A Window to the World

A window to the world,

over the kitchen sink.

This was one of my mother’s major considerations when house hunting, which was done more than two dozen times due to the nature of her husband’s career. 

Her best loved homes provided a view to the outside world as she orchestrated meals and mounds of dishes for eight. In the Georgia pines a tiny house gifted her with backyard views of her young children at play and clothes drying on the line. The St. Louis house had an expansive bird perching hedge just beyond the sink glass. In Minnesota and Virginia, split level designs raised the view beyond the sink to mid tree heights and vistas of neighboring yards. Across the years, from state to state, she enhanced the daily scenes with feeders inviting the birds, brilliant blooms spreading along a fence line or hanging in planters, and a picnic table welcoming meals outside. It was a priority, even I as a child knew, the kitchen window was a priority.

Then there came a house with many fine attributes, historic and gracious. It became our home despite lacking the longed for window above the kitchen sink. Progressively, across the decades of living there, the wall above the kitchen sink was transformed into an exhibit provoking thought and covered with beauty. She curated  an assemblage of small art prints, inspirational quotes, clever cartoons clipped from the paper, prayers, scripture, poems, paintings from greeting cards or magazines. The spread was taped and pinned, fitted and aligned as a publishing house would arrange and edit its best quarterly press release. As a young adult home to visit, reading mom’s collection above the sink became an honored tradition and fodder for deep conversation over morning coffee  ~ a window to the inner world of a our mother’s intensely creative mind and deeply spiritual soul. 

Linking with the communities at Coffee for the Heart, Tell His Story, & Give Me Grace.

A Reading Mother

Marlene, 1978

Sunday’s, after church and lunch, mother would read the Sunday paper. Glasses would perch low on the bridge of her nose. She sat, legs crossed, on the couch, still in church clothes, heels kicked off, a long string of pearls and that small pocket watch on a gold chain graced her slender neck. She read closely, page by page, throughout the afternoon well past the sun’s brightest rays spilling across the hardwood floor. 

In the quiet evening hours mom was frequently found reclined, pillows stacked behind her head, book in hand. The thick volumes of historical fiction and poetry on her bedside table and the half a dozen National Geographic or art books stacked on the living room coffee table were ever changing. She was a devoted library patron who scoured those shelves for history, culture, and faith in every genre. Her home was littered with books and her life was peopled with fellow readers. Book Clubs were not common in small town midAmerica in that era and yet, mom had one. The community of women gathered monthly to enjoy the brisk conversation that good reads foster and I had the privilege to be their guest one summer morning. Suffice it to say that one does not really know their mom until you have heard her converse articulately about the literary merits of a classic book of fiction or a recent best seller. I was startled by her range of knowledge and impressed by her articulate manner of discussion. It was a watershed moment for me, seeing her in the fullness of her character.  

She read to to be inspired. She read to study and she read to teach. There were years that read to her young children. There were years that she taught adult Bible study classes. Then there were years that she returned to the University.  A corner of the living room was set aside for portraits of her children under which was placed her desk. It was a beautiful, oval, antique oak, writing desk, place at an angle from the framed, wide beveled glass, window. It was paired with a carved oak chair with a caned seat. Their uniquely grained surfaces and finely carved details were stunning. It is poignant to recall her seated there, under the lamp light, with opened books leaning against each other, spread out in front of her as she studied. She relished social sciences, Russian literature, Women’s Studies, and Biblical history. Tolstoy, Friedan, the Gospels, Hebrew texts, and multiple versions of Bibles covered her desk in those years. During this season of life Mama Marlene’s slight frame seemed to gain noticeable stature. She stood taller. She spoke with even more eloquence. Her mind was lit up by academic pursuits. I will forever remember the joy and passion that she claimed from the rigors and knowledge of advanced learning. Her reading was perennial. Every season, any hour, life long. It is fair to say she read voraciously.

Her children too, became readers. Our professions and interests mirror hers, in reinvented interpretations of our own. The wellspring, undeniably, was our mother’s example and her passion for the wealth of imaginative, intellectual, and spiritual inspiration that can be found in the printed word. 




