The Onlookers.

I head out the door,

knowing they will be there.

They seem to have some kind of strange ability to know when I am there,

and they find me.

The pile is set down and I start my rummaging,

a semi-organized method of trying to hang each person's things in some kind of order

to make the removal and separation process a smidge easier.

 They find me there.

Their eyes watch me as if curious as to why I spend so much time doing this strange circling around the metal tree.

We hear a laugh around the house,

a child's voice riding on a bike.

We all turn in that direction,

temporarily,

before I continue with my bend, sort, and pin.

I hold up a shirt with a newly placed hole.

"How did this happen?" I ask the dog.

I realize it is about time for the shirt to retire anyhow,

a situation that seems to happen a lot lately.

"These kids grow fast, don't they?"

I ask either of the two who always responds with the same silent look.

I hang another piece of boy clothing as I look up into the blue sky.

It is just a daily job, this laundry cycle of wear, wash, hang and then put away,

a reminder of memories made and ones still in the threads,

to enjoy the days and the simplicity of moments.

Linking up to:

Lisajobaker.com: Five-minute-Friday: Laundry

No Bulls.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

it's the question every child is asked.

Small.

A small person with a big question.

"A farmer."

That was always my answer.

"I want a farm with cows and calves, but no bulls."

Then I grew into a teenager, and my dreams diminished behind big hair and make-up,

and the awkward realization that boys existed.

What if God didn't want me to be a farmer?

What if God wanted me to be a missionary, or a teacher

or a teacher's wife?

Should I put my dreams before what God wanted for me?

So I set those dreams aside.

It was just a small dream anyhow.

A small dream by a small child.

I studied.

I graduated from high school.

I went far, far away to college and met lots of boys,

lots of possibilities to go anywhere in the world.

And then I came home.

I came home disappointed that the life I had wondered about,

the expectation of a new adventure,

somewhere,

anywhere,

was put back on the shelf as I took up the jobs I could get,

the jobs I had done before I had gotten my grand education.

And I swallowed hard that awful taste of humility.

Rebekah.

That's who the pastor's wife mentioned one day in a women's class at church.

A small women with a small bucket.

She stood at the well one day watering a stranger's camels

and the next thing she knew, her whole life had turned into the adventure she'd always dreamed of.

And then one ordinary day, I helped my sister move into her new home in a new place

and went through a small door

into her new church,

and met my new adventure:

a farmer.

And now we have cows and calves...

and a bull resulting from a castration mishap,
waiting to go to the butcher.

And I have to smile at the ways of God, His keen sense of humor,
and His joy of hearing a small child's dreams.

This blog post is in for Lisa Jo's writing for 5 minutes about the word prompt:
"small".

Lisajobaker.com: Five-minute-Friday: Small.

Open.

I drop fragments from my life

like the crumbs from my breakfast toast.

They are bits and pieces,

dots of moments.

Open,

...strewn,

haphazardly

for others' eyes

to pick up.

I tap a phrase,

poke out the phonics

to quote the words,

the letters that spell out my life

in that moment.

There they are,

as I see them...

entering the eyes

of somebody else

who may not see them as I have.

My day

is

now

shown

in

those

words.

I sit back.

I push a control

nuzzled under the palm of my hand.

I see other's words.

Moments from their day.

Thousands of miles away.

Tap. 

Tap.

Click.

A screen masquerade.

Friends.

Family.

College roommates.

Childhood friends.

New friends.

Fellow church people.

Acquaintances.

Strangers.

Reaching across the miles.

God.

He sees.

He sees the intricate web that ties all those status updates together:

Life.

He knows the face behind the words;

the feelings that wrap the phrases;

the life lived out.

He sees us as we truly are:

Open.

The gift He has bestowed.

Behind every key pushed,

every letter typed,

every thought and moment relayed...

a breath.

Facebook?

Lifebook.

Joining

The Gypsy Mama's Five-minute-Friday: "Open"

where we write unedited for 5 minutes.

Unexpected Purple

There she is...

