Five Minute Friday…Small

Today felt awkward and I avoided it for as long as I could. Then I sat down to write, because this is how it’s done on Fridays.

I’m linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday.

Five minutes.

One word.

No editing.

No rethinking.

Just writing.

Today’s word: Small

photo credit: thetimes.co.uk

GO

Sometimes I forget that they’re small.

I look at them and expect them to reason and think and act just like me. I treat them like they are mini-adults with decades of experience behind them to help shape their decisions and reactions.

I forget that they are learning in this sometimes crazy, mixed-up world full of questions and unknown. I wonder how they can learn when so much is under this big umbrella of a question mark.

Sometimes I forget that they are small when I hear them argue or refuse to pickup their toys.

I forget that by Friday we are all feeling more fried than we know, and maybe what we needs is a bit of grace.

I forget so much about them just because they are small.

But their size masks their biggest traits. When I am so busy expecting them to be bigger, I don’t realize they already are.

I watched my son share a piece of his new candy with his friend. It was a proud mama moment. But then I watched my daughter give her brother a piece of her candy because she thought it was so nice that he shared. The moment was over in less than 60 seconds, but it felt anything but small.

Maybe I have it all backwards. The places where I think they are small, is where their greatest strengths lie. And the places where I expect them to be big, I need to let go and allow them to be small.

Maybe I need to be more like them.

Because I’m really not good at sharing my candy.

STOP

Motherhood feels like dancing blindfolded in shoes two sizes too big. But sometimes you remember to smile and enjoy the dance.

If you want to join in check out Five Minute Fridays.

Advertisements

Five Minute Friday…Garden

Sometimes it’s the process not the harvest that matters.

I’m linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday.

Five minutes.

One word.

No editing.

No rethinking.

Just writing.

Today’s word: Garden

photo credit: thinklikemaxwell.blogspot.com

GO

So many times I flip through glossy magazines looking at pictures of lush, vibrant gardens. I see the rich greens in neat rows and produce at the peak of ripeness. Usually there is a woman not far away in a floppy hat and garden gloves smiling without a speck of dirt on her. And I think:

I want that. I want a garden like that.

The magazine shows but a moment in the life of that garden. See the truth is that the garden spent more time looking like a mess than a glossy magazine spread.

There were days it was barren waiting for something, even a weed to show signs of life.

Then as the life began pushing through the dirt, it looked beautiful, but choices had to be made and the weakest sprouts had to be “thinned out” for the sake of the best.

There were days filled with dirty knees and weeks spent with dirt that never seemed to come out from beneath the gardeners fingernails. There were times the sweat dripped and no one was camera ready.

Then after days that pushed into weeks that plowed into months, the garden looked like the snapshot.

Somehow we see three seconds in the life and think that it’s real.

I wonder if we would want the garden if we had seen pictures every day from seed to weed to drought to bugs. I wonder if we would still want the garden if we had the black dirt under our nails and our backs ached from tending faithfully day after day.

Maybe this is my garden, and this is my attempt to capture the dirt covered, real life days. I don’t want my life to be a three second snapshot. I want my life to be full of the dirt of sacrifice under my nails and the aching that comes with the weight of caring. I want my life to be spent in wait and work alike, knowing when it’s time for each one. I want my life to grow and produce fruit, but only at the right time. And I want my life to scatter seeds of hope for a new season.

I don’t want a garden.

I want my life to be a garden.

STOP

I spent more than 5 minutes in my garden today. I broke the rules, but I danced and I lived and I loved it.

If you want to join in check out Five Minute Fridays.

Five Minute Friday…Write

There is freedom in letting go of right for write. My heart that is so inclined to perfection needed this today; maybe yours does, too.

I’m linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday.

Five minutes.

One word.

No editing.

No rethinking.

Just writing.

Today’s word: Write

...

photo credit: crossingislandnatur.tumblr.com

GO

Did you ever notice that write may sound the same as right, but they are so far from the same thing? One beckons Just Do It while the other stands above us wagging a finger in disapproval.

Here’s the thing: they are the same.

As long as I write, then I’m doing something right.

If I’ve been called to writing than my only responsibility is to do my best. If I do that, then I’ve got it right. You may not think so, at times I may not think so, but there is one who does, and is there any other approval that matters?

Sometimes I think that I have to get everything right and then I’ll BE. But the truth is that the right comes in the doing not the perfecting. Even perfection leaves someone in the cold.

I’ve never been published anywhere other than this little blog, but from what I’ve read by many authors when the book is done and it’s out there for the world you’ll still find things that aren’t quite right. Typos, word choices, unclear passages, unfinished business. But God never asked us to get it right. He simply asked us to do everything unto him.

So today I write, and somehow that feels just right.

STOP

Feeling inspired in the dance…I hope you do, too!

If you want to join in check out Five Minute Fridays.

Five Minute Friday…Visit

It’s Friday and I’m back linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday.

Five minutes.

One word.

No editing.

No rethinking.

Just writing.

Today’s word: Visit

GO

photo credit: shenaniganswillensue.tumblr.com

Four hours every Sunday. It happened whether I wanted it to or not. A judge had decided and that is what I was required: four hours every Sunday with my father—my biological father.

I had always looked at these visits with the same enthusiasm as a long car ride or a visit to the dentist (mind you I nearly had a root canal at 5). And yet these visits were required, by law. I never do well when someone tells me I have to do something.

At one point I had decided I had enough. I didn’t want to go anymore and no one could make me (or that’s what my fifteen year old mind had shouted to the world).

Looking back it wasn’t as bad as I thought. In fact, I may have learned something.

I’ve learned that all that is shiny and fun is usually not as good as you think it is. It may provide a glitzy reflection, but that’s usually where it ends.

I’ve learned something can hurt and be good for you at the same time. But you usually can’t see through the pain to the peace.

I’ve learned that I can hurt, but I have a choice to heal. And I’ve chosen. Over and over again.

7×70.

Literally. I would say “I forgive him” 490 times a day until it didn’t hurt anymore.

I think I had forgotten that. And when it hurts again I do the math and I become more of what I’m supposed to be, all because of a visit.

STOP

It feels good when pain no longer pierces.

If you want to join in check out Five Minute Fridays.

Taffy and Construction

photo credit: kitchentablescraps.com

Words feel like taffy today and my fingers are sticky.

I keep pulling apart and twisting and pulling, but right now things just look like a mess. If I stop now I am left with sticky hands and strings of confection that amount to nothing.

So I am here.

Pulling and twisting.

Unsure it will really amount to anything lovely and sweet.

But twisting and pulling just the same.

I realized I’m a finish line kind of person. I’m not so much about the process as I am about the product.

That makes writing a tricky endeavor.

But it’s either give up or change.

If only change felt good and easy. That would be lovely. But even change is a process, mocking my desire for destination over journey.

I’m choosing to exhale, but this time I’m getting busy.

Busy with words, even in their mess.

So I sit here with sticky fingers willing my words to become.

Please pardon my appearance; apparently I’m under construction.