{Joining these writing communities: Click here for Unforced Rhythms or Essential Fridays. Click on the buttons below for Still Saturday and The Weekend Brew to go to this week's gathering of posts.}

Mary Speaks

A Mother's Day tribute to the young woman who carried our Lord, nurtured Him through childhood, and bore the full experience of His life and dying.

Mary Speaks: 

by Madeleine L’Engle

O you who bear the pain of the whole earth, I bore you.
O you whose tears gave human tears their worth, I laughed with you.
You, who when your hem is touched, give power, I nourished you.
Who turn the day to night in this dark hour, light comes from you.
O you who hold the world in your embrace, I carried you.
Whose arms encircled the world with your grace, I once held you.
O you who laughed and ate and walked the shore, I played with you.
And I, who with all others, you died for, now I hold you.
May I be faithful to this final test, in this last hour I hold my child, my son;

His body close enfolded to my breast:
The holder held, the bearer borne.
Mourning to joy, darkness to morn.
Open, my arms; your work is done.

Taken from The Ordering of Love ~ New & Collected Poems of Madeleine L'Engle

{Linking with other writer's sharing faith at Still Saturday, Sunday Community, and The Weekend Brew. Click on those buttons below to peruse more meditations on faith.}

His Royal Blue Stole

Artist: S. Burns 1913

Light dawning 

far on the stormy horizon,
his royal blue stole; 

those always caught my eye first. 

I am the good shepherd; 

I know my sheep

and my sheep know me ~

John 10:14

I recall the painting hanging in the upstairs hallway at one time and then later... was it near her small secretary? A familiar portrayal of a favorite Psalm. Most likely a replication of an illustration found in a Bible. But the paint, the rich color of oil luster in rising ridges of brush strokes, the shade of blue, the bird of prey hovering overhead: all drew the eye and the heart into the the perilous moment of the shepherd’s determined rescue. 

It is a simple hand painted work, dated 1913. Found in an antique store somewhere up in the far north woods. Over decades of time, after the chain of legacy settled, this painting of my mother’s came to be mine. After more time and a maturing of my aesthetic sensibilities, hanging such an overtly religious painting in my home studio, became the right thing to do.

I have wondered, did mother see herself in this image as I see myself? 

Did she see herself just as I have clinging to the cliffs of life’s desperate moments; 

rocks slippery, body bruised, hands and feet cut, the struggle raging so long?   

I know she had her share of storms, as every life does. 

The Lord is my shepherd... I will fear no evil; for you are with me;

  Psalm 23: 1, 4

I know too, that she honed a deep faith across the years. Studying diligently, serving compassionately, and teaching faithfully. In sum I know it was faith that gave her the wisdom to lift her eyes in search of her Lord’s outstretched hand in every challenge. 

Knowing that, is precious knowledge,

as much a part of her legacy to me, as was this simple painting of faith. 

For the former I am bone deep, heart full, grateful.

Below; my recent recordings among the mounting pages that list the gifts bestowed on my life each day. Counted along with Ann and those linking at Holy Experience

920 mother’s legacy of faith, her example, the momentos passed down that evidence of her belief

924 laughter shared with daughter over her babies’ humorous antics

928 spring green, tender, new grass spreading across the earth

929 opportunity to kneel, bare my heart’s errors, receive grace

930 iris petals, lavender transparency against dusky light

...with humble gratitude to the Lord

God-Incidences...When He's Been There All Along

"I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land, I will never leave you until I have done what I promised you."           Genesis 28:15

There are three of us on the couch. Me in bifocals, them in diapers.  Me spattered with the remnants of the day's meals, sneezes, and floor play. Beside me my daughter's two precious bundles; hoped for, prayed for, for years. They are entrusted to my care from time to time. Two fraternal gifts carried heavy for 30 some weeks; mothered tenderly now for almost 15 months.


It is dusk. We are cozy. They are glistening with the sheen of infant beauty after baths and pajamas. Settled against one another on the nursery couch we watch Baby's Praise Collection DVD to wind down after a toddler's marathon energy day. It is a precious moment, sweet with with all that is important to childhood.


