graceful star :: father's joy

{via pinterest}

we're naming her Marian. 

grace's star. graceful star. 

we're naming her Abigail.

joy of the Father. father's joy. 

:: :: :: 

i'm painting her legacy into her name. the legacy of a woman, sister to my father's father, who prayed for me when i was as she is now. a woman who now sings with Jesus and dips her toes in the pools of stars and inhales pure grace from the lips of the Saviour. 

the legacy of a blonde haired sister who shared my room from the moment we brought her home, who became my worst enemy and my best friend, who became more connected to my heart through drying ink on a legal document than blood could have ever provided. 

she is named after two great women. one older and passed from earth to greater Life, and one younger and still inhaling every second of oxygen that she can while her feet are still just barely pressed to grass. they are both full of Holy Light, though one is in the presence and one is still striving forward. 

some shake their heads and say 

{via pinterest}

it's just a name.

she'll be who she is all on her own. 

and she will be herself and no one else, because i plan on pressing the paintbrush into her fingers from the moment she inhales earth's air into her tiny lungs for the first time.

from the time she is born, i will whisper into her ear of her self-worth and her beauty, and i will show her little feet how to walk His path instead of theirs. 

but i'm still painting that legacy into her name. graceful star, her Father's joy. woman of God, girl of grace. warrioress and soul poet, whether she bathes in ink and old parchment or revels in grass stains and basketball courts. 

and she already is a graceful star. i feel her dancing beneath my skin in a rhythm that only she hears and understands with my heartbeat as her cadence, as her tribal drum to start. 

and oh, she already is her father's joy. here on earth as he presses lips to my stomach and tells her that he loves her already, as his eyes fill with so much pride that i know he would rip lions to pieces and place them at her feet, that he would bear the moon on his back for this tiny girl-child. all before she is even his to hold. 

and that is just her earthly father's pride, and the joy of the man whose blood she has. she will still bear a name that He knew -- her heavenly Abba -- before it was pieced together in my soul. 

a name He knew, a name He treasures. a name that makes Him laugh and whisper, 

yes, I know her. 

she's Mine, and I know what's Mine.

linking with emily and the rest of the imperfect prose team

twenty-nine

{my parents on their wedding day}

i love fairytales. i love happy endings.

i love those storybook moments that make people sigh and give those little smiles and maybe, just maybe whisper into someone's ear

that'll be us one day

i grew up watching a fairytale. not a perfect one, not one without the occasional villain or rolling fog or even broken-hearted tears. 

but still a love story. a passionate beautiful thing where two people pledged their love and it remained. 

for twenty-nine years

today.

my parents are a legacy in their own right. barely into their fifties, but still a legacy. 

their love is a bonding of heart and soul and everything good and sacred.

{my parents on their wedding day}

 if you want to see a God-touched love, a soul-rippling marriage

take a look at them. 

twenty-nine years ago, my Daddy wed my Mummy. 

he still looks at her the same way as he did then. 

they still dance in the kitchen to silent music. i still hear them laughing in that secret teenage way.

and i know they are still passionate together.

not just romantic. but passionate in that way only man and wife can be. 

and it was never hidden. 

{my parents on their wedding day}

never 

stop, the children are watching. 

he kisss her lips daily. more than, even. and he has never hidden his affection and admiration for her. not to us, his children. not to anyone.

yes, they have their secret intimacies, as do all couples.

but they are newlyweds forever. holding hands, singing, dancing, raising my sister and i in full view of that love. 

she still blushes when he looks in her direction. i've seen it, i've seen the notes and the flowers and the little signs of this and that. 

and they're my parents.

{my parents on their wedding day}

i'm fortunate to have parents still this much in love, twenty-nine years since they said i do. 


perhaps my bias is higher than most, but i am confident that i have the greatest parents in this world.

their covenant connection to one another is Biblical, strong, and connected by cords of love that only the King of Kings could weave.

they cling to Him. they cling to one another.

til death do us part.

happy anniversary, Mummy and Daddy. 

i love you so much. 

wise men say, only fools rush in

but i can't help falling in love with you

passing

{the last picture taken of me and Granny
August 2011}

i'm bewildered by this thing of passing

the ticking hands of the clock that taunt or sing, never knowing which until you stand in their shadow.

the gentle rush of calender pages that flow and shuffle past from day to month to year, making you stop and stare with just how much time has flitted past your unsuspecting fingertips.

and eventually, the fingers of God gently bring the ticking to a silence. the rustling to a halt.

the end comes eventually. 

and the end is floating steady onward toward my great-grandmother.

this good and faithful one is making her steps toward Heaven's gates, this walk she has taken for so long. a life so changed by the hand of God, a daughter so loved by the King of Heaven.

and so i sit and wonder how to grieve. 

do i even dare to grieve for this soon-coming loss of mine

for her gain is so much greater?

she called for my grandfather first. her youngest son. and so he boarded a plane to California and flew to his mother's side.

then the call was for my mother. one of her many granddaughters. and so my mother and sister boarded a plane and went to her side.

