Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Oh My Dear

nothing to say, just sharing the love of this song.
Here are the lyrics:
I called you up, you were in bed, could barely make out the words that you said
But you wanted to see me instead, so I got dressed
So I stepped out into the snow, and walked for a mile or so
Felt the rush of blood come from the cold, within my chest

Well, you finally came to the door, and we talked for an hour or more
Until I asked if you would stay up until four, and you said that's fine
But you said "theres something I have to say, and I can just because I am so afraid"
And so I held you as you started to shake, that night

Oh, my dear, ill wait for you
Grace tonight will pull us through
Until the tears have left your eyes
Until the fear can sleep at night
Until the demons that you're scared of
Disappear inside
Until the scale begins to crack
And this weight falls from your back
Oh, my dear, ill keep you in my arms tonight

You slowly lifted your head from your hands
You said "I just don't think you'll understand
You'll never look at me that way again
If you knew what I did"

And so your tears fell and melted the snow
You told me secrets nobody had known
But I never loved you more, even though
Now I know what you did

Oh, my dear, ill wait for you
Grace tonight will pull us through
Oh, my dear, ill wait for you
Grace tonight will pull us through
Until the tears have left your eyes
Until the fear can sleep at night
Until the demons that you're scared of
Disappear inside
Until the scale begins to crack
And this weight falls from your back
Oh, my dear, ill keep you in my arms tonight

Until the tears have left your eyes
Until the fear can sleep at night
Until the demons that you're scared of
Disappear inside
Until the scale begins to crack
And this weight falls from your back
Oh, my dear, ill keep you in my arms tonight
I'll keep you in my arms tonight

Monday, April 15, 2013

Just Write: The background music says it all

This is my first post linking up with

The house is beginning its quieting din.  The time right before everyone settles in for the night.  My daughter cuts herself a piece of cranberry orange cake purchased from Costco earlier today.  It is rather crumbly and gives part of itself to the floor.  I tell her she is making a mess.  More of a commentary than a criticism.  She says that she will sweep.  "Oh, good!  Get the dining room while you are at it."  I say a silent thank you to the cake that spilled, because I hadn't really wanted to sweep tonight. 

I watch her as she sweeps the floor, singing off key and being very teenagery as she does it.  I see how she is growing up and changing.  It brings out the critical in me.  I can see in her the parts of me that I never liked, the parts I wish I had learned to master.  I hold back my tongue and stop myself from saying things about what I notice and how she can be better than me.   I don't want her inner voice to be the same critical tyrant that mine is.  I want better for her, so I bite my lip. 

I fight with that tyrant daily, moment by moment, and I know how those battle scars look and feel and I want better than that for her.  That tyrant in my head is vicious.

She has finished sweeping the floor and I sit in darkened silence and I fight for my daughter and myself against that stabbing voice.  The voice that tells me my ruin will ruin her as well.  And I fight and I fight and I fight, because she is beloved and I am trying to learn how to feel beloved too in the midst of my broken.

The music of Swan Lake plays in the background on a tv in another room.

Writing beloved has quieted the tyrannical voice.

In case you want to read a synopsis of Swan Lake

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Sweet and Sour

 It is a sweet and sour kind of night. 

A night where the sweet slips in briefly between the sour and  I capture it quick before it turns again.  A sweet moment of contentment while dining on fries and nuggets where such a pleasure is usually forbidden.  It is just he and I and we both are in need  of reprieve and a quilted blanket picnic tonight.
Oh this sweet and sour boy of mine.  How he fills me up and drains me dry. 
It is a constant push and pull.  The push for freedom and the pull to be sure I haven't let him go. 
He is all "YES!" to my "no" and "NO!" to my "yes". 

He struggles so hard for his words and the ones that come are rarely clear and often misunderstood.  It is always a fight for him to be heard and known when he doesn't communicate the same as those of us who are trying to listen.   We are both battle weary by the end of the day.   So I will savor this sweet to help temper the tang of the sour. 

Friday, April 12, 2013

Five minute friday (Here)

Here I am.  2 years and 4 months later.  It is strange to see the numbers set down like that.  In some ways it feels so distant  and in others it feels like it is just behind me and if I turn around I might slip back into it.

Here I am.  My arms no longer covered in bruises dark.  I can run my fingers over them and and there is no tenderness to the touch.  My mind is no longer consumed with thoughts of knives cutting deep and sinks filled with blood.

