peaceful protest

We make our way to the abortion clinic in the light traffic of early afternoon.
My friend fills me in on the 'bubble zone' bylaws that keep us on the other side of the street from the unobtrusive brown building sitting on a busy street corner.

The parking lot is full.

"How do you want to do this?" We look at each other.
We walk the length of the fence and stop - in view of the back door that swings open - and shut - and open - and shut - as customers... hurting, broken people, file in and out.
We decide to walk the length of the block when our legs get stiff and cold - and while we walk - we talk; but when we reach the end of the fence - we stop - and we pray - until our knees and the chill in the air beg us to walk that length again.
i close my eyes - facing that brown building where enters life - and exits bleeding, empty wombs.
"Mercy, Father..."
We stop no one. There are no signs of protest other than our presence. There are no shouted angry words. There are just two mothers - soon joined by a grandmother - who walk the slushy sidewalks and pray for this generation that sees no better solution.

silent suppers

For Lent, we filled a little glass jar with little slips of paper. Each morning during Lent we pick one to help us in our observance for that day.
There are "5 minute tidies", or "no TV", or "bake something for someone else", or "plan a special dinner and invite company", or "spend 20 minutes extra on music". i try to talk with the little ones about taking the time to remember how these tiny sacrifices are to help us focus on our Jesus - and to look forward to remembering the Great Sacrifice he made for us...
Yesterday, the slip that was chosen read, "Silent Supper".
We always include several silent suppers because it makes neil so happy.
i figured it would be pretty challenging with a three year old and a one year old in the mix - and we prepped the littles that as soon as we said grace, that we would try to hold our words until the end of the meal.
Ephraim made little baby squeaks and noises - and there were a few insistent thrusting index fingers when people wanted to be passed the bread or needed more water, but for the most part, i was pretty impressed with our tiny fry and their efforts to keep supper silent.
Just as we were finishing, suddenly Gagey pushed his empty plate away and announced in a clear voice, "i don't like this food..." and got up and marched away.
We all burst out laughing - and the supper and the silence were ended.
& maybe to some little ones, this tiny formality is barren.
But maybe to others - there will be a seedling planted - a teeny arrow scratched in a dirt path, "This way, little ones... come this way..."
& then - the softening begins - and the hearts are made ready - to enter into relationship with their Rescuer.
And every effort - has value and worth.

writer

Music has always been that intrinsic force for me - that tugging thing that translated my heart and brought the depths to light.
Lately - i have been having a lesson about putting feelings into words.... letting my music become the silent movement of the blinking cursor across the screen as i examine the world around me - and see my Father's fingerprints over it all.
& it's as if for a moment - music has slipped aside - to allow written words to suffice.
Last week i finished the last little dribbles of edits that i could find... (thank you, K for your kind edits too!)
And my mama ordered me a copy of the new - (hopefully final) - proof...
My sister encouraged me to make a facebook page (called "40 weeks - a novel" -if you wanna find it...) to share my progress as this project enters it's final stages.
The first step it asks of you when you finish putting the page together is to 'invite your friends...'
That's where i stopped.
Shyly - tentatively - i clicked on my sisters' names... and my mom... and my dad...
With crimson cheeks - i shared it on my facebook wall....
a teeny offering to people i know well - & those i don't know as well either: "i think life is a precious gift from God... & i wrote a book about that."
& then i realize that this is the part i can't do. i don't wanna tell anyone to read it - or buy it. & that's gotta be ok.
i can write my book - i can shut myself in my house for a month solid - and tell a story and bare my soul - hoping that truth be found.
But God has never asked me yet to try to be marketable.
& so i'll leave my hands open - take or leave.
Come what may - offering my little songbook to the only Audience that really matters.
Yours, Father.

my best friend...

"So how's your best friend? Have you been playing her more?" he asks me... nodding to my ebony plaything.
It had been bugging me for months that she needed tuning - and there was that sticky note that kept causing me grief. Finally, the piano tuner had come and rendered her beautiful once more.
& the thought struck me that i don't care that the velvet is peeling off her music stand.
i don't care that there's a chip in her cover.
i don't care that the whole mess of her is covered in fingerprints of every imaginable size.
i want her to make music... i want the notes to be true and right.
i wanna hear the sweetness in a purer tone.
And the likeness wafts over me like the gentlest spring breeze, how my Father sees past the sagging skin on my belly - and the crease that has begun to form on my brow. 'Cause this body - it's going to age and wear... but o how He gently reminds me about what's inside. What's inside will ever 'sing and make music, always giving thanks to God my Father...' (eph. 5:19&20). & His tools tighten the strings so my pitch is sure... He tears me apart, replacing what's broken and tuning my soul - poor instrument that it is...
"No. i've been too busy..." i say, glancing at my piano - faithful friend. Little boy clings to my pantlegs and Baby boy treats the ground like hot lava, preferring the safety of mama's arms.
& it's hard to find times to play with my best friend...
The gentler clickety clack of the computer keyboard works better for precarious naptimes when moments are easier to steal. "Don't wake the baby..." i shush to any would be music makers. And sometimes, it's true, i can't bear to add one. more. layer... to the wall of sound that exists in my house already.
But then - in a moment found, she calls me to play - inviting me with a slip of misplaced music that falls to the ground.
Sound erupts - simple melodies.
Feisty girl sings, Radar picks up her guitar. Baby holds on to the bench and adds his voice to the din, swinging his diaper clad bottom to the rhythm...
And all...
is an offering...

here.

i'm underwater a lot in my dreams lately.
i think the horrifying insecurity of finishing my book is making me stay there - safe - hidden...
i guess... it would be easy to stay there forever.
But i don't think i'm supposed to. i think i see His fingerprints in my consistent state of discomfort.
Where to next, Father?