{my favourite picture of Granny ever.
Grandpa at her bedside earlier this week
reading the Bible to her.
this is my legacy}

i envy those who are at her bedside today. those who sit in her bedroom, holding her hand and reading her favourite Words to her.

her days are coming to an end. this life of ninety-five vibrant years is starting to fade.

she fades, but never pales. her breaths are numbered, but her life is eternal.

Granny is going home. 

be it today or sometime in the next week.

and in my heart, i grieve her loss. this great lady.

but in my soul, i dance.

because this daughter is going home.

i love you, Granny. so very much. i will see you on the other side. 

give Jesus a hug for me. 

He's waiting for you. 

{tmy sister's tribute to Granny can be found here}

Never Obliviate {Spoilers}

"...and you, if you have stuck with Harry until the very end." ~J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows


I don't even know where to begin right now.

I'm still emotionally overwhelmed. I am full of magic.

I know that I don't normally do "play-by-play" posts, but I think for this, I will make an exception.

Arriving at the theater at 10pm put my friends and I right in the center of a madhouse of costumed fans. The fandom was intense and beautiful.

There was a Malfoy lookalike...same blonde hair, same facial shape, same wardrobe, and same excessive attractiveness...along with Lucius, Bellatrix, Dobby, and a small Death Eater.

There was an enormous Hagrid, a devilishly handsome Sirius, a witty and outlandish Rita Skeeter, three plumply pink and cat-laden Umbridges, and numerous escapees from Azkaban Prison. There was even a pig-nosed Tonks look-a-like with hot purple hair and long beautiful robes.

And there are photographs galore to prove it, which will be coming soon.

Amid my party, there were two Slytherins, a Hufflepuff, five Gryffindors, and a Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw mix, as well as my Bellatrix'd costumed self...but I count myself among the Gryffindors, for that is my house and my home.

After two hours of laughing, photographing, and general all-around giddiness, we went our separate ways into our respective theaters. The previews seemed to drag forever. Even the sneak peak at The Dark Knight Rising seemed to do nothing but annoy as our hearts began to beat faster with anticipation.

Finally, the theater went dark.

The grey stone WB logo appeared on the screen.

Tears began to trickle their way down my face.

Barely fifteen minutes had passed before I, my friends, and the rest of the fully sold out theater were sobbing as though our hearts would break.

Professor Minerva McGonagal raised her wand and the war began. My heart began to throb.

Snape gasped out "you have your mother's eyes." I sobbed.

Ron and Hermoine shared a kiss fourteen years in the making. There are no words for the way my heart leapt.

Fred's pale form lay still and dead on the Hogworts commonroom floor. I wailed.

The bodies of Lupin and Tonks lay together without a breath, fingers barely brushing, blood on their faces. That is "til death do us part."

The battle was waged. Lives were lost.

Snape cradled the slain form of Lily Potter to his chest and wailed in anguish. I joined with him.

The doe Patronus leapt, and the ghostly forms of Sirius, Lily, James, and Lupin gave Harry the courage to do what must be done.

Bellatrix was slain by a gleeful Molly Weasley. I cheered.

A now exceptionally-attractive Neville severed the serpent's head. I could not speak for weeping.

Voldemort was defeated and scattered to the wind. I raised my hands and cried with joy.

The credits rolled. I screamed and cheered and clapped until my eyes, throat, and hands were sore.

My emotions are beyond my comprehension.

The end of an era.

Seven books.

Eight movies.

Fourteen years.

Three Kleenexes.

Thank you, J.K. Rowling, for my magical childhood...

...and for my continuous magical adulthood.

For I will never Obliviate. 


I will never forget.

When I am 80 years old, I will be sitting in my rocking chair reading Harry Potter. And my family will laugh and say, "still?"

And I will say...

..."Always."

"It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Remember that." ~Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone


"Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home." ~J.K. Rowling

Diary

The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it. ~James Barrie

Visiting the library is like stepping into another world. Shelves and stacks of books line the room from ceiling to floor...

...the rich aroma of ink and dusty volumes whisper of worlds yet hidden in bindings of leather and paper...

