Saturday, June 25, 2011

Sweet Potatoes

I pluck the gold-tinted can of sweet potatoes from the shelf labeled "$.94" and I think of that paper on the counter with the little boy holding a sweet potato...

I shuffle through aisles, weave through baskets, and reach my hand to take what will be mine, mine and my children's and my husband's for the week. Just for the week. The numbers are $99.89 and relief consumes since I've conquered my budget for the week. Just for the week. Waiting to pay behind me are impatient, annoyed faces. We wait, though we feel we shouldn't. I think of the boy. How long does he wait? The fans feet above me bathe myself in a chill. Do I dare begrudge them when others so far away have no chance to be uncomfortably cold?

I had left it on the counter for a day; the pull toward his smile, his black, glistening eyes nearly magnetic. The numbers were $38 for this food and for tools to tend it and for supplies to grow it.

Hours went by and budgets were planned, and those shiny black eyes slipped silently into the trash can. And my heart is broken at my lack of faith, my selfish "I wish I had" 's. And I know I will forget this and yet again be one who complains of too much air or a meal I'm not in the mood for--but I pray that God keeps my heart soft, that when precious faces who need things that I haul away come to mind or mailbox, I will see my own chocolate brown-eyed boy on that page and say yes.
Peace of Christ to you,

Monday, June 13, 2011

This Is How It Should Be

I sit with only the gentle in and outs of their breathing down the hall. They rest and I work.

This is how it should be.

I feel like I was away for so long, missing these tiny wonders of deep, slumber breathing; the dipping of toes in fresh, blue waters; ice cream sandwiched noses; glass jarred fireflies; princess story times; towers tumbling on the rug; snuggles under fluff.

This is how it should be.

The dog's tongue covers chin to forehead on the baby and he squeals. The oldest makes gibberish noises in the baby's face since only he can squeeze out those giggles. The rocking chair sighs with each peak and fall as the rain spills from the eaves and sprinkles my face. My God is near, in the sudden flooding of cool, in the smothering of heat on the smoking, burnt ground. He reminds me that He always has been near and that I have needed Him all along--that I need Him still now. I call the names of the blessings He's dressed me with, starting with those three joy-makers and all their dimples. I have been recaptured by love itself, and this is how it should be.

Peace of Christ to you,