coffee for one

Some mornings I brew a full pot of coffee in hopes that someone might stop by unexpectedly for some - allowing myself to forget that there really aren't any neighbors. In the end, I'll drink it myself; today being one of those mornings. But as I pour and add just a touch of cream, I will think of those whose faces I would be overjoyed to see at the window. The list is short, specific. There are others I would  open the door to, who are not currently "on the radar, but perhaps should be." These others would face unknown scrutiny: questions that will float through my head searching for answers in conversation, movement, tone -- my gut. "Examine motivation." Not my accustomed MO. Why are you asking; what are you doing here; can you possibly understand with what little I've been able to ever make known? What am I saying; why do I want to respond; am I looking for something that isn't there? Motivation belongs to both parties, and although "no motivation is completely pure," coffee is sometimes coffee. 

How am I to examine motivation, and at the same time work less at finding and just BE? 

Coffee's ready; time's up. Just me and the sounds of the house, waiting for You. 

waiting

Playlist on the drive:

Lord, I'm Ready Now, by Lauren Daigle

Be Held, by Casting Crowns 

Go ahead; look them up on YouTube. This can wait. 

Now look up psalm 40 (or 39). The one that starts "Surely, I wait for the Lord..."

It's the next part that I'm counting on so many times. The part about lifting me up and placing my feet on solid ground; on rock. In safety, far from the mire, the muck, the raging sea. I heard those songs, one followed by the other, and repeated again and again "surely, I wait" on my way to the adoration chapel, where I now sit, alone except for the company of the Lord; blessed by the silence and solitude where I can cry out to Him and ask again, "what is it You want from me?"

To let go. As the song says, to let go and be held. To let Him hold me, rather than the other way around. Even as I hold my faith, I realize I need to give it away. I need to let it go if I hope to keep it. 

Surely, I wait. 

I wait for the strength to let go. 

I have an anchor tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. It's been there about two months. Before that, I drew an anchor in the same spot for six weeks or so. Some people ask about it; some do not. Some pretend not to see it while they rather obviously "sneak" glances while talking with me. The anchor is a symbol for hope, but that's not exactly what I was thinking of when I fist started using an anchor as my reminder to pray always. Rather, I was thinking of despair. 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. 

When I first read this verse, it was part of a penance - select a psalm, any psalm, and pray through it. All of it. For a long time, I couldn't get past the first few verses, and could only really concentrate on this first message: Surely, I wait. The wait threatened to consume me, to distract me. Slowly I realized that surely, in context, held more confidence than I was attributing to it. I reread: confidently, I wait for the Lord, and He heard my prayers. Again and again I tell the kids I work with to pray because God will and does listen. Again and again I wish someone would remind me. Because again and again I find myself focused on the wait. Not the anticipation, the wait. 

The anchor and the grappling hook have much in common. Both hold fast. Both require the user to trust, to have confidence, to be sure. My anchor keeps me from drifting, whether in calm waters or raging storms. My grappling hook keeps me from falling, assisting me in my climb. I was told once that "God could have flashed lightening and kept this from happening, but He didn't. There must be a reason." 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. He could lift me, literally, if He wanted to, and literally place me on solid ground. Or He could be my grappling hook, holding my rope fast to the rock that is my destination. Or He could be my anchor that keeps my boat from being tossed around unnecessarily, and crushed against some obstacle. I am prepared: I have a hook, an anchor, some faith. 

I've been concerned that what I am holding is some big, imposing falsehood disguised as truth or need in my life. But what if what I'm holding is simply a mustard seed? Doesn't it, too, need to go? Mustn't it fall to the ground to grow? 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. 

Surely, I wait. 

Surely. 

I wait. 

I wait, in anticipation. 

Surely. Just be held. I'm ready now. 

making a list

This morning, before work and school, one of the boys come and told me something he wanted for Christmas. We talked a little, and I reminded him of something he'd already asked for. Both I can't do, but I could do one or the other. 

Later - this evening - he told me about asking his brothers what they would like for Christmas. As we talked, I honestly couldn't remember ever having been asked what I wanted for Christmas. At one time, I believe I was told that asking someone for a Christmas list proved a lack of knowledge about the person. So I never made a list; never offered. Many Christmas mornings found me disappointed that those who hadn't asked really didn't seem to know me. Every time I blamed myself for not being "me" enough for others to know me. 

Last week I was asked if a class I mentioned was something I would really like to do, if I had the money for it. "There you go; when anyone asks you what you want for Christmas this year, you can tell them you'd like cash for the class registration." When. I heard it and automatically changed it in my mind to "if." Despite what was said, I was already preparing for that disappointment. 

Yes. I know that Christmas is not about the gifts. And yet I am sorely aware of how bare the floor beneath our tree will be this year. I tell myself that the boys, my menfolk, have been raised well enough to know there's far more to the day than piles of presents. And I pray that I know them well enough to be able to find something special for each of them. Not because I feel I need to, but because I want to. Their responses to their brother's inquiry do not surprise me at all. I'll do my best. And hope they know my love for them is more than I can ever put in a box or a gift bag. 

My Christmas list?

~cash for fencing or ballroom class

~cash toward the repairs on the car

~coffee from Kona

~gift card for books

Simple stuff, really. 

holey socks

Most of the way through the day I suspected that funny feeling was a hole in my sock. I've since confirmed, and am about to take the socks off and toss them in the trash. They have red and white stripes and gingerbread men on them. I used to pull them out purposely and very intentionally on days when I planned to bake Christmas cookies. I even thought about that when I grabbed them this morning. 

Here's the funny thing: I am so looking forward to dropping them into the waste basket in my bedroom. They are one more little instance of disposing of old habits. Old actions and reactions. Old outgrown parts of me that must just go. This is the second pair of socks this week that will go, and the third in a month. Eventually I'll need to get some new socks, but not until I have an opportunity to assess what really should be kept, and what should go. 

More should go than stay. 

I'm sifting quite a bit lately. And, to be honest, it feels damn good. Not just socks and clothes that don't suit me - either because I've 'outgrown' them or because they never really were my style - but other things, too. Things like emotions, reactions, interpretations. Things that are no longer - or really never were - practical. Things that matter to my heart. That's the kicker: I'm sifting through everything I see, hear, and feel to find what matters to my heart. 

Sometimes that hurts. Sometimes it hurts an whole big bunch. But most of the time it feels liberating, awe-inspiring, joy-filled. I have the freedom to look at my decisions with a new lens; a lens of clarity. With a vision of me. 

Only I can determine how important these socks are to me. How necessary they are to the memories I hold close. Only I determine their value. In truth, they are just stuff. And all the stuff, I can let go. 

questions and answers

Everything has been crazy lately. Well, everything except work, which has been only the normal, usual kind of crazy. In the crazy, I realized tonight I have a question. Trouble is, I can't quite put my finger on it. Pieces of it are right in front of my lips, but each seems as though it requires backstory to see them together. The effect being "I have a question" turns into "I have a story that may or may not make enough sense to you that I could ask your thoughts on it." A bit more cumbersome, no?

There was a time when that would frustrate me immensely. Tonight, however, after a couple years of conversations with some essential people, I'm figuring if the answer is necessary, the question will find its way out. I also know that there's a good possibility that I already know the answer, resulting in the question being elusive. It's happened before: I struggle with distilling thoughts into a cohesive, concise question with the goal of asking, only to discover that in the process I have missed the answer; unearthed and evident. 

Learning, growth, understanding - whichever it may be - takes practice. Time. And it's worth every question.