Metaphors, the Rat Race, and Slow Showers

It was another morning on the beach. Another day of nearly 12 successive walks on the beach. Sand, shore, shells. Run, chase, walk, breathe. We stomped through shallow pools while the high tide pulled the ocean away from below our feet, and I considered every beautiful analogy the ocean offered.

Everything, great and small, points to Him, to beauty, to imagination. Stories are in every element of creation and nature, and if I'm tuning in, I feel like I see and hear them all.

And instead of feeling the usual overwhelming sense of gratitude toward the great analogy played out around us, I was irritated.

I was annoyed that the ocean was so big, and I was so small. I was annoyed that I looked at shells and saw my heart. I was angry that watching my daughter chase birds made me think more about a blog entry instead of her.

I am prone to always dig below the surface in my own life. Sometimes this is beauty. Sometimes it's distraction. I admit, there are times I end up extracting another meaning out of a situation simply because I am unable, unwilling or too bored to experience what is actually happening.

I wonder how different my words and relationships would be if I stopped viewing all things through the spin of my wild mind.

On that beach, while my daughter chased birds, I told myself to forget about the extra meanings and possible metaphors. I actually shook my head and closed my eyes and told myself to listen, and breathe, and then watch and experience.

Extracting is good. Mining for the deep things is a hard and necessary work. Sometimes I need to look at the world around me and realize that God is still speaking through the work of His hands. I want to notice how interwoven and connected everything is.

And sometimes I want to just get dirty feet, feel the heat of the sun and notice how my daughter's curls form perfectly on her shoulders on a humid April afternoon. I need days full of her crinkled nose and storytelling. I need to pay more attention to the words I say to her instead of the words I'm writing inside. It's all happening so fast, I think. While I'm mentally adding and erasing metaphors, I'm accidentally erasing myself from my own story. Those little things? The things that are happening in front of me? These are the joys I am tucking into my pocket and remembering these days.

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This morning, I woke up racing. For no good reason. I jumped out of bed, started the routine like an internal alarm was constantly ringing, constantly telling me I was behind schedule. Which I wasn't, but I felt it.

And in the shower, I furiously scrubbed my head and felt my heart pumping in my throat. A list began in my head, and prayers spilled out of my lips until I sensed one thing.

STOP.

I whispered it to myself and let the hot water run. I breathed. I slowed.

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I'm exhausted from exhausting myself. Yesterday Emily Maynard tweeted this:

"If we want to live a wholehearted life, we have to cultivate sleep and play, and let go of exhaustion as a status symbol." - @brenebrown

— Emily Maynard (@emelina) April 30, 2013

I wanted to shout yes! And then wrote it down in about three places. And retweeted it. And then told myself to chill out.

Because internally, I'm a mess. I'm racing. Running. Writing. Noting. Observing. Calculating. Adding. Praying. Begging. Shouting. Crying. Dying. Listing. Working.

And I'm exhausted of it all. That is not the person I want to be. That's not how I want my daughter to remember me: a mother who was never at peace until she was laid to rest.

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So today, I'm recalling the beach. I'm looking at a long list and just taking another breath. I'm doing the next thing, and then doodling in the margins. Internal conversations sound a whole lot more Gospel & Jesus-centered, and less me-centered. Not because I'm a good Christian, because that's hardly the truth. Rather because I need to center my life around something unmoveable, unshakeable and un-Andrea-metaphorical.  I need the center spoke of my life to be made of wood and grace, not my sweat and fears.

Yes, I need to pay the bills, continue writing, be a mother, finish work, wash the dishes, and so on. But the condition of my heart does not need to reflection the chaos of my hands. 

Let the checkered flags be wrapped up and stowed away. I was not tapped to run in this rat race.

The Hollow Beginning of Spring

It's a cold Tuesday for the 9th of April. I tell myself this because surely it should be warmer by now. So I'm saying 50 degrees is chilly, and the tiny purple flowers wilted overnight, so that's some kind of proof.

I have just dropped the car off at the auto shop. Men in blue jeans and oil stained blue jackets smile at me as I hand the keys over. Places like this always remind me of a garage I imagine a grandfather would have. One old calendar stained with grease, one sign that says "This too shall pass" and another that hangs crooked with some sentiment of days gone by and good cars gone bad.

