in between;
For laundry that’s folded, a house that is clean;
For fingerprints and milk spills, for lost homework and grass stains,
I am thinkful. And thankful.

For memory lane and for yesteryear,
For hope in a future that’s not yet here.
Of opportunities given, of priveleges shared,
I shall be thinkful. And be thankful.

Love cannot a hero make,
Death cannot a sorrow take;
Deep within the fighting soul,
The thorny, thistled seed of more.

Words cannot a war be won,
Pleasures not a past outrun;
Faith along the slippery slope,
Grasping for redeeming hope.

Tomorrow cannot today rewrite,
Darkness not always swallow light;
Time and truth shall rise from sleep,
Soul and flesh will find relief.

Ever since I was little, I have distinguished a difference between the hitchhiker that stands on the side of the highway with his thumb out and the one that walks and walks and walks and occasionally raises his thumb to the wind as a car approaches.  There is a world of difference, you know.

I have a chronic condition called Wounded Bird Syndrome.   It is a black hole of compassion for the underdog and downtrodden of society.  As a kid, I always picked the ugliest runt kitten from the litter because I feared no one else would.  I don’t know where I first contracted it, but it still flares up every so often, and I feel compelled to pour out my heart and resources to rectify some universal wrong that has befallen someone. Read the rest of this entry »

I work in a salon and day spa now.  As we enter the holiday season, we are working like elves wrapping gift cards and stocking for the great influx of Memphis housewives that will be primped and polished into the Stepford standard.  I stumbled across an odd juxtaposition though.  In talking to the head of the massage department, I discovered that they are moderately slow during the Thanksgiving and Christmas season, and it is in January and February that their books began to fill.  Is it possible that as we light and trim our houses and trees, that we also highlight and trim ourselves in preparation for the house guests and the corporate parties and the many pictures taken?  And that only in the haggard aftermath of holiday schmoozing do we pause to note the tension in our shoulders and that dull ache in the lower back?   Read the rest of this entry »

When I was a newly wed, the wife badge was pulled out often, rolling off the tongue like chocolate poetry.  In that season of life, everything pertaining to the new marriage, new last name, new house, and new dishes feels magical and enchanted.  It is the first scrawl of bright ink on a fresh clean page that will become the title page to the rest of this new story.

Over time those pages become rustled and worn with use and eventually new chapters unfold about new life and that new adjustable, convertible, pressure-washable highchair.  And then the new playdate playmates.  And then the new school uniforms and new teeth that are coming in.  Before long all of the old dishes and wine glasses have been cracked or broken and replaced with Corelle and Disney sippy cups.   And the chocolate poetry has turned into a steady and balanced diet of prose.

Back when I flashed the newlywed badge, the typical response was a shrill enthusiasm: “Ooo!!.  Tell us all about it!  How did you meet?  How did he propose?  Where did you honeymoon?”

About five years in, it becomes a knowing, insider-secret trading card:  ”Aaah.  So do you have any children?  What midwife did you go with?  Have you checked out the clearance sale at GapKids?”

After a couple more years, it almost sinks into a monotonous conversation on the side of the soccer field where you’re not even looking at each other: “Mmm-hmmm.  So how is his 401K supported in this economy?  Are you signed up for that new seminar?  Who is your piano teacher this season?”

And there’s a new trend emerging ever since we crossed the ten year mark: “Oh.  Well, um, so do you get out much?  Hmm…I don’t know how you do it.  Yeah, I wish things were different, but…you know.” It’s as though there are landmark moments along the first ten years that have books and banquets dedicated to coaching and celebrating you through and then everything goes silent.   Perhaps it is that Dan and I are such young veterans, so we find ourselves among twenty-somethings who stammer and stutter through their disconnect.  But I nevertheless believe that those stutters may be whispering secrets of what our generations really believes about marriage.    Or what they doubt about marriage.

In the last couple months, Dan and I started affectionately calling each other ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ again.   Somewhat in silliness.  And somewhat in a combative stance toward the masses that consistently dismiss our happiness in marriage as myth-like at this late stage.   As an urban legend that they’ve heard might be possible, but it hasn’t ever really been proven.  I wanted people to know that I am not in this marriage because of a mortgage and a soccer schedule.  I choose to be here on a daily basis, as does he.

I recently had a conversation with a friend about this guy who keeps hitting on me.  She was warning me about what a player he is and how superficial he is and how this is a pattern he plays out over and over, so don’t fall for it.  As though stacking pros against her cons, I went on to tell her how thoughtful Dan is.  How helpful and intuitive and gracious and unconditional.  And I proved with my long list of pros why Flirty McPickup-Line didn’t stand a chance.

And although I put the matter to rest with her, that conversation stuck with me.  It followed me around at work and talked over the music in my car.  It kept poking and prodding my mind, promising not to relent until it could have the last word.

“What?  What do you want to say?!” I relented.

“Tell me again,” it said, “List again all the reasons why Dan wins.” And I went through them.  Keeps the car full of gas.  Carries the groceries in and the trash out.  Accommodating and respectable and tender.  Check, check and check.

“See?  It’s a long list that’s pretty hard to argue with.” I said snidely.

“And what if it wasn’t.  So that it was.” It said, crossing it’s arms and sitting back confidently.

“Hmmm…. what do you mean?”

“What if he wasn’t all of those things.  What if he was an everyday, run-of-the-mill douche?  Would that change things?” It sat there staring at me.  Blinking.

It makes a very good point that perhaps I had lost sight of.   As much as I don’t stay because of a mortgage or soccer schedule, I also don’t stay because he changes the loads and the oil.  I don’t gauge huge choices on the loose variables that are our behaviors and our emotions.  I stay because of words spoken twelve years ago.  It is not because of Dan’s greatness that I live up to that moment day in and day out, but because of God’s greatness.  Because of a healthy fear for Someone who I stood before at that altar and before whom I will again stand one day.  And he will ask questions.  And I will stack pros against cons in stupid lists.  And he will have the last word.

And it makes me wonder if the impact that I leave with people doesn’t have so much to do with the titles or timelines we build around life as much as the words written on the pages.  Perhaps the best impression I can offer to a stuttering generation is an authentic love and an unconditional devotion that endures time and trials and flirty boys.   Isn’t that the chocolate we all crave anyhow?  And it sounds like a badge worth wearing.

I saw a gal the other day who was fronting a booth at a local convention – you know, one of those ones that features Tupperware next to homemade jewelry next to Christmas ornaments. A mini-mall carousel of merchants and artisans, except that this one had a self-beautification wing. There were dentists whitening teeth in reclining chairs and chiropractors crunching vertebrates into good posture next door. And smack in the middle is where I met this gal, clipboard in hand, ready to sign me up for botox, laser peels or even insty-injectable cheekbones. Read the rest of this entry »