Boredom’s Eulogy

I’m pretty well sure that boredom is the devil’s work. Spinning out from a semi-productive day and when you sit down to relax, it raises its ugly head. Not enough, it whispers. Nobody to talk to. Nowhere to go. Empty, empty life. 

I’ve wallowed this winter, I think, and let boredom get the upper hand. So these days, when I rise to shake it off I feel my knees shake. They’re out of practice.

Time for a walk. Podcasts, music, I don’t care, just take those steps and feel the miracle that is strong, sure legs.

Maybe to clean an old drawer or closet. Stacking and sorting and throwing out a grocery bag full of years old geography quizzes.

Time for music, the best kind – I’ll be bossy and say it – the Classical kind. Just sit for a minute and let yourself slow, slow down and be happy for where you are.

Sit and read. Of the very book you like best, and don’t try too hard to impress anyone else.

Do something that is a little bit scary-new, like visiting an art museum by yourself. Talk to a stranger there. Don’t run away.

Buy fruit or vegetables from little old men under umbrellas, by the road, on the back of a truck. They surely will be grumpy but…that’s the point.

Or pray. Without ceasing. About the craziest things that lurk in your mind. About your health, sins and the vaguest of fears for the future; and your husband and that person you don’t know very well but can’t get out of your head.

The world is too big and God is too good, to be bored.

I’ve been told it’s a bad word.

As they say here, “Can I get an amen?”



Mama’s Day

I went searching for a picture to post on Mother’s Day, and ended up with too many.

It’s impossible, it seems, to capture in one frame what my mother is. I know her without second thought, but sometimes I feel like there is no end to every feeling or memory wrapped up in who she is.

All the unspoken patient moments and the sacrifices I’ll never understand.

The times she listened to my adolescent weeping.

When she’d send me outside to play.

The no’s along with the yes’s.

Her days sweating under a June sun in the garden.

Her face softening as she holds a newborn.

The little ways she  laughs or asks about things in detail.

And how my Dad adores her.

She’s a skort and tank. A stern mouth and laugh lines. Fabric and hammer. Wisdom and eye roll.

She’s lemon flavoured with coconut whipped cream, and this year, I’m more thankful for her than ever.


It Never Ends

It may take a lifetime to learn, but one tearful, after-supper conversation has helped cement this truth in my mind.

That God loves me as much at my worst, as He does when I’m serving open throttle.

That my worth does not depend on performance. That busy is no way to His favour. That His adopted child is a child forever.

Don’t fear that love, child.

Calvin says, faith is a firm and certain knowledge of God’s benevolence toward us. 

Trust that His kindness is enough to carry us. Let it colour this day beautiful, for there is nothing sweeter than knowing

God is enough.




If You Give a Mouse a Cookie….

trip for a truck and time to spare

means buying clothes for the first time in 4 months

two hours from home means making things worth your while

the beach means flip flops

the flip flop store means someone’s aunt and her gumbo

gumbo and shrimp at a fish shack

means a nightcap down the road

full bellies and sleep eye means the call of a hotel

and hotels on the beach mean a morning of sun and waffles

and new clothes to change into the next morning.

The Lord loves us in the little things and this weekend, there was abundance.

Stuff of Life

An early memory is eating a fresh made roll. Well, not exactly eating. I sucked all the melted butter off the top and then offered the rest to my brother.

I also remember my fresh bread rhapsodies, and my mom saying “man cannot live by bread alone” with exasperated amusement.

I can pinpoint the exact smell of bread baking. Even as a teenager, it was the happiest smell as we came back into the house. It was ordinary and special at the same time.

I didn’t know how I missed it, until on Valentine’s Day I found the recipe and sent various pictures to mom as I baked. “Is this right?”

Yeast and I have always had a troubled relationship, but there is nothing (it seems) that fridge bubbling and a hot oven can’t fix. A loaf, is the most sacred thing you can share, and Wesley and I ate it that night with a whole stick of butter.

Bread is timeless and magical. Comfort, beauty and love.

And so tradition continues.

Five Minute Friday: Purpose

Keys, glasses, purse, papers and waiting by the door. Ready to go, until he decides to make coffee, and then I get hungry. He’s in the bathroom and then when he comes out I’m changing my clothes again.

Purpose on most days, and especially Saturdays, is in short supply.

But purpose to love? Purpose to laugh?

That is piled up, shaken down and running over.

I never thought marriage was a joke, or a picnic, or any other thing that people warn you against with a smirk and knowing nod.

We’re born skeptics, carefully bracing for the kick of hurt that always seems to come when things get too happy.

What I didn’t expect was the joy of friendship and the comfort of that person who God gave you for better or worse.

And we were also born to believe that God does not give us a spirit of fear, but one of faith.

So standing there again, we purpose to keep drawing love from Him and to share it with each other.


Wednesday Night

When a wild good chase takes you two hours away in the shape of a lemony truck, you certainly, certainly make lemonade.

To walk around where the cool kids are; by their bars, on their paths. Eating nachos and beer cheese, cinnamon rolls and coffee in the dark.

Singing take it to the limit….one more time. Trying to stay awake, and not for a minute, forgetting what happiness is.

Not the most important thing, but nothing to take for granted.

Far from home, but home (thank the Lord). And another night to share.