Here I am.  Moving into the tomorrows, with an eye on the yesterdays, and my heart firmly planted in the today's.  No longer scared of the breathing.

Here I am.  Finding my voice after almost a year of silence. 

Here I am.  Here I am.  Here I am.

Can you hear me?  I am here and I am breathing.

Linking with Five Minute Fridays.

Five Minute Friday

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

We are a people called to arms

I read a blog today by Ann Voskamp.  It touched my soul as her words often do.  You can read it HERE if you would like.  It is in very short and simple terms a call to arms for us as Christians.  A call to literally reach out our arms and touch the lives of the lost and the hurting.  Not long after reading her blog I got onto facebook and someone had shared this STORY about a man holding a sign that read, "Will work for food."   The combination of these two things brought back to mind a couple memories of mine.  Memories of times that God called me to arms, to hands held out, and I ignored His calls.

The Woman I didn't know in a town I don't remember

It was a Sunday morning, sitting on a hard church pew in a town that wasn't mine in a church I had never been.  We were just traveling through. We were on vacation and stopped at this church on Sunday morning.  The sun shone through the stained glass and you could see the dust particles floating in the colored strands of sunlight.  The only other souls I knew there were the ones of my family sitting next to me.  Pastor stood and said to shake the hands of those around you.  I turned and shook hands, smiling, saying our hello's, and then I turned behind me and I saw her.  She was older than I.  Maybe in her forties or fifties.  It was hard to tell.  She looked tired and worn.  Her eyes hung heavy and the weight of the world seemed to rest on her shoulders.  She sat alone. 

She was bathed in colored light and God told me to hug her.  He told me to hug her tight and say that my arms were His and He loved her.  I froze inside myself.  I couldn't be hearing Him correctly.  It was just me, my imagination saying this.  I am in an un-known church, I am but a young girl, only a teenager, half of her age.  Who am I, God?  What will she think?  I argued with Him until it was time to sit down.  I have no idea what the sermon was about now, I just remember telling God all the reasons why I must be hearing wrong.  Why I was not the person to do the job.  We piled into the car and started driving down the street.  The woman walked along the sidewalk beside us, alone, clinging to her ragged Bible in her hands.  Again God called.  "Tell them to stop, go hug her.  Tell her I love her."  I sat silently in the back seat as we kept on driving.  I prayed that if I had heard God correctly that He would please send another to be His arms.  Someone more qualified than I.  I have never seen that woman again, from a town I don't remember in a state that isn't mine, but she has walked down the streets of my mind many times since then.  Each time I pray that she heard His message that she knows that she is loved and my heart bleeds for the arms I didn't open.

God didn't let up, but neither did my excuses
He came over bearing gifts for Christmas.  It was December and family was over.  He stood in the living room with his gifts for us and told us about how his stomach had been hurting.  He lived next door and would talk to the children and give them popsicles in summer.  As he stood there talking God told me to go lay hands on him and pray.  "What?  Are you serious God, he will think I am a nutjob.  I don't even know if he is Christian or not.  He might not even believe in you."  (as if any of that matters).  I didn't listen.  I blew God off, again.  "I can pray for him right here Lord, in my mind.  That is the same anyways isn't it."  God didn't let up, but neither did my excuses.  I watched as he left our house on his way back to his own and I prayed that my silent prayers would be enough, even though I had been called to pray outloud with hands outstretched. 
The next day his aeorta ruptured and he almost died. It was a miracle that he didn't.  He was in the hospital for a long while after.  Guilt seared my heart and I spent time on knees crying out that my prayers would be enough to save him.  Knees planted in carpet, face buried in cushioned chair now soaked with guilt laced tears.  "God," I prayed, "If my obedience of prayers out loud may have saved him yesterday, please let my prayers be enough to save him today."  He recovered, but has never been the same since.  I made goodies in a basket and a card begging his forgiveness for not obeying God's call.  Funny how my fears of offending him with prayer vanished so quickly, but it really isn't funny at all.  He lived, but I have always wondered what would have been had I stopped arguing and just listened.  I had been called to arms again, to hands stretched out and I had failed to listen. 

My own insecurities, my own doubts and fears stopped me from doing the most simplest of things, to just reach out my hands.  We are a people called to arms.  A people called to reach out our hands.  Help me, help me Lord to be your arms, your hands.  Help me to listen and also to obey. 

