We've moved...

we have cleaned up a bit and put on a new address that is a little more us...

and, if you've missed me as much as I've missed you, come join me....

www.theunseenparent.com

blessings seem to come in Michael's around here...

Michael Thompson, thankful for your creativity and heart. you are a mighty fine artist if i say so myself....

Square Peg, Round Hole

"Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained." C.S. Lewis

'I lead them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love' Hosea 11:4

Late summer morning breaks. I turn thirty-three.
Ten years this man has known me.
Years no longer defined by the me, but by the 'us.'
Heart is found where thoughts wander.

He returns. Ring forgotten. He didn't make it far.
Father's gift to me placed in a moment with the other.
I unwrap presence as he clasps band of gold.
This man wears sacrifice well.

Trees like paint brushes drip their beauty as fall covers the earth.
Fire crackles as nine years circle around.
I am just now learning to fight the good fight.
Marriage is about the wrestling, not the boxing.

Ring around the rosy; pocket full of posies. 
Ashes, ashes; we all fall down.
Form the ashes, we rise...

Our first dance barely over, I selfishly demanded fullness of heart on a platter.
I broke the sacred circle by dragging him into my ring of boxing.
This man was to be mine, instead of the 'us' being His.
I labelled, diagnosed, compartmentalized it all.
Each box dealt a decisive blow; my sharp edges dug deep.
Perceptions murdered intimacy.
Expectations created suffocating limits.
Discontentment bred isolation.
I retreated to the stoney-shadow of my corners.
Fighting to answer the 'me,' walls you in deep.
Life will not be tied up in neat little boxes.
For within the steady march of the Sacred, the walls come tumbling down.
He came to set-free.

Ring around the rosy; pocket full of posies. 
Ashes, ashes; we all fall down. 
From the ashes, we rise...

From behind, he grabs in playful wrestle.

Caught off my guard, I still like to play my way.
I relent. I turn. I see past the 'me.'
There is no fighting fair, only acceptance of Love poured out.
A beard of white and chestnut scratches deep.
Time has marched in, in spite of my demands.
This man wears our wrestling well.
Crumbling came with war-cries of joy. 
We enter the Dance.
Light shines fully.

Ring around the rosy; pocket full of posies. 
Ashes, ashes; we all fall down.
From the ashes, we rise...

When you fight the good fight, even battle becomes play.

After all, it is not about the 'me,' the 'us,' but about the I AM.

Wrestling to dancing; wrestling to dancing; wrestling to dancing...the rhythm of scared covenant.

'Pure gold put in the fire comes out of it proved pure...' 1 Peter 1:6 The Message

To my unseen parent and spouse: Thank you for the good gift of fighting. Thank you for wrestling with and for us. By your grace, teach us to fight well, forsaking the boxing, that Truth may flower through the upturned soil of humility. In your mercy, may we bravely face our struggles in the sanctity and sanctuary of the Dance. May our battles become your play. Thank you for Promise.

To my 'I-do' man: My greatest glories have been silently at your side, and at times it hurts when I am not used by Him to make your dreams come true. Forgive me for wanting to be part of all your dreams.  May our cherished memories together be of the Dance. Where would the fun be if you married the right person.

"In a word, live together in the forgiveness of your sins, for without it no human fellowship, least of all a marriage, can survive. Don’t insist on your rights, don’t blame each other, don’t judge or condemn each other, don’t find fault with each other, but accept each other as you are, and forgive each other every day from the bottom of your hearts…”  Deitrich Bonhoeffeur

I am a bit clingy...

"From the heights we leap and go
To the valleys down below
Always answering to the call
To the lowest place of all
From the heights we leap and go
To the valleys down below
Sweetest urge and sweetest will
To go lower, lower still." Hannah Hurnard's Hinds' Feet On High Places

 Early morning, I slip out of bed. Coffee brews; cinnamon rolls warm. Smells tingle and touch as Word stirs my quiet places.
Son speaks as sun rises, and the call has come for Life in motion.
Red-curls soundly sleeps in the solace of father.

I stop. I turn.

My cheek touches his. I breathe him in, the beginning of Holy Kiss.
Are we ever more precious to God than when we are resting in Him.
I breathe in to treasure, trying to hold on.
Yet, hold on to tightly, eternity suffocates.

If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, its yours forever.
Exhale haunts. I must breathe Red-curls out.

Motherhood feels like tight-rope walking. I delicately attempt to balance between the confidence of devotion and the humility of letting go. Holding breath, I walk a straight line grasping the bar of control and standards. My mission, to demonstrate God's secure foundation of Love while remembering that these littles are ultimately His, not mine. It seems impossible.

