any human
on the planet
feels the pulse
the tetanic tic
of a world in conversion_
_war_ ai_violent_hate
land faster than
our feet know how to move
how do we regulate
what regulates itself
without us
we ground
we plant
we shift our weight
into our feet into our legs
and stand

There’s a blaze of light in every word

It doesn’t matter which you heard

The holy or the broken Hallelujah

I am watching a movie.

I know it isn’t real.

My body recognizes the cut.

Care stops

mid-escalation.

No handoff.

No witness.

Just: session over.

This is what my surgery felt like.

Not the cutting.

The release.

Same day.

Still fogged.

Still open.

They changed the light

and sent me into traffic.

No crossing guard.

This has a name.

Rupture.

Care withdrawn

at the point of highest risk

without protection.

There is a rule against this.

When risk is high

the light isn’t enough.

You walk

when the crossing guard

signals it’s safe.

They moved on.

I was still crossing.

This isn’t about feelings.

It’s about unsupervised transfer of risk.

The system stepped back.

My body took the hit.

The movie cuts to black.

I was discharged

into the street.

No crossing guard.

POD 88.

I still don’t feel safe.

Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord.

Faith in Christ makes us more than new creations.

It grafts us into the Tree of Life and maxmmizes our every relationship.

It invites unique indentity in The Body;
It makes human beings of human doings;
It heals brokeness.

It is relational roots
mighty like an oak.

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

I picked up my niece from school today, a treat as rare as a holiday as we live more than 1000 miles apart.

The encounter grafted the familiar, sitting in a car in a Mommy pick-up circle, with the novel, picking up L Girl, and conjured the idea of fruit hybrids sometimes seen at Sam’s Club. The Grapple, for example, a mix of grape and apple never conceived in The Garden, was unanimously vetoed by even the most experimental of produce consumers in our family, The Husband. This is a man who will buy anything in the produce section that is unfamiliar for the cullinary literacy of our children. He practices this rite as faithfully as he extends love to them every weekend with some handmade carbohydrate that demands maple syrup.

All this food nostalgia prompted a whimsy seed, and by the time L Girl got into the car, I had confections on the brain. I asked my niece if she wanted to surprise her cousins with an unexpected after-school treat and its was game on.

When I asked her what might sound good, she said, “Dairy Queen,” in a tone of hushed adoration that teenage girls generally exclusively reserve to describe teenage boys.

We ordered Blizzards, “(c)reamy smooth DQ soft serve blended with your favourite candy, cookies, or fruit add up to one irresistible taste sensation,” and headed home.

Eager voices heralded our return with synchronized cries of, “Dairy Queen!” as if it were the generational ring tone for yum.

We arrived to find 11 eager faces and held only 5 Blizzards. Of course we shared, pouring out cup after cup the precious exlihar into Chinet Kirkland Signature Red Cups. Like the loaves and fishes, those Blizzards multiplied to satisfy grandparents, aunts, cousins and babies.

Oreo-mustached children giggled and swapped bites on spoons, a-forever-on-her-feet-granmother sat down with a cup, and our family simply sat together and chatted. The moment was as sweet and unexpected as the treat.

Love was spoken audibly enough to taste.

I learned that Oreos are magical, soft serve ice-cream transcends generations, and sometimes, Our Daily Bread is served by Dairy Queen.

And it’s not a cry that you hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen in the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

You Are My Sunshine My only sunshine. You make me happy When skies are grey. You’ll never know, dear, How much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away
A day off school. 3 5th graders. 1 Kindergartener. 1 Pre-K lad. 2 babies. 3 cases of mixed Florida citrus. 7 hearts hungry to serve.
The other nite, dear, As I lay sleeping I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken And I hung my head and cried
32 quarts of Strawberrys. 37 baskets. 7 kinds of sunshine shinys to decorate cards, “Thank you for the Sunshine you bring to our lives every day!”
You are my sunshine, My only sunshine. You make me happy When skies are grey. You’ll never know, dear, How much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.

2 schools filled with hard-working teachers worthy of celebration.

4 families in need.

I’ll always love you
And make you happy
If you will only say the same
But if you leave me
To love another
You’ll regret it all some day;

Door to door and face to face deliveries.

Eager hands serving.

Grateful hands receiving.

You Are My Sunshine
My only sunshine.
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You’ll never know, dear,
How much I love you.
Please don’t take my sunshine away

Lessons about Community Service imprint hearts.