Monday, April 8, 2013

The girl who didn't know she was a princess and the Mom who forgot to tell her
Once upon a time there was a little girl. An extraordinary, amazing, beautiful little girl. She was a princess, only she didn't know it. She had no diamonds, no tiara's, no servants, but she was a princess none the less. She was born royal. Born to be a queen. No, no, not the kind that sits on a throne, but the kind that walks in humility and grace and is greatly adored.

Yes, this was the destiny of this particular little girl, but her Mom forgot to tell her this as she was growing up. Her Mom got distracted and forgot to make sure that the little girl knew this about herself; she let her own insecurities and doubts overshadow her and didn't whisper the words that the girl needed to hear each night as she drifted off to sleep. Sometimes the Mom yelled out words that made the little girl think less of herself and that echoed in her heart and soul. The Mom didn't mean to do this, but the little girl didn't know that and she blamed herself for her Mom's scournful words. She even believed them.

If the Mom could take all those moments back, take the words and the attitudes, and the looks that hurt the little girl back she would. She would pull them out from deep in the little girl's heart and replace them with the truth. The truth that the girl is amazing and beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes from deep down inside and shoots out of her. She would tell her how smart she is and how funny. She would tell her that no matter what others say and no matter where life takes her that she is royal. It is her birthright, because her Father is a King, the King of kings, and He made her with a purpose. The Mom would tell her all these things a thousand nights over and hope that the words would reverberate throughout her and knock loose any of the lies that may have made their way in. The lies that tell the little girl that she is nothing and has nothing to offer. The lies that tell her she is less than this person or that. The Mom knows though how those lies can get imbedded deep. She also knows that her own words sometimes barbed the lies and made them stick. The Mom wishes in a million ways to remove the barbs, she hopes that the little girl princess will listen now to the truth.

Dear Princess :

I am sorry. You are so much more than what you think you are than what I have led you to believe. You are talented and ever so lovable. You are smart and generous. You are everything a mother could want in a daughter and more. Please don't ever doubt your birthright. You deserve the best things out of life. The best isn't money, prestige, or possessions. The best is knowing that you are worth being treated well and knowing that even when you aren't, (because there are times when you won't be because not everyone recognizes royalty when they see it) that your worth is still the same. The best is treating others as the royalty that they are, even when they forget to act royal. The best is believing who your Father says you are and not listening to what His enemies say you are, because His enemies only seek to destroy His kingdom and those who will inherit it. The best is being willing to forgive, both yourself and others.  The best is remembering that you are royal and that your heart and body aren't to be used as currency in hopes of finding love and acceptance, but rather knowing that they are both more precious than any treasure to be found and they are to be treated with respect and awe. Never trade your treasure for a dollar store trinket, be wise and patient in the affairs of the heart and body, because the best would never want your treasure in exchange for plastic jewelry. (If you forget this or mistake plastic for gold someday, you are still loved and still treasured, your worth is not what you do it is who you are.)  If someone uses your treasure without persmission, that does not make it worth less or cheapen you, that makes them a theif, do not mistake the two. Remember these things, learn them, take them to heart. Don't let them slip your mind, because there will still be days when I forget to whisper them to you. There will still be days when my words, actions, and looks might mislead you into believing less. It is on those days that you will need to remember this and hold tight to it. Spread this truth to your friends, because they are just as much a princess as you are. You are loved dear daughter. SO loved. You are the most precious treasure always, forever, no matter what. Do not forget your birthright.

*Linking with Emily and her imperfect prose community*

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Dear God, not ANOTHER science fair!

My oldest on her first day of Kindergarten.  That backpack is
almost as big as she is.
  I used to think I was going to homeschool.  I even wrote a little essay back when my oldest was around 2 (before blogging was even a thing) entitled "why I choose to homeschool".   Now I just look back on that and laugh.  Little did I know that by the time that two year old hit kindergarten age I would view public school and her going to it with as much joy and excitement as a child being told that they were going to Disneyland. (Well, not me, because as a child I did not enjoy Disneyland, but that is an entirely different blog post for another day.) I love my children, but there is no way that I am equipped with the patience, motivation, and organization that it takes to be a successful homeschooler. (To clarify, I am not against homeschooling, I am against me homeschooling.)  Fortunately we live in a very nice school district and in the last 9 years of public school education with 6 of my children participating in it I haven't had a bad teacher experience yet.