The eminence of breathing out is never more apparent than in the breathing in; One carves truest beauty out of the other.

Bird fidgets as the Body worships.
Discovering a perch, she nestles beneath my wing.
Prayer of adoration rings in cacophony to Voice...
'Let them praise his name with dancing, making melody to him with tambourine.'
This Meriam of mine, who cares for two brothers, I breathe her in. How Bird loves to hear her story. Generations of sisters to lead across the sea praising with tambourines.
Life cut short if she was to be only mine.
Word reminds, 'with man it is impossible, but not with God.'

Breathe in; Breathe out...the Life rhythm of faith...

There is no tight-rope, just the vertical line of grace.
Life is not about a climax, but about the downward spiral of humility.
The humility of letting go is confidence in His devotion.

Mother Mary kissed by the Spirit. She said yes to an angel.

Trust fall began.

She breathed child in deeply, 'treasuring up all these things in her heart, knowing 'a sword would pierce through her own soul.'

Purpose called. Word spoke, 'Who is my mother?'

Breathing out. I commit.

Mother exhaled fully in Son's last breath. The hard ground of humility quaked at the foot of the cross. The canopy of Truth dropped; the grace lines fell around a group of vagabond women. Iron sharpening iron grasping lines creating a net that would carry from last breath to New Life. Indeed, the lines fell in pleasant places. Theirs was a beautiful inheritance.

If you love something, let is go. If it comes back it will be yours forever.

Mary lost fullness of belly, gaining fullness of Heart.
Breathing out, mother became child.

Free-will, He let us go. We did not come back, so He carved the Way. Holy Kiss complete.

Breathe in; breathe out. I commit.

Cling to the cross; drop the bar.

To my unseen parent: Help me treasure deeply through the breathing in and breathing out of the Holy Kiss where the pain of your goodness and the transcendence of your peace mingle. Keep me in the sanctuary of your rest where it matters not if I make sense of it all. Thank you for the vagabond women who dare me to jump, push me to the edge of myself, and carry me from one breath to the next when the hard ground of humility has knocked the Wind right out of me.

"Steadfast love and faithfulness meet; righteousness and peace kiss each other. Faithfulness springs up from the ground and righteousness looks down from the sky. Yes, the Lord will give what is good, and our land will yield its increase. Righteousness will go before him and makes his footsteps a Way." Psalm 86:10-12

Forget-Me-Knots

"What is serious to men is often very trivial in the sight of God. What in God might appear to us as"play" is perhaps what He Himself takes most seriously. At any rate the Lord plays and diverts Himself in the garden of His creation, and if we could let go of our own obsession with what we think is the meaning of it all, we might be able to hear His call and follow Him in His mysterious, cosmic dance. We do not have to go very far to catch echoes of that game, and of that dancing. When we are alone on a starlit night; when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn descending on a grove of junipers to rest and eat; when we see children in a moment where they are really children; when we know love in our own hearts; or when, like the Japanese poet Basho we hear an old frog land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash-at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values, the "newness," the emptiness and the purity of vision that make themselves evident, provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance.
For the world and time are the dance of the Lord in emptiness. The silence of the spheres is the music of a wedding feast. The more we persist in misunderstanding the phenomena of life, the more we analyze them out into strange finalities and complex purposes of our own, the more we involve ourselves in sadness, absurdity and despair. But it does not matter much, because no despair of ours can alter the reality of things, or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always there. Indeed, we are in the midst of it, and it is in the midst of us, for it beats in our very blood, whether we want it to or not.
Yet the fact remains that we are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the general dance." Thomas Merton's New Seeds of Contemplation

Momnesia (urban dictionary): a condition in which memory is disturbed or lost due to having children.

"Come to me all of you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matthew 11: 28, 30

Jesus universal call to all who chase after a gaggle of littles...

i am...
weary from toys that magically reproduce when collected...
weary from a laundry pile that gawks at me...
weary from the how-to's of getting 1, 2, and 3 to points A, B, and C...
heavy-laden from the whining of my mouth, more than theirs...
heavy-laden from my plans, perceptions, and expectations wreaking havoc on my Home...
heavy-laden from the office of my head with its lists of to-do's...

Momnesia...there is no cure...the condition only worsens the larger your gaggle grows...

i forget...
i forget if i have taken a shower.
i forget Blue-eyes' Jersey Days.
i forget which little i am calling..."Whitt. No, Mae. Bruce, Yes! I am talking to you."
i forget the date, sometimes the year.
i forget if I have ordered a book or not.
i even forget that I have forgotten.