...but yet, between these seemingly innocent pages, is danger and mistrust and anger.

For these books are more than just words...more than stories...more than records of fiction or fact...these are the thoughts of an author laid bare before our eyes.

Their secrets are no more.

For I have not yet met a writer who was able to strip all hint of personal emotion from their work.

In fact, the thing that makes an author great is their ability to step into the pages and let their hearts do the writing.

For it is an unmistakable truth that, for a writer to allow another to read their work is to expose their soul.

It is as if we have opened the pages of our most private diary, held it out to the world and begged them...

..."come and read my soul. Feast your eyes upon my hidden mind. And please...be gentle with me."

This may be why so many of us struggle with allowing the world to read our work. It is nothing if not a terrifying idea for someone else to take something that we have poured our hearts and souls into and bring it out into the light.

Pieces of the writer themselves have become lost among the words. It's more than just a fairytale or a retelling of a historical event. It's part of our story, a scrap of our legacy, wrapped up in these fragile pages.

The work itself might be perishable, but the dreams, hopes, and fears that are represented there are enduring.

So please.

Be gentle.

Labor of Love

Tonight, I spent some time with my mom's side of the family, planning for my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary celebration this coming fall. If you were looking at us from a distance with no knowledge as to who any of us were or what we were doing, you would think we were an odd little group.

There were eight of us, clustered around a small crackling fire enclosed inside of a large metal dish.

My aunt and uncle, not quite two years married, holding hands in two separate deck chairs, looking at one another as if their entire worlds revolved around their beloved partner.

My mom, sitting in her chair with her day-planner in her lap, her red hair glowing like a sunset in the light of the flickering flames.

The three teenagers -- Abby, Rae Marie, and I -- sitting in age-order on the padded porch swing, giggling and waving the smoke out of our faces.

And then there was my grandma and grandpa, the origin of this tiny cluster of loving people. They were the ones that drew my closest inspection.

Grandma, with her little basket-purse and crown of carefully styled grey hair, her smile and laugh more familiar and warm to me than a summer sunset. And Grandpa, with his fading grey comb-over and his unmistakeable sense of humor that reminds me of little girl sleepovers and snuggles around the iron stove in their basement.

My grandpa is in his early 70s. He grew up on a small farm in Illinois in a tiny rural community where he milked the cows at 4am and walked to school in the winter. He loves Jesus with all his heart, and is determined to bring as many people to know Him as he possibly can. He is the humblest, quietest man I know.

This is the man of whom I possess my earliest memory. The man who sang silly songs to my sister and I, and told us jokes that made my grandma shake her head and say, "Oh, Kyle!" The man who taught me that early morning breakfasts of "gobledy-gook" and orange juice was the secret to a happy morning. The gentle hands that swung a wood-splitting ax and poked flaming coals to warm the house, but that were always eager to hold the Bible and remind me of the goodness of God. The man who showed me that ticking Grandma awake at 6am was fun, and that "sleepin' at the foot of the bed" was a secret delight. He took me to my first movie in a theater -- Chicken Run -- and promptly fell asleep twenty minutes into the film...but that's not surprising, considering his ability to "drop his marbles" at any time and through anything.

My grandma is in her late 60s. She attended the local high school, and can still sing almost all the words the fight song. She married young, just like I did, and still loves her husband with all her heart after almost 50 years of marriage. I've seen the way she looks at him...I want to love my husband the way she does. When I was little, I used to stand next to her in church and listen to her sing the hymns; I wanted to sing about Jesus as beautifully as she did. She is an amazing woman who loves Jesus with all her heart, and has taught me so many things about being a godly woman and a godly wife.

This is the woman who read books to my little sister and I, recording them on cassette tapes that I still love listening to, even today. The woman who made me tiny models of all the characters from Winnie-the-Pooh (my favorite since I was a baby) by hand, and played the record of the same name when she changed my diapers or bathed me in the metal sink in the basement. The woman who made me dresses, quilts, and jumpers, hand-made with love poured into each stitch. She taught me how to sew; even though I didn't show a lot of appreciation for it then, I look back on those moments now and wish I could get them back. Grandma made us puppets out of brown paper envelopes and various bits of bric-a-brac, recorded Shirley Temple movies when they came on TV, and watched Milo and Otis with us over and over and over again.

Grandpa took me on my first missions trip to Costa Rica when I was 13.

Grandma held Hawaiian tea parties on the back porch with our American Girl dolls and Macadamia nut pancakes.

My grandparents are my heroes. Two of my greatest examples.

I want them to be proud of me.

Because I am proud to be their granddaughter.