  However, in light of transparency, I can't say that all of their teachers would say the same about their experience with me and my children.  My children are well behaved for the most part and don't cause trouble in that way, but when it comes to homework, well that is an issue.  Our family struggles with homework.  I struggle with homework.  I struggle with having the patience to get my children to understand and complete their homework.  The school sent home a notice about homework one time saying that if a parent was unable to stay calm during the homework it was best for them to walk away from it so that the child would not get a bad

photo credit:
attitude towards it.  (That is a very loose paraphrase of what it probably said, but the same gist of it.)  Patience is not one of my virtues and listening seems to not be one of my children's virtues and that combination is like a flame to dynamite, throw in being pregnant most of those years and all that emotionally goes along with pregnancy and my kids were little lit matches to my dynamite.  Since my husband was mostly gone with work he was not a viable homework help option, so I took that note to heart and avoided homework like the plague.  I thought that for the emotional well being of my children that was the best solution. (This is not ALL homework, just the homework that they were not able to do on their own, because many of my children also struggle at school with understanding.  The ones that understood their homework on their own got it done.)

  By the time kids enter fourth grade though, there is one thing in particular that can not be avoided.  That thing is the SCIENCE FAIR. *cue the scary horror movie theme music here*  I don't do science.  Imagine if you will the screen turning hazy and time traveling backwards to the year 1987.  I was eleven years old.  In December my family had moved from one side of our state to the other.  I went from being in sixth grade at an elementary school with an emotionally unstable teacher who cried in the classroom daily and was basically unable to teach us anything to a middle school with 6 different periods of education where teachers actually had been teaching for the first 4 months of the school year.  Culture shock does not even begin to describe that experience.  I was completely lost and out of place; add in a horrible perm and things were just NOT pretty that year.  One of my classes was science and a science fair was coming up, participation mandatory.  I had no scientific experience so I thought piece of cake my grandma has a book on science stuff, so I picked out an easy "science" project and did that.  People, I chose to iron flowers between two sheets of wax paper.  That was it.  Imagine my surprise when I go to said science fair with my lowly little wax encased

Me in the back circa spring 1987 check out those bangs
flowers and poorly handwritten paper explaining the process of said flower preservation.  One of my friends (read the nice girl who would talk to me) had a display showing the effects of soda pops on teeth.  She used REAL baby teeth and everything.  Let me tell you, this was not a good experience.  I stood there with my horrible perm, ill fitting dorky clothes, in my 50 pounds too many body with my rag tag "science experiment".  I think anything that could have been scientific about me died that day. Now fade back to present day.

   My oldest daughter has had to do three science fairs so far.  In fourth grade we grew sugar crystals.  I felt fairly sciency and avoided having a panic attack.  In 5th grade I have no recollection of what we did, so it must have been something brilliant.  In 6th grade she was on her own and I was able to avoid the stress of "being scientific".  Once she hit Jr. High she didn't have to do science fairs anymore, Thank you Jesus!  But the next two kids down the line had hit 4th grade....eek! Will my science
affliction ever end?  Two kids means two science fair projects.  I survived it.  We microwaved soap for one of them (let me tell you the house smells amazing afterwards, 
We found that the Tone soap smelled the best it is the
one that made a puff ball the hole in the middle
is from a pencil poking it.
STRONGLY amazing, but it takes a lot of scrubbing to get the soap smell out of your microwave) and for the other we decomposed cereals and used a magnet to find the iron content in them.  Again, I survived it.  Now this year they are both in fifth grade, it is Spring, and you guessed it, science fair time again.  The projects are due this coming Tuesday. 

   Currently we are living at my parents, my husband has been working from 5 am to 10 pm when he isn't out to sea, which he currently is, and we are getting ready to move across the country in 4 weeks.  The last thing this girl needs is another science fair.  This year we are observing the decomposition of various fast food burgers compared to a homemade one and the effects of varying liquids on pennies.  Not horrible projects, but here is the problem......I keep forgetting to have them actually OBSERVE these things.  I woke up early this morning having a panic attack because their projects are due in two days and I am just not sure how to pull it all together.  They will have boards, with sciency stuff on it to represent themselves with and it will be better than my ironed wax paper coated flowers, but it still sends me back to that gymnasium from 26 years ago.  At least this time around I don't have horrible perm head.  I checked in the mirror this morning just to be sure. ;-) 

   *I am linking with Emily and her love dare, because I am choosing to love myself despite my science fair/homework affliction instead of bashing myself for it.*

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Like successfully playing operation in an earthquake......

