Down the street a chorus of chickens cluck their throaty calls. Next door the rain runs off our neighbor’s gutter from the place where there’s no downspout and splashes into a muddy puddle. Out back the horse chestnut grove looks to have grown another six feet taller and wider since I last paid attention. Out front our peony bushes have exploded in glorious bloom.
Down the hall our girls sleep under quilts, across the hall my husband does. Downstairs our dog lays his chin on parallel paws.
In the quiet of this Sunday morning, I think and pray about those in this house, on these streets, stretching into more yards and across states and nations. I think about all the love and all the need, all the joy and all the loss and all the fear.
I think about their dreams, and mine.
About how we hold them like blown eggs, how we fight for them and deny them and receive them and let them go.
I think about the dreams of my childhood. To write books and paint, to help hurting people and love little kids, to swim with dolphins and cradle orangutans.
I think of this life we’ve been given. These days to live out and into. These daily grinds and to-dos and responsibilities and the pangs of compassion that interrupt us to act out the love we know.
I hold in my deepest places these children with whom I’ve been entrusted, consider the gift of raising and loving little humans with whom we dance and tangle and cradle and let go.
I think about dreams fulfilled and birthed right here in this imperfect house with its never-ending projects and its messy relationships and its ebb and flow of laughter and tears, boredom and contentment, misunderstandings and unspoken understanding.
This morning, among the clucking of chickens, rain dripping from a grey sky, house asleep, I give thanks to the One who holds it all and always has.
Joining with Lisha Epperson (whom I’ve hugged and heard speak in her fantastic NY accent in real life and positively adore), as she begins her first week hosting the Sunday Community: Give Me Grace. Go visit there?