Are you a little overwhelmed with the horrors you are hearing about and reading about these days? I am. It seems every morning there is a new heartbreak, another voice of crazy shouting words of hatred and ugliness into our world. Anger marches down the street to destroy the innocent. Corrupt minds plot deception in their dark rooms. Words rip apart our relationships and diseases attack our fragile bodies. Each morning there is the newest daily dose of bad news.
"What is going on in this world of ours?" I think with dismay.
My head is in the sink, her hands in my hair, water streaming the chemicals down the drain, as I overhear her explain the meaning of her name; ‘Morning dew on orchid petals’. She is finishing a conversation with the woman who just stood up from where I now sit.
“I was the youngest of three daughters and my father named all of us. He wanted to give me the most beautiful name of all because, he said, I was the most beautiful… his favorite. Her accent holds to her Korean origins.
Do you have family you would contemplate selling off to traveling merchants? Family that you wouldn’t mind too much if they found themselves far, far away in a foreign land with little chance of ever showing up again at Thanksgiving dinner?
Most everyone has heard the story of Joseph.
If you read the story for yourself, you will realize that the children’s version of Joseph as a young man glosses right over his obnoxious personality.
There is a woman in my neighborhood who has homemade signs in her front yard. I don’t know her, but her signs speak volumes to me. Her signs are colorful and hand-lettered. She displays a popular slogan against a political candidate and carefully letters out an acrostic of negative name-calling. When I walk our borrowed dog past her house it makes me sad to see such ugly sentiments permanently on display, marking her space.
This is my own struggle lately. Harsh and judgmental words.
Almost every morning I awake with my own words that I spoke carelessly the day before haunting me.
I watched her, gorgeous and tall in her ivory jumpsuit, four-inch heels with ankle-straps, brown hair flowing almost in slow motion. Unbridled joy filled her face as she danced within the circle of teenagers, the music from the wedding DJ lifting the dancers as they clapped and spun in circles, faces and arms lifted high.
Occasionally her husband would face her, pumping arms to the beat, before moving off to dance alongside others.
I wake this morning to the sound of gentle rain falling on my roof, and outside my windows. It is a gentle rain.
I wander through the house, cup of coffee in hand, looking out through discs of water clinging to glass, and beyond to the pine-straw dark and rich with moisture, the bamboo bowing down gracefully under its new weight. Rain. I am thankful for its arrival. But after three days, I will be happy for the skies to clear and the sun to shine again.
See all Homemade
The most important thing in our house is a little post-it note stuck to the inside of our front door. When people are coming over, that little post-it note is placed on the outside of the door so that anyone who approaches our home has no need to knock, but simply follow the directions handwritten there to “Come on in!” It is an open welcome, hopefully making all our guests feel like part of the family when they walk through the door.
This is a reminder I need right now; that this house my husband and I have built is not ours alone – it is a home that God has created through us – with the purpose of welcoming others. It is not our house; it is God’s home.
I am more than what I do. I struggle with this thought here at 2:35 in the morning. I hold Come Matter Here in my hands, my cup of maple ginger tea beside me. I try to concentrate and let Hannah Brencher’s words sink in;
“At some point, you decide to get over your fear. You say it’s time to not be afraid of whatever decisions you have to make or direction you need to take.
I look around the room as I work on managing the fear that has me awake at this ungodly hour.
This is the way we grow, I think, as I watch his sturdy little calves push him across the blanket and propel him around the room. It is the room where I watched my son take his first steps, delighting his dad and me, that evening after day-care and work.
Now my grandson explores the peach quilt with bunnies in a basket and three white kittens in a teacup that was his mother’s.
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