I have been trying to think of something to write about all evening.  I find that I love to write but so often the blank screen stares at me and words fail to fill it.  When I finally do put down words I often second guess them and end up deleting it all or saving the starts of something for another day.  I think I have started and erased or saved about four different things tonight.

Of course being able to focus on anything for more than a few seconds is a feat that could be likened to successfully playing the game operation during an earthquake...... in otherwords darn near impossible.  Even on a night like tonight when things are fairly quiet.  I have one daughter gone and no extra children, so we are down to 6 kids.  But even so, my solitude during waking hours consists of me lying on my bed with two littles ages 4 and 2 accompanying me.  There are various appendages poking, prodding, banging, and laying on every part of me.  (Late naps in the afternoon made for a late evening tonight.) These moments are precious and fleeting, I know.  The bigs in the other rooms of the house are proof of that.  But sometimes it would be nice to have a moment's peace before the stroke of midnight. 

They are in bed now.  The house is almost quiet, just the sounds of the tv in the other room can be heard.  I can finally hear the rain outside against the roof.  I didn't even know it was raining before now. 

It is in moments like these that I realize just how much I miss the quiet.  I don't wish the children to be grown, I know how quickly that will come, but how I miss the quiet.  The space in which to think without interuption is so very rare. 

The older I get the more I find that need for solitude and quiet.  I think I will bask in the sound of raindrops falling on my roof for awhile. 

Friday, April 5, 2013

Five Minute Friday (After)

After all is said and done I want to just be known.

I want to know that someone else heard me, saw me, felt me.

I want to know that somehow, somewhere what I did mattered.

I want to know that after all that has happened and all that has gone on there was a point to it.

I want a happily ever after.  But I also want a happily in the mean time as well.

I want to find my happy in the nows, the moments, the breaths that fall between the broken cries and the tired sighs.

I want every day to be an ever after.
Five Minute Friday

Thursday, April 4, 2013

When a person becomes your Jesus and you have to say goodbye

"What are you taking with you?"

She asked me this in regards to our time together.  Knowing that it is ending soon.  The relationship that isn't, is coming to it's end and she wants to know what I will bring with me from the last two years.

I am not good on the spot.  Words don't really like to come unless they are formed under fingertips and key strokes.  I told her I was going to bring a pocket sized her with me.  My pocket sized Mireille.  Her voice questioning my responses/viewpoints on events and my take on them.  In otherwords I would be bringing grace with me.  In times when my own voice is harsh, hurtful, and critical her voice will be there too, challenging the status quo of my relationship with myself. 

The more I press these keys the more I realize that she has become my Jesus.

Not that I worship her.  Nor do I find her perfect or my savior.

But I hear Him in her.  I hear Him in her voice, her words, her insights.  There have been times when I have sat mute with a mind full of words but not a sound to be made; and it is as if Jesus has given her the words to say.  I have almost felt Him whispering them to her in her spirit, because that is the only way she would have known.  Known how to speak grace into the hateful spiteful words that encompassed my mind, to break through that cloud of self loathing and shame. Her ability to speak the unspeakable for me.  It is the first time I have ever felt understood.  It was a super natural understanding.  The same Jesus who walks the echoing hallways of my memories also lives inside of her and He was letting her in without me saying a word. 

I will miss her and her Jesus voice.  Her ability to listen to words that haven't been spoken.  It is a rare gift. 

I am not sure yet how I am going to be able to say goodbye, because how do you say goodbye to someone like that in your life?  But I will have to and it is coming.

Can you relate?  Have you been here? 

I keep thinking of that day in heaven when I get to run up to her and I will get to say, "Look, look, I made it!" and she will get to see me twirling instead of falling. I will be able to grab her hand and tell her the rest of my story.  I will get to paint the images of the roads I was able to journey with words that no longer need to be typed because she and her Jesus voice helped me to start walking again.  And it is that day that will allow me to get through the soon coming goodbye day, because the goodbye is only temporary in the eternal scheme of things. 

Linking up with Emily and Imperfect Prose

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Five Minute Fridays (broken) and The Love Dare

I recently discovered Five Minute Fridays.  The writing prompt for it this week is broken.  I have been letting this word ruminate within me for the last few days.   This word, for me, is bigger than five minutes.  It encompasses so much of my self identity.  I often have felt as though I was born broken. This theme of broken-ness is splattered throughout my blog. 

