Arden/Letters to Arden

Letters to Arden: The Eve of Three

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On a spring evening in May the lawn tractor’s rumble disturbs the placid village scene. It’s Daddy-O on his vintage Bolens, with Arden along for the ride.

Arden, about to be three tomorrow. Have you reached this eve already?
I step out onto the back porch and it’s all slanting golden light and fresh cut grass, and the two of you are in your own little world. You are in your pink spring coat and your “jelly bean” rubber boots, and you are singing a song at the top of your lungs! I can’t hear you over the rumble, and I suppose that’s why it’s so much fun.
Daddy waves, the other arm holding you over the bumps, and you wave too in a careless sort of way, smiling through your boisterous song.
On the eve of three, there is an eager wonder about your days.
On the eve of three, you want to know whether the caterpillar we saw yesterday has made its cocoon and got its big wings yet.
You want to know if it’s windy enough to fly the kite.
You want to know if our neighbour is home from school yet so you can play with her.
You want to know what day it is because you know that Friday is your birthday, and you concentrate on holding up just three fingers to show me how old you will be.  
On the eve of three, the whole world is opening up before you.
Apple blossoms and adventures in the woods!
Bicycles! Birthday parties!
Counting chicken eggs and chasing bubbles on the breeze!
Every little thing is a big thing, just like this tractor ride.
Tonight you are queen of the back yard, and with one of Daddy’s arms around you, you are ready for whatever tomorrow brings. And we will welcome Three together with the morning sun, but right now I’m just standing here taking you in, both arms full of the eve of three.

~lg
parenting

Slow…

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Mother, some days are hotter than others.

The demands and defiance fly like sparks, and you are prone to ignite up with them.

Oh, mother, mother, when the fire blazes, come stand in the cloud and hear this word:

 “The LORD, the LORD, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin.” *

Hear this word of your Father and this heart for the child.

Compassion is cooling and grace takes its time. Slow to anger.

Stop and let all of this goodness descend.


When anger wants to shout, love whispers His Name first.

 

*Exodus 34:6-7

~lg
communion/love/theology

Pour – a communion reflection

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You pour your love into our hearts. Yes, in this I can and must hope, for I come to communion empty, drained out by the steady drip of day-after-day. And what can I do but open wide and guzzle, drink this juice like a thirsty toddler, needing to consume the very nature of love, which is your crimson sacrifice. I don’t need a shotglass, I need a baptism, but maybe this sacrament can split me open till my parchment paper covering dissolves into the deep cracks of spirit and I am filled. It is but a cup, but the substance is all my hope, all by faith, all so real. And I might just have enough of your blood sugar to keep me going, to keep me loving, because my love does fail but your real presence does not. So turn these drops into a downpour and me into visible grace.
 
~lg
Jack/joy/love

One red balloon

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Once upon a one year old, a little boy fell in love with a red balloon.

It was your very first birthday party. There was a blue frosted boat cake with a candle, and singing, and presents, and the noisy joy of running children, and even Grandma. Your world was a merry one that day, hands dug into chocolate cake and ice cream, hugs from adoring family and friends. But your whole world stopped when one red balloon was snipped from the bunch and handed to you. You were hooked.   
Eyes wide, face turned up, floating somewhere between awe and glee, you held on for sheer joy. It bobbed and danced, played peek-a-boo and tickled your nose, and followed you wherever you went. You wouldn’t let go.
The party faded, for this was all you ever wanted and didn’t know it till now.
Funny how perfection can sneak up on you like that. You look over your shoulder just to make sure it’s still there. It is, and you glow rosy with it.
Oh, the wonder of first love – your heart captured on a string and lifted straight up as if by magic. You hold on and on, and this is pure happiness, and why would anyone ever let go? No, nothing compares to this singular balloon. Nothing compares to the weightless delight of one year old love.

~lg
Easter

This morning

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Is it a woman’s weakness that makes me want to cling to you? The exaggerated emotion of one easily overwhelmed? Or is this love?

And what love is this that the life squeezed out before my eyes now stands here speaking my very name? This is joy and longing and bewilderment and how can this be? You are warmth, you are solidity, you are strength, and I never want to let this go. Too soon, too soon you untangle me and tell me to tell the others, and I cannot help but speak of what I have heard and seen. Yet I would make a garden just for you if this morning could be every morning.

I run with this news a fire in my bones, my mouth touched with coal, and I cry holy, holy, holy and hallelujah, and yes, your warmth still lingers on my fingertips, and yes, I am but a foolish woman, but you chose me and I will shame the wise with this bodily gospel, for I was never alive till today.

~lg