The city stroll provides the constant hum of traffic, rain-soaked sidewalks and the hint of spring everywhere I turn. Landscapers have already started work on this avenue's mansions. Collections of leaves leftover from the fall, tree branches that did not last the winter, scattered everywhere. I'm left to dodge them and step around the things that are dead and are now gathered into piles. (When I was a kid, these were burn piles. And we'd gather around them on spring and summer nights, on evenings after an afternoon of clearing the yard and underbrush. My father would light up a cigar to keep watch, we'd call it a bonfire and smell the old, smoking wood. We'd toss in anything that was garbage-worthy and watch how fire destroyed most things. But, here, I digress.)

With my hands in my pockets and music stirring my heart, I can only think of Pride and Prejudice. Or the old motherland. Or New York City. Places and eras where walking was and is so standard, that any other option seems lazy, too time consuming, or just completely unnecessary and inconvenient.

My boots are splashing, and I feel my cheeks warming red to the crisp breeze. And I think of Mr. Darcy and Lizzy, and this:

"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley, in a half-whisper, "that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes."
"Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise.

And maybe you're reading all of this and wondering,

Why on earth is she writing about walking,

and wilting flowers,

and greasy auto shops

and city streets?

I find that the quiet space between the Father and I seems more frequent than I wish. It's not as though I don't hear Him still, but I find that more often than not, my heart is pushing and pulling against Him daily. Last week at church we heard how the work of Grace can feel cyclical. How there's a cycle of death and resurrection. How there are valleys and peaks, and that each is part of this greater revelation of Grace.

So for me on days when I feel I am still meandering in darker valleys,

or when I'm not convinced that all that is supposed to be dead within me has actually breathed its last,

or on days when I find God shouting to me from wilting flowers, dead winter branches,

and through grandfather-like signs on dusty blue auto shop walls,

I want to tell you.

I want to tell you that it's not all poetic reflections by twilight,
or words from my daughter that echo in my soul.

Somedays she tells me I'm the worst mother ever,
and I'm left searching for the Grace of God that meets me in rainy walks and iPod songs.

So today I'm stepping into that hollow silence,

and whispering that

even I feel nothing,

I am still, even now, even always, 

complete in Christ.
Even if nothing else pans out, 

that truth has, and is, and will.

The Mud and the Mess

These days I'm bringing hydrangeas and ranunculus into our home. They sit white and clean, stark contrasts to the dead and brown that is melting and breaking outside. We are waiting for spring on our tiptoes, children peering out the windows, craning our necks to see what is coming our way.

Daily, I know it's coming. It's at my fingertips. Muddy and smelling of old man winter and young girl spring, I'm cleaning our boots of it, and opening the windows on these nearly 50 degree days. The air is fresh, and the night  is cold, but we lay awake by longer daylight and give thanks.

I know spring is coming. I know it.

I know it because I know that life always comes after death. It's a humbling, beautiful circle. 

I know this just as I know that winter is necessary.

I know in spite of the 39 degrees forecasted on my phone, 

warmth is melting the thick lake ice. 

It's breaking the hard ground, the crocuses are breathing, 

and the sun is hot on my cheeks under the afternoon rays.

There is no doubt. Spring is coming.

And I absolutely love that Easter falls right in the middle of this messy, muddy, ripe with life season. I love that the greatest story that my soul will sing forever falls right now.

I look everywhere and I'm reminded...

that something had to die in order that something might live.

What looks bleak and hopeless is just hiding new life, already coursing through veins, just there, under the cover of death.

Winter covered, and everything quieted, and for months it seemed, the whole sky went dark. And we know it's necessary. And we bow our heads against the biting winds and say, "This is how it must be."

Because we always know that the thaw is coming. We always know that just beyond the clouds and the gray and the biting, that the sun is getting closer. We will not shake angry fists at a bitter tempest for the rest of the year, because under all this mess is what is being made new.

And I want it all to be new. This city. These streets. The lilac bushes and empty garden beds and low hanging branches.

And yes, here. In our home. In our hearts. In our bedtime prayers and at dawn when we're whispering good morning over coffee and bowls of cereal. To be made new. 

And right at Easter, I feel it.

That the cross, the death, the mess and the covering of mess and the dark sky. It was necessary. That a sky darkened, and all of creation groaned for the new to come.  Because in three days, the hands that were dead and lifeless twitched with life coursing through them. And under cover of darkness, Jesus was already redeeming the messy and muddy. Good Friday must happen so that Sunday morning we can lift our heads against the bitter tempest and say, "The Spring has come."

A Whirlwind Update:

Oh man.

Can you just take a deep breath with me? Because sometimes, even when it's crazy and busy, stepping back to breathe is good. I get wrapped up in the mayhem easily, it's true. I lose track of time and things that matter, and it can all feel really overwhelming.

