I awake in a bit of a fog, only slightly aware of the telephone ringing. We got in late last night. Long past our bedtime. I can hear my father in the kitchen, his muffled conversation floating upstairs to my room. It's just before 8. We've slept in. I'll have to rush to get ready for school this morning. My father slowly climbs the stairs and I turn to see him enter my bedroom. He is tired and carries a strange expression on his face. He reaches my bedside and takes a seat. He isn't looking at me, but out my bedroom window to the hillside and winding road. When he faces me again tears have formed in his eyes. He covers my hand with his and tells me my mother is gone. His words get lost in a sudden release of grief. I turn my head into my pillow, tears flowing. I'm not completely certain of what he's said, I'm hoping I've misunderstood, but know...
My first birthday Normally I see this day coming and anticipate it. Today it caught me by surprise. I love this picture of her, although I can't remember her this way. When I remember her last she looked so very different. I have a picture that was taken a few months before she passed away, but I like this one better. Funny, this picture was taken roughly 10 years before she died. I think I need to come back and post this later, it's still early in the day and I need to make it through before I land in a heap thinking about her..... I'm so thankful for my Mom. For the memories I have of her. I think my favourite memory is from when I was 7, 8 or 9, I'm not really sure. Jamie and I had returned to New Glasgow for a weekend to visit friends we had left behind when we moved. I don't know that I was ever away from her. I do remember vividly Saturday night, I was so lonesome for her. There was a snow storm raging outside and I was sure I would never get back home. Thing...
I have a complicated laziness that kind of twists its way into every part of who I am keeping me stuck; creating a deliberate foolishness. Beyond my penchant for the foolish is the greatness of Him. The One Who gently calls me. When I expect a hammer to the head, he taps my shoulder and takes my hand. His eyes dance with wonder and expectation. Mine are sideways glancing, ready to pounce at any imperfection. He is grace while I hoard my lists of misdemeanours and missed marks. I judge with my eyes to the outside; he looks at the heart. While I am stingy and wretched in the giving of my tepid and impatient love, His is never-ending and free. His love is for everyone. For the lopsided, the lost, the wayward, the tossed aside, the loveless, the weeper, the cutter, the piercer. The foolish. He is more beautiful than we can imagine. His hands are gentle but firm. He chooses to carry the whole weight of who we are. No one is too much for him. He speak...
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