• My Poems

    Any-a-gram {a #poem}

    I hate it that I am so sporadic inconsistent, not persistent,          no straight-ahead-in-a-line-to-the-finish. I’m distracted, side-tracked stops and starts, mis-matched piles, can’t remember the whats and whens. No perfect files, labeled loudly       I  A M  I N  C O N T R O L. I feign at neatness, completeness escaping me ever in process, a mess in the making. Oh, why can’t I be like those orderly others, those finishers perfectly packing their lives in a box, the rank and file, who smile      at me, “Oh poor thing, she’s so erratic.”  Well— I am resigned to the wholeof me, my hits and misses marking a difference, scattering…

  • My Poems

    I am From {a #poem}

    I am from doughboy pools and homemade Barbie houses from Huffy bikes and Helms Bakery donuts. I am from three sisters to a room and broad green bermuda lawns. I am from bright sandy beaches and weeping willows whose drooping green sheltered me from California’s sun. I am from Coppertone and Sun-In from Helen and Wes and John. I am from belting out a tune and scribbling in the dark from roller skating and tree-fort-building from fighting at the top of my lungs and finding quiet at any cost. I am from Bible stories with Mrs. Cluck and anywhere-you-can-take-5-kids-on-a-Sunday. I am from the Hebjums and Lindseys, a Best at heart…

  • My Poems

    65 is Just a Number {a #poem}

    There is no statute of limitations on vision. My old eyes register a darting messenger of God’s blatant, creative joy. Watch the winged creation hover in a web of air. Spy a sleuthing intruder snap-tapping its way across the wood, tunneling away and down the outside stairs. No expiration (yet) for hearing, cataloguing birdvoice and the chipclacking of breakfast at the feeder, the squeaking insistence at the fountain. Teach me to number my days, Lord, to register the ways your wind ruffles the tablecloth in the morning’s gentle breeze, how cool, shortened shadows signal this sea change of a season rippling towards quieter times. May I live this calendar daily,…

  • On Writing

    On God’s Timing (and Rejection Letters)

    “Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.” Little by little, the bird builds its nest. (from the French) Why does it always seem like the final hours of a long trip last forever when all you can think about is your comfortable bed? My husband and I had just spent a recent weekend with our son and his family so the two of them could work on car repairs; their family van was kaput primarily because of a timing belt. Clearly life and car repairs mirror each other often—timing is everything. Now, I have no idea what a timing belt does but I’ve heard my husband moan more than once…

  • Made Things

    Small Oceans

    Redondo Beach, CA  I was about 6 I went looking for a photo today, one that’s embedded in memory from happy times at the beach. When I found this essay I couldn’t help notice God’s continual message to me–He is always speaking, and the word I’ve been hearing him whisper these days is “Trust.” Six years have passed since I wrote this and the message is still the same, a sacred echo to me from the Holy Spirit. Circumstances may be different, there are more wrinkles, deeper friendships, a richer deposit of grace in my life, but God’s love is the same, deep as the ocean.    I’ve been learning…

  • Life in General

    Names Matter

        “Nana, do you have any kids?”   I am wedged on the couch between Abigail, 4 1/2 and Paul Silas, 2 1/2. We are reading a bedtime story. ‘Goodnight Moon’, no doubt; it is always ‘Goodnight Moon.’ “Well, Abi, I have two kids. One is your Auntie Leah and the other is your Papa.” “Oh.” (Maybe she wanted to know if there was anyone else in the house to play with besides her Grandpa and I…) I could tell by the sound of her voice  she had absolutely no idea what I just said. Paul, of course, was oblivious; he is after all, only 2-ish. (l to r) Hanan, Peter, Abigail and Paul…

  • Made Things

    Jumping in with Both Feet

    Jan. 23, 2012 Snow day It’s not actually a snow day here in the Seattle area.   It’s a ‘recover-from-the-snow-and-ice-and-wind-damage-day’ so there is no school. And, since I’m a teacher, blessed me, there’s oodles of extra time from the Time Keeper, my Heavenly Father, to do what He’s called me to do–write to you. But first, since we rarely if ever get weather like this, here are a few pictures…. Ice crystals on fir branches Front yard with very flexible, ice-embedded jacquemontii birch trees. Poor viburnum, Pink Dawn, was just beginning to bud…. Since I have no idea what to say or where to start, I’ll offer you this. My first blog post…