No cure, but Promise.
'I will give you rest.'

Could our cure be in the forgetting? Is momnesia a grace blessing?
His Promise...I am giving you this beautiful, enormous, magnificent, overwhelming, thrilling, monumental, and scary call of feeding my lambs. Come to me. I will send that head of yours to hell in a hand basket. I will cast your performance of self as far as the east is to the west, that your heart may rise due north.

Momnesia just might be the recalling of God's Truth-memory in me, purpose of heart with renewal of mind. This upside-down God of mine uses the littles to raise me, and it is out of my raising up, my restoration, EVERY SINGLE DAY, that I parent. Motherhood demands nothing less than the collecting of Promise.

Forgetting to remember...
'my yoke is easy and my burden is light'

It is in the forgetting that I remember. I don't have to take myself so seriously because I have a God who is seriously in love with me.

In the forgetting, I remember to catch frogs and turtles who climb...to parade around as a pirate to capture Heaven's treasure for ice cream...to grow Red curls' hair for three years because God gives the boys the best hair and longest eyelashes so why not live out that glory just a bit longer...to let my Cindy-lou Who blow her nose in my coffee every morning as she asks 'What smell like?' (we have the same germs any way)...to soak in all the clothes in that gawking pile with their memories etched in grass stains, blood, and dirt...and, those extra books, well, they just might be for other gaggle-chasing friends who wow me with bravery in the forgetting...

In the forgetting, I remember that the best of Life has no agenda, but purpose.

In the forgetting, I remember Love abounds in His windows and details.

In the forgetting, I remember to play this game of hide and seek. He hides the 'me' as I seek Him in the surprise gifts of Truth bubble-bursting moments.

Blue-eyes sparkles, a willow wisp of a boy-man..."Mommy, Mommy! Did you see that spit bubble pop!?! It is just like a boat sailing on my tongue!"

Jesus' littles on this earth, his disciples, they were sailors; they knew what it was like to be blown by the wind.

"Truly, truly, I say to you, when you were young, you used to dress yourself and walk wherever you wanted, but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and another will dress you and carry you."

When Peter was old, he became a child. He stretched his arms up as Jesus dressed him in robes of righteousness, then carried him place to place. He embraced the forgetting for the remembering. The familiar comfort of the Almighty wind filling his heart-sails blowing him about feeding lambs, building the church amongst the storms. The Rock found peace in the eye of the hurricane.

Momnesia...

Of course, I am crazy because Jesus is head over heels crazy for me.
He loves me so much He turned this world upside down that I may be in this world, not of it. Yes, I am crazy, and by His grace, I get crazier and crazier every day as He undoes the knots of forgetting...

And, all you gaggle-chasers who wow me and make my heart melt over and over with adoration...He is crazy head over heels for you too.

"God created us out of the laughter of the Trinity" Meister Eckhart

To my unseen parent: Create in me a mama who listens much, speaks little, and laughs easy with a willingness to go wherever the Wind takes me. Thank you for using the littles to make me your child day after day. Use them to move me from tasks to the freeing Life-rhythm of the Dance.

"Out of the mouths of infants and children, you declare praise..." Psalm 8:2

Big Boys Do Cry...

"So much is distilled in our tears, not the least of which is wisdom in living life. From my own tears I have learned that if you follow your tears, you will find your heart. If you find your heart, you will find what is dear to God. And if you find what is dear to God, you will find the answer to how you should live your life." Ken Gire's Windows of the Soul

"You have kept count of my tossings;
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your book?" Psalm 56:8

It's a five-fire alarm as a steady stream of tears stings Blue-eyes cheeks; the siren of his voice blaring into my inner sanctuary. Head and heart throbbing; the walls of my inner 'peace' come crumbling down.

I feel as if I cannot bare the ear-piercing noise once again, but Truth reminds that it is my fear of helplessness leaving me defeated. The narcissism of my failure and the insecurities of being blind-sided with a torrent of emotion constrict Love's care.
Blue-eyes is hurt; I did not protect.
There is seemingly 'nothing' I can do except step in his storm calling to the One who quiets.
My cry of defeat, this nothing, releases the Power of everything to the hurt of Blue-eyes and the pity of me.

My boy lives; my boy loves; my boy spills.
Big Boys do cry...

