I read of longing and desire from bed, covered in the quilt I brought from home and a rightly heavy down comforter.
The walls are yellow like sun, and I am sick. Not the worst sick I’ve been in my life, but sick that looks weak and tired in the eye, feels the cold burning in lungs. The kind that is relieved that curtains are pulled shut.
I am here at this vacation house with my girlfriends who are going for walks and hikes and talking in the sunshine, and all I want to do is be still and read in this bed. This is not normal for me.
I do hope to be better before it’s time to go, so I can play with them, too. These women are some of my favorites, you know? And I look forward to these times all year. I really do.
I am sad about it, and I am content. I’ve read that you can’t experience gratitude and sadness at the same time (or something to that effect), but I’ve not found that to be true.
For a month on this blog, the words haven’t come – either for lack of time or energy, or just because the darned things wouldn’t shake free.
I know God is the God of infinite amounts, and I take in what I can of that gift – sometimes gulping, sometimes dainty sipping, and I am continually pouring from that supply, I know.
But sometimes it’s not words that come out in the pouring. Instead the thoughts and strings of prose swirl like leaves caught in a whirlpool, and I want them to swim free, and yet, all is well with my soul.
Sometimes the words aren’t viewable on a screen, but label rooms of memory marked summertime. Girls on the farm and girls on the soccer field, daughter reveling in watercolor and sketches of racunes (raccoons). Daughter at sleepaway camp for the first time. Another daughter swallows a baby tooth in her sleep. Is it just my kids who do this?
Sometimes the words paint the walls of our house, as sisters negotiate and argue and entertain each other with cups and balls and slight of hand tricks from the kit their Opa bought them.
As you can see… is the oldest’s most favorite line, hands atwirl to distract from the trick.
And I see.
God’s infinite flows through raucous singing from a church stage at Vacation Bible School, from new little friends who lay a head on my shoulder or sit close or share a pain or ask a question. God’s infinite flows through encouragement and “I love you” signs shaking on my 10-year-old’s hand until her mama is out of view.
God’s infinite flows through hands and smiles and sweat – serving, building up, helping. Together.
The supply is mixed color hydrangeas and surprising Saturday rain and laughter like baby bubbles, gurgling, gurgling.
And there’s so much more.
As I drove here to Central Oregon from Portland – the days of not writing publicly flew by in my mind like the time lapse fall of calendar pages and of faded barns at 55 mph.
I’ll be honest and tell you that I did pray again for the words to spring to life on the screen, knowing all the while that when I ask, God can answer that prayer or not, whenever or however God chooses.
Once, I told God that if my words dried up, if I never wrote another thing, I’d be okay with that. I meant it then, and still do. I don’t hold it out as a curse over my typing hands or writerly vision, but more like my own yet I will praise you.
I refuse to make the words my end, my prize.
That’s why sitting here, criss-cross on the borrowed bed, letters suddenly pouring off my fingertips, tissues at my side, I feel all the more grateful because I know once again in my empty places, it is all grace.
Grace to be filled. Grace to pour out.
An unexpected gurgling. Gurgling.
Amen.
Linking with my friend Lisha Epperson and #givemegrace.

Oh my dear girl, I’m sad to hear you’re not well! I know how you look forward to these times!! And then, there’s another well here, clearly you’ve been dipping into it and we read it and hear it (gurgling as you say). And whenever you write, it’s worth the wait, always worth it. There’s something of sweet peace that happens when we drink your words Ashley. May you be most well soon honey!! (And I absolutely agree with you that a person can be both sad and grateful at the same time. I am in this moment in fact, that you are sick, and that you are in a place where gentle rest may be found.)
I love you so. And….I trust, as do you, that soonish your words will flow again and again. Faster, harder, softer, louder, all to the rhythm of praise. I am sad that you are sad. And I wish I could bring you a sweet treat. Your words are a huge gift to me. I have missed you, of late.
While I am sad that you are sick, this forced quiet may have been the uncorking of your bottled up words. I love you, friend.
Was overjoyed to read your words again! Praying you will be well soon to enjoy the rest of your time with your friends…love you friend!
This was dreamlike to read, Ashley. Like I was sitting on the bed with you, invisible, while you reached in and pulled out impressions and memories and emotions and strung them out in words for us to see. I felt everything you felt, the tension of it. That very real place we can know of sadness and gratitude. I know what you mean. And I love that these words busted loose, in this gentle stream, and that in this place of sickness you also rested in this contentment. I’m sorry, though, that you are not well and I’m praying for strength to your body, to get up and play with these friends you love, too. xoxo
My grAnd kids are here for a week. At any given time there are 6 to 15 extra people flowing in and out of my house. I read this quickly when it showed up and just now in whena rare quiet moment read it slowly and loved reading your words here. I get it. There are times my words never make it from my journal to the screen but it doesn’t mean they are not there. Hope you are well by now and got to play.