Our Happy Dance

Joy in the day to day! Joy in who we are together! Joy unspeakable (1Peter 1:8)!

What Momma Did

I promised myself I’d join one of my favorite bloggers, Lisa-jo, for her Five Minute Friday posts and that I’d be brave and link up. Really? We are supposed to just write? Timer is set. . .

The prompt is What Momma Did. . .and for the record, five minutes doesn’t do her justice.

Here goes nothing. . .

My Momma, took time to learn my heart and she was my personal cheering section. I wouldn’t cheer from the football field without looking for Momma in the bleachers.  I wish I could write for you how she smelled, how her perfume would warm a room but I don’t know the right words. What is the word for the most addictive laugh on the planet? She has it. She’d dance in the kitchen with a dish towel. She’d run a sewing machine at two am. to finish my prom dress. She’d spend time praying for me at the foot of her bed after dinner,  and I’d walk in and know that her bended head meant she had me covered and she was praying for big extraordinary things for her girls.  She offered security in a rather dark and huge world and I adore every inch of her. Now I see her in my daughter… every. ..single… day and I marvel at this generational blessing that allows for a legacy of love to filter down and just keep going and going and going. My girl, my girl too has Momma’s laugh and Momma’s eyes and Momma’s dark hair and chin. It’s because of my Mother that I ever dared to dream about Motherhood in the first place. She taught me to dream.


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When Your Community Is Hurting

My friends and I talk about community a lot. We talk about how to appropriately “work out” friendship. This has been a week of heartache for many of my inner circle and today I’ve spent lots of time considering how to effectively walk my dearest through the rain. I think it was Mother Teresa who talked about there being no great acts, just small acts with great love. Well, here goes nothing.

For the friend who is facing dark days and nights,  my message is this: no night, however dark, can dim the light I see in you. You are amazing and beautiful.  I want to know you are hearing me but this isn’t something technology allows for. You are Christmas lights and fourth of July fireworks. Get me? You brilliantly ran hurdles through your past and you’ve arrived here in this place only to find there is more work needing doing. You are tired. You are weepy but you are not alone. Allow me to get angry for you, to bring tissue, to help you sift through the wreckage until a better day.  I feel privileged to be here.

For the friend who thinks she’s invisible… Right, you are invisible like my left arm is invisible. I see you. More importantly God sees you.  Keep that beautiful chin lifted toward the sun. We are partners in crime. We keep pace with one another even though we are roaming in different zip codes. You need time. You need connection and conversation. We can make that happen. Thank you for telling me. Does it help you to know, I’ve been lonely for you too?

For the friend who is feeling knocked down by illness and is feeling frustration and neglect.  I’m frustrated for you.  I’ve prayed as best I can, and I sent you hot water bottles and calming tea (check your mailbox) and I’ve thrown more coins in my “airline ticket” jar. At the rate I’m going, I’ll fly to where you are sometime before the youngest graduates; at least you know I think about it. If you had a chord for each time I think of it, you’d have an opus with your name on it.

Friends, I’ve learned so much from you. I’ve learned when your community is hurting, you gotta take time to listen and to really see. You gotta love stronger, sing a little louder and pray a little more fiercely. You make hot-dish. You invite yourself over. You rely on each other and sometimes you have to lend your mustard seed of faith to another so they can press on. This is how I’ve learned we do friendship in this little corner of the planet.

This small thing, well, it might just count as the most corny post of all time. Hopefully, though, you’ll read these words and feel the shelter of my umbrella and maybe all the hope for you that comes with it.




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