I get lower and gather.
Tears magnify the beauty of bright Blue-eyes.
He takes my breath away as Breath of Life enters.
Crystal clear Blue-eyes entering a sea of cloudiness.
In a world controlled by science and logic, these eyes declare the fabric of Life.
His eyes bare his soul, reflecting the clarity and willingness with which this boy feels.

My boy lives; my boy loves; my boy spills.
Big Boys do cry...

His tears wet my feet washing me clean.
In the beginning, the springs from within rose up watering the land.
Somewhere I lost my way, and the purity of my tears ceased.
I forgot. I forgot.
I forgot that tears hollow out creating more room for the Son.
Dawn always breaks with dew on the grass.
The Son shone through Mary's tears bringing Life to Lazarus,
"Unbind him, and let him go." John 11:44
Over and over my son's tears unbind me; Blue-eyes revives the letting go in me.
Didn't my mama always say, "When you need to cry, let it all out!"
A reflected gift in a sea of many; My heart-eyes made clearer as the water rises.

My boy lives; my boy loves; my boy spills.
Big Boys do cry...

Through the lens of a camera, Blue-eyes ages to thirteen.
I have reawakened to fear, a future of hormonal confusion and a period of wall-building.
'In mercy, keep the wellspring open, Father. The water that flowed from Jesus' side must have been your tears. In your grace, give him tears, Father, that he might soak in the Son.'

Self-control is never in the not crying, but rather in allowing those tears to lead to the Father's heart.

Christ lives; Christ loves; Christ spilled...
Big Boys do cry...

"I have heard your prayer; I have seen your tears. Behold I will heal you." 2 Kings 20:5

"What he saw surprised him as much as anything in his whole life. For the tawny face was bent down near his own and (wonder of wonders) great shining tears stood in the Lion's eyes. They were such a big, bright tears compared with Digory's own that for a moment he felt as if the Lion must really be sorrier about his Mother than he was himself." C.S. Lewis' The Magician's Nephew

Blue-eyes, you are the bravest of boys. Truth warriors know that tears take you to the King's front lines. Thank you for recalling my tears...

Caught with his pants down...

Hesed is the consistent, ever-faithful, relentless, constantly-pursuing, lavish, extravagant, unrestrained, furious love of our Father God.

"Indeed, when we understand the true nature of His love for us, we will prefer to come to Him poor and helpless. We will never be ashamed of our distress. Distress is to our advantage when we have nothing to seek but mercy. We can be glad of our helplessness when we really believe that His power is made perfect in our infirmity." Thomas Merton's Thoughts in Solitude

"Come let us return to the Lord; for He has torn us, that He may heal us; He has struck us down, and He will bind us up...let us press on to know the Lord; His going out is sure as the dawn; He will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth." Hosea 6:1,3

Red curls is a puddle of sorrow and anger at my feet. His words cut deeply into his brother's heart. Rebuked by his father that he might remember to honor.

Loving in grace always requires guarding the Truth in our hearts and others.

Behind closed doors, the bathroom had been the fighting arena; the filth of his words abusing another, "STUPID! STUPID! You are STUPID! STUPID-HEAD."

His father hears it all. Red curls has been caught with his pants down. His father proves jealous over guarding both son's heart.

Stripped of a love-coping, the anger of his loss has taken over any memory to cover. He races over, flinging himself at my feet. A mass of Red curls beautifully bare, naked as the day I first met him. He is taken back to the beginning.

"No creature is hidden from His sight, all are naked and exposed..." Hebrews 4:13

He never acknowledges, never looks at my eyes. Humiliation still lingers in his desperation. The pride of life is a layered mistress.

His sorrow becomes my joy for opportunity arises to cast off the chains of self-love for the Truth bond of Love's mercy.

Hesed transforms from the esteeming of self to expected confidence in the work and character of our God.

But, I must wait for my boy is stuck. Stuck in the middle ground. Anger consumes. Anger over circumstance, anger over his rebuke, anger with his father, and finally truth-pointing...anger with himself. His desperation calls for presence, but his humiliation will not allow Love's healing touch.

To often I have settled for the middle ground. The foolishness of my pride refusing His healing touch; the fear of my heart doubting His goodness.

The middle ground where I need, but cannot bare.

The middle ground where I resist, but desire.

The middle ground where I fear being undone, but long to be rid of 'me.'

The middle-ground is a most dangerous place to be; it is a mirage in the wastelands for Christ stands in the middle that we may never have to.