But I realized it's been weeks since I've written here, a place I really love to settle into. I've neglected the posts of lists, and I've gone silent on a few topics, but that's not forever. It's just a "for right now" thing and for right now, I'm ready to tell you about some of this.

SO, some updates for you (my totally awesome friends and readers and fellow lovers of all beauty and spring and red-breasted birds that flit by open windows) —

:: I was invited to participate in the Deeper Story community via design and writing. If you haven't checked out this community of fellow writers, thinkers, strugglers and sojourners, be sure to visit them (us?!) soon. Between their avenues of Deeper Story, Deeper Church and Deeper Family, tough issues are being tackled, theology wrestled with, brokenness healed, scars revealed, and all around, love feels pretty abundant. I'll be creating monthly printables for their site, and this Friday, the first part of my story goes live with them.

*deep breath*

You guys, I'm scared. But it's good. But I'm scared.
So, join me there, won't you?

:: This girl. Just. I'm amazed by her. Every day. (Little girl, if you read this by chance in 20 years, I mean every word. You stun me with grace and love and joy every.single.day.)

My sweet girl is starting Kindergarten in the fall. I feel the whirlwind of decision making. Choosing a school, the best place to live, a plan for the summer, you name it. It might account for some of my silence lately. When I have time to sit and think, I'm not thinking about words and depth. I'm thinking about addresses and packing up this apartment again.

:: The Organic Bird continues to grow and I'm so incredibly thankful for all of you who continue to support what I do, spread the word, send work my way, share my facebook posts, etc. In the past month or two, we launched a site & brand for Mabel & Riv, I designed an ebook for The Seed Company, a few of my designs have been turned into tattoos (totally random but awesome), and I launched a new website for a beautiful store in my childhood hometown (The Apple Barrel). If I could hand out bags of chocolate and bottles of the best Irish liqueur to all of you, I would. I would give a breathless thank you, and probably tear up a little bit, and just hold your hand really, really tight. Because, really, this journey of designing and writing and building this little nest has been extra amazing because of all of you.

Ok, I'll stop being mushy now.

:: And on a final note, my awesome 19 year old niece moved in with me while she goes to college locally. We've been making some fun videos — like this:
::

In the rest of my freetime, we're talking about spring plans, trips with friends, vacation with family, moving, festivals, church stuff, crafts, cooking, you name it.

I feel breathless, and sometimes really, really tired.
Sometimes weary. Sometimes hopeful.
But mostly grateful.

Why Love is Powerful

We've been talking about love a lot lately.

Love between a man and a woman.
Love that makes marriage.
Love between mom and daughter.
Love between doll and girl.
Love that sent Jesus, and love that killed Jesus, and love that raised Him.

All kinds of love.

Yesterday we waited in the lobby for friends to pick us up. She hopped on the marble steps, and her voice echoed in the cavernous, empty room.

"I love my mom," she sang. "I love my mom and my mom loves me."

She continued, "I don't know why my mom loves me. Maybe because I'm sweet. Maybe because I'm nice. Maybe because I make her laugh. My mom loves me, but I don't know why."

I watched her sing and hop, and tiptoe around marble swirls. I listened to her song, and wanted to explain to her that I love her for a million reasons.

But really, I love her for no reason at all. 

I always think it's funny to hear couples say to one another, "Tell me why you love me." As if the purest and sweetest love could be made greater by knowing the source or impetus. We want to make love bigger and stronger by things we do or the way we look.

But, isn't the best kind of love given because you have done nothing to earn it or deserve it? Love that takes you in and calls you its own, simply because it knows no other way to respond around you.

I love my daughter because she is my daughter. And when she isn't sweet, or funny, or when her hair is bedraggled and knotted, I still love her. No less. I can give her a million reasons why I love her. And sometimes, I have no reason at all. I simply just do.

And yet, how quickly I find myself bowing a quivering chin and asking Heaven if His love will still be towards and for me. If it's strong enough to hold me. I am a child, spinning in a cavernous room, trying to figure out why God might love me.

When he might have a million reasons to love me, but really, He needs no reason at all. I find more comfort in a love that saves me and pursues because I didn't do anything, more than a love that finds me worthy. I wake every morning loving my daughter because she's my daughter. If I flip the script, and realize that every morning, I'm loved because I'm a daughter, my heart responds and is filled because of it.

The best love is the kind that is given without merit, and with this truth sinking in, my heart groans like an old ship tossed about on a wild sea, at the mercy of something that will beautifully, powerfully, one day, swallow me whole.

True love is life-giving and almost begs to know the lover more than the love. If the love is unconditional, then please, let me know the Giver.