I have to stop.
There's no denying the sight I see.
Nothing can draw me away.
The view before me demands my response.
I set my paint brush down, grabbing the nearest rag and quickly wiping the colored streaks that have managed to stain my fingers.  I hurry, afraid the moment will pass.

Tossing the rag back onto the table-cloth covered table, grabbing my camera, I fall to my knees and snap the photos.

The images break sunlight into my soul.
Smiles bloom, like bubbles erupting under that spray of a laughing waterfall.

She turns to see me...

and the camera is set aside as she flings herself into my arms

to finish the momentary magic with her sticky, giddy hugs; her arms wrapping around my neck,

her little form still relinquishing the last echos of wonderful baby scents.

Sweetness...unexpected.

Linking up to Gypsy Mama's

Five Minute Friday:

where we write uneditted

for 5 minutes

on Friday.

Two.

From Gypsy Mama's Prompt:

"JOY."

Two.

Discovering everything in my kitchen cupboards.

Hiding the remote.

Removing your diaper without my knowing

because you think you don't need it anymore.

But you do. 

Copying your brother's laughter.

Feeding yourself...

miserably.

Stealing everyone's shoes...

so everyone only has one of each to wear.

Running, falling, bumping, crying...

asking for a kiss to fix it.

Begging for 'noonles' and 'choca milk'

Stealing 'Li-lette's' pocketbook, Levi's pet worms, my lipstick.

Rushing to the door when Daddy comes home because,

"I wanna help feed the cows, too."

Making me clean up messes...

all...

day...
 

long.

But despite my sometimes frustrated attitude,

when I see your smile,

when you grab my face in your little hands and say,

"Mommy, I lub you,"

and when I see that sweet face sleeping,

I'm reminded that you have given our home,

our family,

my life...

joy.

And I'm thankful.

Writing uneditted for five minutes
on Friday.

Also linking up to:

In Real Life

The Prompt this week from

(Writing for 5 minutes without editting

on the topic she gives).

 "In Real Life"

"Is there anything special I can pray for you about today?"

His words stumped me,

the man on the phone from our Christian health care group.

Is there?

Special?

No, not special.

Not enough to disturb God when He has the weight of the world

on His hands.

Funny how I think that way.

I never did when I was little.

I had the faith of a child then,

and knew that God cared about my little life.

After all, he cared for the ants that I enjoyed watching

as they carried away the cheerios I'd stuffed in my pocket to save
just for them.

He cares about the ants...

just as I did.

But somehow,

through the years,

I got this idea of a level of importance,

like God was too busy to care.

Little things:

like the desk I'd mumbled a prayer for one day

when we were heading out to yard sales.

"It would be nice to find a desk, God,

but not if you're too busy.

Just if you think it's a good idea."

But it wasn't.

Not that day.

Two days before we were to start home-schooling,

I ran into the perfect desk at the economy store

for $2.

 

Funny how God has a sense of humor that way,

and a time plan that's different than mine.

But that doesn't mean He doesn't care

or

that He doesn't listen.

In real life,
 God does care.

In real life,

God listens to little prayers just as much as the big ones
because they're all the same size to Him.

Linking up my painted desk 

(base is a plum-colored satin paint

and top is Old White Chalk paint)

to:

Welcome

Gypsy Mama's
 
The Gypsy Mama

1. Write for 5 minutes flat with no editing, tweaking or self critiquing.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in 

Prompt:

"Welcome"

Late in winter we prepared for you.

We pruned those who needed it

in their dormacy.

We fertilized you with rotted manure from the cows;

and although this may not have seemed so nice...

we had hopes for you

and we knew what you needed.

The spring came

and the rains,

 

and with them your leaves burst with bright green

and the little baby berries made us dream.

Now you give us fruit.

We welcome your gracious bounty.

God has bathed you with sunshine

watered you in your time of need,

and now in the heat,

your berries droop

and you give us the chance to enjoy sweet rewards,

to teach our children the value of hard work

and planning,

and hoping,

and counting,

Each must pick their share

so that when they eat their raspberry pancakes

in the cold of January's winter snowy storms,

they will remember

and

our work

 

will seem to them

worth the toil.

They will taste it's sweetness.

Hip Homeschool Moms