in which I write to remember

{via pinterest}

I write to remember.

I write to remember the way my daughter's head smelled the first moment they laid her in my arms, even as my body still groaning from the opening and the pulling and the needle stitching flesh back to flesh.

I write to remember the way his arm encircled my shoulder and his fingers dug into my hair as I sobbed into his chest the day they called and said that the matriach of my paternal family had slipped from terra firma to life abundant.

I write to remember the way that my calling put down roots in the same moment that a woman looked at me and called me reprobate, called me voice of distention, and the friend I had brought to defend me somehow slipped from my side to hers while I blinked.

I write to remember the freedom that started way  back when tears streamed down my parents' faces while my sister and I planted our feet and shook our heads, done with navy blue skirts and rules that added up to leave us too far from Jesus to be the right way.

I write to remember the heartache because it twisted my road like a snake shedding skin, whisking away death like rain washing mud from the base of a splintered cross but leaving the blood-stains. the death has to be remembered to celebrate the life.

there are days I'd rather forget, things that seem better to slip away through my fingers like an hourglass in reverse, days I'd rather use feeble fingers to push the hands of the clock backwards, even though they leave dents in my flesh. if someone invented cocoa butter for the soul, the kind that fades stretch marks and scars back into oblivion, there are days I would be tempted to buy them out of stock.

but I write to remember the way that Glory tastes on my tongue when all I've been eating is mud for a month. I write to remember the way His fingers feel on my cheek, the way His mane breezes like a whisper of be still and know, better than a hankie for wiping tears away.

I write because my cat chases beams of light on the carpet and my daughter giggles at her own reflection. I write because Holy is unchained and death flows backwards through the cracks in the stone.

I write so I don't forget the way home.

{this is my answer for all those times when I'm asked "why do you write?" this is where I have found myself, and this is what Story Sessions has taught me how to capture and hold tight. there is a seat for you with us, dear one. come join us}

stony place :: ebenezer

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i'm still in the stony place. the  rocky, rough place that i think we all touch from time to time.

the place where i'm learning to rest for a time, but i feel like i can't let myself breathe without guilt. 

inhale no rest

exhale too much to do

it's the funny place where we feel guilty for doing right, for stopping for a half a moment just to breathe. because i'm learning to embrace the do not need to do instead of dwelling on the must do now or else. 

and the whole day yesterday, i had a window open to write a new blog post. but i never wrote a word. and i thought it would be a bad thing, that i would wake up to negativity or a heart overflowing with shame for slacking. 

but i didn't. 

:: i woke up breathing ::

and that's what i'm supposed to do. and i made toast and coffee and ate both slices, slow and without worrying about the clock with the silence of the house and the whisper-scent of winter breezes that smell like springtime. 

and i still felt strange, but i didn't know why. but it was a good kind of strange, like icy-cold soda on the hottest day and the way it runs down from lips to stomach and you feel the coolness all the way down.

so i'm taking these stones that make my place rocky, and i'm building an altar. and i'm carving ebenezer into the bottom stone. 

here has my Lord helped me. 

{linking my broken prose with emily today}

remember

five minute fridays. we write for five, and only five, minutes. no editing, no overthinking, no backtracking. . linking up with the gypsy mama.

the word

REMEMBER

now GO...

i saw this word last night. and i started to think what i should remember. 

because i remember a lot of things. not important things, like England king or the capital cities of every state in the Union. 

but i remember snapshots and mental videos of things that no one else does.

{photo by DramaticElegance
1997: haircut like Skandar Keynes}

family things, little quirks and things from the past. 

she does too. 

she was my companion in most, so we share this common memory.

you see, most of my memories involve two little girls. 

one with dark hair cut in a too-short bob because the little long-haired blonde one wanted to play beauty shoppe with Mummy's sissors. 

little red wagons and cats that lacked enthusiasm for being wrapped up like Baby Moses and being floated down the creek in a basket. 

lipsynching into hairbrushes in front of the video camera...it's on YouTube now, somehow. 

inside jokes that we still laugh about, because we remember, you see. 

on Tuesday night, we followed tradition. hanging lights and placing angels and snowmen in their traidtional places, like we do every first of the eleventh month. 

but this year, these two little girls are joined by two little boys. 

{photo by DramaticElegance
2009: my wedding, Bride and Maid-of-Honour}

these little girls have loves now. 

new memories now. 

these boys will both be here here for Christmas. 

one a husband who spends every waking minute with his woman...


...the other a solider home from war  for his first Christmas with her on this side of the webcam. 

we grew up somehow, these two little girls. 

but in the dark under the Christmas tree, we still tangle our fingers and curl like hedgehogs into a little bundle together. 

because we remember.