Children walk out Love’s greatest command.

Intentional love freely given.

And it’s not a cry that you hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen in the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

As a child in my grandmother’s home, this would be the day that I traditionally would wake up nauseous, the stench of slow-roasted turkey thick in the air.  When Beauty made turkey, it was a 28-30 pound affair.  Her stuffing was stock full of giblets.  For the uninitiated, I am not even going to tell you what giblets are.  It’s Thanksgiving after all, and as I could never stomach them as a kid, it seems unfair to distress innocents with an explication. Her table fed 35-40, depending who was able to travel home and who was in the woods hunting. In later years, each family brought a dish to pass that became known as “their dish.”

It’s been years since I sat at that table, but I remember the smell.  In fact, one of the most vivid memories I have of being invited to The Husband’s grandparents’ house for the first time was the aroma of turkey baking.  That smell, which for whatever reason has always caused my nose to recoil, was enough to take my already nervous stomach over the top.  I spent the rest of the morning in the bathroom and am still teased about it four children later by The Husband’s family.

Like so many, I am thankful for many things this Thanksgiving. I imagine that my catalogue reads much like your own, and above all else we count our family, church family, friends and school communities among the things for which we most earnestly rejoice.  It is a song of constant Praise to be able to circle in relationship with each other as we journey through the hills and valleys of this gift of life.

The experience I am most grateful for this week centers around an intense experience at my father’s table.  My father and I had a significant communication glitch, and my feelings were really hurt.  From the moment of the exchange, all parties knew it had been a misspeak. There was complete consensus among the stakeholders to repair the relational damage, mend together, and not go to bed until everyone felt well and safe again.  However, despite the high emotion and potential for a really bad scene, no one got angry.  No one yelled.  No one maligned another, pointed a finger, leveled an accusation, assigned blame or quit.  My Nana Mamma was the triage mediator of crisis.  This beloved woman, who has gifted my life with so many rescue sentences of wisdom that I have held on to over my coming of age like life buoys, followed me into the bathroom and cradled me in the quilt of her arms as I cried.

I am grateful for this because it documents so much growth in relationships and skills.  Speaking only for myself, I know as certainly as I know my children’s middle names that there was a time, and humbly I confess a time not that long ago, that I would have attacked with anger, hurled profanity bombs and left, or at least threatened to leave the home.  I would have rehearsed the hurt, and held on to the anger like a spoiled poodle.  I would have carried a grudge, thought it a confirmation of all that is wrong in the world in general and my father specifically.

Certainly, the dynamic wasn’t as tasty as Dutch apple pie with French vanilla ice cream, but I am thankful for the experience nonetheless.  It provided an opportunity for the people I most love on this planet to learn new things about each other.  Next to The Husband and our babies, there is no one I have ever loved more than my father.  I adore him.  I have looked up to him as long as my neck had the strength to look up.  It wasn’t until I was 13 that I realized that he could not defend me from every dragon in these deep blue seas.

A lot has happened between 13 and now, and my love for him has only grown over time.  I simply have never known anyone as consistent and fierce as he.  He is a defender of truth and family.  His loyalties run deep and remain.  I respect that about him the most.  He will never quit me.

Finally, God has done enough work on my heart, I feel like I can reciprocate that kind of love to him, The Husband and my babies.  There have been times that I have felt discouraged that God hadn’t yet mended this broken heart of mine.  There are issues in my life I have prayed over as ardently as I know how, and felt little traction.  This exchange gave me a yardstick to celebrate some measureable growth.  It’s been incremental and far from even, but God’s been super busy with heart.

This Thanksgiving, I am reminded of what one of my brothers from another mother said about dangerous prayers.  He reminded our home group to be aware that when you pray dangerous prayers that God will answer them, sometimes in ways we neither welcome nor expected in the moment.

I think the misfire between me and my father may have been such an answer, or the beginning of a beginning of an answer, to a dangerous prayer of my heart for years.  I have prayed, and will continue to pray to be clean.  I have asked God to search my heart and help me forgive myself and others for those residual woundings  that keep me separate from His Grace and Will in my life.

I don’t love my father less because we had a miscommunication, I love him more, because it cracked the door for us to have a deeper relationship and understand each other better.  My Nana Mamma, who I adore, showed me once again that she stands for me and claims me as her own.

I am grateful.

I am happy.

I am loved.

I love in return.

Blessed Be His Name.

And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!