I slowly trace circles on Red curls back inviting him into the divine healing dance. He cringes, but remains. The letting go has begun. He slowly moves closer inch by inch until his head rests on my lap. I lift and cover as his father and I draw him in. Wholeness of relationship deepened and restored.

Time and time again, He lovingly rubs away the patterns of self in my life. He patiently waits as I inch closer and closer. He lifts with garments and covers with robes that I may feel the fullness of His embrace.

His love is radical, and His promises are true. His jealousy and mercy are the working agents of His Holiness in me. One magnifies the other, and sometimes the Light of His love is so great that I feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. It is in those moments that His grace both rains down and reigns over me.

He is a King of two touches. He subdues hearts by saving, and rules by healing. We must live dangerously that our hearts may recognize the fullness of our safety in Him.

"Without holiness, no one will see the Lord." Hebrews 12:14

'Here I am.' The Word in us He longs to hear.

Taking all of me...His Hesed.

"We must hide our unholiness in the wounds of Christ as Moses hid himself in the cleft of the rock while the glory of God passed by. We must take refuge from God in God. Above all we must believe that God sees us as perfect in His Son while He disciplines and chastens and purges us that we may be partakers of His holiness. A. W. Tozer's Knowledge of the Holy

Home is where the Heart is...

"Spiritual life seems to be about seeing and harvesting. Seeing the holy in the ordinary! Harvesting angels out of what appears to be the crumbs of daily existence! ...Holiness comes wrapped in the ordinary. There are burning bushes all around you. Every tree is full of angels. Hidden beauty is waiting in every crumb. Life wants to lead you from crumbs to angels, but this can only happen if you are willing to unwrap the ordinary by staying with it long enough to harvest its treasure." Macrina Wiederkehr's A Tree Full of Angels

"Cast your bread upon the waters, for you will find it again and again..." Ecclesiastes 11:1

She sits down, a little one barely walking upon her lap. My boys tumble past, in a dustball of boyhood ambition.

Barely-walking uses first words to love-name my whirlwind..."Baby! Baby!" She trumpets.

Mother speaks with cowered fear, "I am so sorry, ma'am! I am so sorry! She calls everyone a baby."

Gently moving forward, I churn the soil, "Well, those are my babies." Shoulders relax; her body opens. Yet, her eyes are still shadowed.

I bend down to my knees; bowing, this place to behold greatness. A shift in perspective creates opening; getting lower always precedes vision.

This beautiful mother living a stones throw away in a seemingly different world. Hers one of hardship and struggle; mine of ease and comfort. Worlds marked by the distinct polarization of haves and have-nots; both shadowlands to the soul.

The Light of the gospel is far brighter than the darkening confusion of this world.

A white-plastic barrett catches my eye...ANGEL. Mother allows me to soak in her Barely-walking.

Sitting at her feet, I shake this planting. "What is her name?"

Blooming with confidence. Her eyes full; she boldly unwraps. With a declaration of celebration, "Eden. Eden Zion."

She clings to Hope. She casts the grace-line ending the tug of war.

Tears choke. As if speaking to myself, I whisper, "Eden, where we came from. Zion, where we are going."

She nods. She recognizes. My heart full and longing.

"I cannot wait until we get there!"

She smiles, "Me too, sister! Me too!"

Could this be what washing of the feet is all about?

Sitting and listening, recognizing the Voice that you may walk a mile in another's shoes, seeing their trail to the Tree. The place where two worlds collide making all things new.

When I leave her, anxiety builds...as if I leave pieces of me behind. My heart recognized Home in this Marah-mother. She who wakes to bitter waters, and clings to the Branch; she who casts to make sweet. What if I never see her again...

The Light of the gospel is far brighter than the darkening confusion of this world.

Home is where the heart is, and we are not Home yet. Pieces are scattered throughout this world...sit, listen, recognize, wash, gather.

Where two or three are gathered...

I came to serve, but I received. I gave bread; she gave Presence. Two mothers in two worlds serving One. Two mothers in two worlds wanting the One thing that is everything for our children...the King of false polarities...Jesus.

We cling. We cast. We contend.

"in Him all things hold together." Colossians 1:17

Together. Gathered in Zion.

"Community cannot grow out of loneliness, but comes when the person who begins to recognize his or her belovedness greets the belovedness of the other. The God alive in me greets the God resident in you. When people can cease having to be for us everything, we can accept the fact they may still have a gift for us. They are partial reflections of the great love of God, but only once we give up requiring that person to be everything, to be God. We see him or her as limited expression of an unlimited love." Henri J. M. Nouwen's Turn My Mourning Into Dancing