My favorite verse is Psalms 34:17-18.  It has been my life verse since I saw it in a 12 step store when I was a teenager.  (side note I did not know it was a 12 step store and had no idea what 12 step even meant at the time. )

The Righteous cry out
and the Lord hears
and delivers them
 from all their troubles.
The Lord is near
to the broken-hearted
and saves those
who are crushed in spirit.

Easter weekend was great, until about Satruday evening.  My sister-in-law and family had come over to spend Friday and Saturday day with us and we had a lot of fun together.  After they left and Satur day turned into evening a cloud of darkness fell over me.  It was an utter feeling of broken sadness.  I hoped it was just exhaustion from the fun weekend.  I mean, I had said that Easter morning is when my boulder would be rolled away and my joy could spring out for goodness sake.  There was no room for this looming cloud if ick, what was my issue anyways I wondered.  Sunday morning came and the cloud was darker, heavier, and so encompassing.  All I wanted to do was crawl into a hole.  There was no boulder rolling, no joy springing, just blech. 
My husband had the day off of work unexpectedly and he wanted to go to church. (Small confession, we haven't been since Christmas.)  We woke up and the kids openened their Easter Baskets gift bags.  The ones that I had put together at midnight the night before after a last minute run to Walmart where everything had been picked clean already.  They were utilitarian this year to say the least.  Presents have been hard for me lately, because I don't want more stuff, they don't need more stuff, and none of us needs more sugar.  Each bag had about five to eight dollars worth of something fun, a little bit of candy, and a toothbrush (some un-wrapped, because I bought a multipack to keep the cost down).  As my middle daughter who is almost eleven opened hers she was saying each thing outloud in a dry monotone sort of way........"a candy bar, a snickers egg, some reese's eggs, an archie comic, an un-wrapped toothbrush...."  As she said  "un-wrapped toothbrush", my heart sank even more into the cloud.  I felt as though I had broken this fun Easter tradition.   I pushed back the tears and tried to see the humor in it all and choked out some laughter.

When all the bags had been gone through we got ready for church.  My husband asked what I would be wearing, so that he might match my level of dressed upedness, or lack thereof.  I told him normal clothes.  The children were varrying levels of attire.  There were no matching outfits, frilly dresses, or pretty white shoes to be had this year.  In fact all of my being wished that I had some ratty jeans, with holes everywhere to wear and it could be accompanied by some comfortable over-sized sweatshirt.  Because that attire would be honest.  Overly used holy jeans would be the truest representation of who I am.  The matching dresses, the fancy shoes, the crisp new clothes in spring colors, that is just shine.  It is wallpaper on a rotting wall.  Since I don't have jeans like that I wore something more churchy acceptable. I wore some newish dark jean capris and an over sized comfortable sweatshirt. (This being my definition of churchy acceptable is making me giggle as I type it out and read it in print.)

Before we left I used the bathroom and contemplated telling my husband that I wasn't going and to just take the kids on his own.  Afterall, how many Sundays upon Sundays in the past had I done the same for him?  I looked in the bathroom mirror and sighed.  "I am tired of this state of broken Lord.  Where is my spring of Joy?  I thought you were going to roll away some boulders here today, it is Easter afterall."  He spoke to my spirit and told me to go.  I don't really recall the words that came in, but the essence of them was to go anyways, despite my cloud of broken, so I went. 

I would love to tell you that as I sat there everything changed in an instant.  It didn't.  I stood during the songs, listened to the message, clapped for the baptisms.  And the cloud slowly dispersed bit by bit until it was more of a partially sunny forecast over my head instead of being overcast.  The actual weather outside was absolutely gorgeous.  Sunshine and 70's, mostly unheard of weather for Easter Sunday here in the NW. 

After church it was too nice to go home and face the messes a weekend of cousins and fun had made, so instead we took the kids on a pizza picnic to a local park and as I sat in the sunshine my partially sunny outlook became a little more sunny. 

I don't know what nuggets of wisdom, if any can be gleaned from this, other than to continue living even in the midst of the broken.  Broken doesn't have to mean burried.  I don't have to bury myself in my home, under the blankets to hide from my broken and I don't have to bury my broken in order to be out from the blankets.  Because those are my go to means of dealing with the broken.  Burying myself or burying it.  Maybe boulders are being rolled away here, just not the ones that I thought would be. 

Linking up with

Five Minute Friday and