It happens in a blink. I briefly turn to the side table. Peripheral vision reveals a pajama-ed, toppling twin, overboard somersault fashion. Landing face up crying in ... what? Startled scare? Internal injury?

[My heart leaps to prayer.

Dear Lord, be present here! Dear Lord, this treasure here!]

I place quiet twin on the floor. Hoover over the toppled one who reaches for Grandma. Scooping him into arms and onto lap, I scan breathing rate, posture, limbs.

[Dear Lord, is all well?]

Beyond the holding I notice the long, over sized, floor pillow at my feet. A new one added to the room just today. Casually placed at the base of the couch. The one that cushioned the child's head-long fall. The one that oh so coincidentally is stitched with this toppled child's name on it. I stare. I dare, to wonder were these incidents divinely lead?

 [Were you here Lord all along? For this child? For the purpose he yet needs to fulfill? For this grandma who prayed for these care-giving hours to be blessed with safety?]

Little one calms, sniffles in the curve of head, arms, and lap that encircles him. He breathes easy, sits comfortably, quiets. No undo harm appears to be present.

[I close eyes to whisper...

Thanksgiving Lord for the gifts of this moment. For the good fortune of lithe little bodies that withstand toddler tumbles. For unexpected circumstances that intercede against harm. I choose to see your hand on this moment Lord. I linger here amidst these [now] clamoring toddlers, to raise my heart in thanksgiving Lord.]

Delightedly pleased to join others at the Gratitude Community, God-Incidences, and SUNDAY links. Grateful for the telling over there of God's hand on every life.

Miracles Defined by the Beholder

Madonna, Kimball Art Museum Fort Worth, TX

Miracles are defined by the beholder. Only the one who knows the back story can identify that there is miraculous energy imbedded in seemingly common events.

Only such a beholder can identify long-ago dream content that is now occurring in real time; prophetic foreshadowing now firmly believed as having been prophetic.

Only the beholder can witness to verbal remarks that display a dramatic change of heart when compared to preceding history.

Only the beholder can witness to the comfortable, bonded, even affectionate interchange between those who no longer are burdened by the despair of estrangement.

Only the beholder can witness to a long journey of pain and trauma that has reached a plateau, turned the corner, and taken on elements of joy, laughter, and deep regeneration.

I am the humble beholder of such miracles. I have experienced the great good grace of our Lord working toward wholeness for His people. In an earlier time in circumstances only God ultimately understands, my child and I were estranged.

Today many years past pain and unceasing prayer, the child has become a beautiful woman devotedly mothering her own babies. We have found and recognize ourselves within each other; divinely bonded by common characteristics, shared preferences, remembered history. Together we talk over morning coffee, we share magazines and books, we laugh about our pets, we critique houses on HGTV, fuss over her grandfather, and we’re equally besotted with her precious babies.

Blessedly, we have reached a new plateau, turned a corner, and we dream joyously of the future we intend to share.

“I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten … And ye shall eat in plenty, and be satisfied, and praise the name of the LORD your God, that hath dealt wondrously with you…” Joel 2:25-26 KJV

Posting here to join the Gratitude Community, numerous journal entries trace some of the miracles mentioned in today’s post and my occasions for bowing before the Lord in unending thanksgiving.

45 ~ Daughter calls with baby updates

46 ~ Grandsons’ mirror Mama's and Nana’s azure blue eyes

86 ~ Daughter and son in-law banter over supper dishes and baby bottles

198 ~ Daughter’s voice soothing her babies

205 ~ Opportunities to tell her stories of her own babyhood

265 ~ Opportunities to pray over my grandchildren

269 ~ Mother - daughter early morning coffee and laughter as babes play

272 ~ Making memories with grandma visits

289 ~ Long visits, the heart swells, wounds heal  

462 ~ Gratitude Lord to be with daughter and babes for memory precious visit

474 ~ Early mornings in the glider swing with babes & their mama

556 ~ Grandsons’ babbling over the phone