Busy. Too busy.
Said in in the moment.
In the pride.
Doing stuff. Important work.
Activity. Events.
Overflowing the calendar.
In all seasons. Life never slowing.
And in our culture. A symbol.
Sometimes an excuse.
Sometimes just real good stuff. This busy.
But also.
Sometimes.
A cover. For wounds and sorrows and pain.
When reality crashes into us.
Never stopping to feel. Emotion running hard.
And so the dance.
To achieve and cram and stuff.
Every moment full.
With busy.
But what I am finding.
In the healing.
And in the slow.
Goodness. Showing up.
Like a child.
Intent on a project.
Bent low. Face scrunched up.
With smock and long handled brushes.
Tubes leaking color. And canvas blank.
Savoring the moment.
Hurry gone. Busy vanquished.
And slowly.
Something new emerging.
On a canvas. In a life.
Because.
When the too-busy falls away.
The wild crazy of it all.
And the breathing slows.
And the laughter.
It just deepens and fills the space.
Where there was despair and hurry.
Instead.
Like a child. Finding joy.
And filling a canvas.
With ordinary and painful even.
And the colors exploding.
In the reeling and then the rest.
Into something beautiful.
Finding.
In the slow.
Whether an hour. An afternoon.
A week away. Or a season long.
To fill. With God.
His goodness.
In the. You're good enough.
And the wild crazy of it all.
The laughter.
It just deepens and fills the space.
When the too-busy falls away.
Slowly.
Walking down the sidewalk.
Back up to the old house.
All the myriad of days packed into that car.
Leaving from my driveway.
Never leaving from my heart.
And I sit on the porch stoop.
Rocking in the sun.
And I think back. All the times.
Snapshots in my head.
All the myriad of days packed into that car.
Leaving from my driveway.
Never leaving from my heart.
Girl stuff. And God stuff.
And smoothies in the morning.
Lives intersecting; a mama and her girl.
In the reeling and in the quiet.
Words tumbling easy.
All the myriad of days packed into that car.
Leaving from my driveway.
Never leaving from my heart.
And regrets. There are none.
Only time. A little more.
To sit on the stoop.
Count stars. Catch frogs.
And read our books.
But never in a thousand years.
When I held that baby in my arms.
Did I ever think.
I would get this old.
And she.
All the myriad of days packed into that car.
Leaving from my driveway.
Never leaving from my heart.
Ready now. Fully launched.
A city waiting. A job to do.
Though life is messy. Hearts are torn.
My job is done.
I smile.
All the myriad of days packed into that car.
Leaving from my driveway.
Never leaving from my heart.
Why did I ever start this?
Perfectionism like fingers around my neck.
Strangling me.
Screaming for one thing or another.
The wanting. In my life.
Getting a hold. Things beyond my reach.
Knowing better really.
Going round and round.
In futile attempts.
But one thing getting the attention.
Again and again.
The scream that won't die.
For the want. A life full.
And not knowing the how.
To get there.
Collaging words. Snapping beauty everywhere I go.
The hunt.
And in the hunt.
What I am learning. Even now.
Broken.
A theme in life.
With God. Myself. And others.
Fear bellowing loud.
Exploding on the page.
Daily lack showing up hungry.
Throwing off track.
Scaring. Isolating.
And me.
Running to whatever fixes.
For a while.
And it's been a theme.
In this space.
Because maybe you too.
The reminding.
And the best counseling.
Sometimes a friend.
Having already dug deep.
And in the safety. I find.
The not-giving of trite.
Or disguised contempt.
Or weary showing through.
But gently. Humbly.
The redirecting.
Reframing of the snap shots.
Of everyday life.
Because.
When we take off our mask.
In the real and the messy.
And still. Do not scare.
When judgment does not knock us over the head.
In the reality of who we are.
And the scream dying a thousand deaths.
In the gift of grace.
We stop being scared.
Stop running.
Turning around.
And really see.
A love story never more beautiful.
Jesus. Full of grace and truth.
And so.
Finding the intimacy I crave.
A life full. Of Him.
The unmasking. Gloriously liberating.
And offering it. My broken.
To a world that sometimes scorns.
Knowing all along.
It may not be enough.
Or it may be too much.
But offering it anyway.
Why did I ever start this?
Because.
Talking about the grace of God makes me come alive.
