Hullo (along with some "I Wants")

It's been almost three months, and our days are full. Fall's almost over. The leaves lying thick under the maple are slick with cold rain, a wet bog of rust and umber, and Piper rasps by my feet, sleeping through her coughs. My fingers are stiff, unwieldy, and stumble on the keys. Winter-cold weather hasn't even arrived yet, and I find myself looking for spring.

I've been thinking lately about the utter wrongness of death and the utter rightness of joy and about having eyes that are open to truth and hearts that are open to others. The thoughts come unannounced and leave just as suddenly when a needy voice breaks through, but they keep coming, sliding into the moments between moments, filling the space that lies between washing dishes and sweeping the floor and, at night, in the time between awake and asleep. They seem heavy with import, but as I try to write down what I've learned, I find it's all a jumble.

Caught with these thoughts is an awareness glowing at the center. Every Sunday's liturgy finds me communally confessing sin with the local body. As I join my voice to the whole, asking again for Father God to forgive, my thoughts skittishly fly from sin to sin. The many voices, a chorus of sin acted and need realized, become the backdrop for a whizzing picture-show of the many ways I've failed the week-- sometimes mere minutes-- before, and do you know what I see? I see that my most grievous sins are against those I love the most. Against my children, to whom I often show not the Father's face but the dregs of human frailty instead. Against my Heart, who lends me warmth and lifts me up, and to whom I often fail to do the same.

I want my words and actions to always move with what I know in my heart-- that the gift of raising these four young girls at this exact time is special and passes too quickly, that these exact moments will never come again. They are one-shot wonders, and I should soak them up and wrap them inside for the times when I no longer can take new laughter in the morning and little footfalls by our bed in the middle of the night for granted. I want this truth to burn away selfishness and apathy. It is hard to deny self, but there is a rescue from this body of death. When I am ready to speak sharply, to act in hasty anger, without thought for my children or their hearts, may the Father step between me and them and reflect Himself.

Always, there is good. Life itself-- without extra trappings-- is a gift. Yes, there may be sorrow and depression and bleak despair that howls our need for redemption when we don't have the strength to even whisper it, and I don't make light of these. At times, life is threaded through with them, but though they shadow the good, they are powerless to cancel it. Every lot has enough happiness provided for it.

When Piper sleeps, her body relaxes into mine, filling my crooks and hollows with her warmth, and I know good. When the girls break into laughter and are so ridiculous that I laugh, too, I know good. When I exchange unimportant tasks for a momentary entrance into their joys, I know good. When my eyes meet John's, and we smile from across the room, I know good. And I don't deserve a lick of it.

May God open our eyes to sin and grace, may He give us, frail humans all, the strength to be like Him, and may joy blaze and blind on cold, damp days.

The heater's kicking in. (Sorry, but sitting in front of that metal box trumps the pleasure of tidily ending a blog post.) As I was telling my friend a few days ago, if I was a real photographer, I'd save myself a lot of time and energy because I'd post a select few of the pictures I'd taken, the cream of the crop, and you'd all think I knew what I was doing. Lucky for you, this is shotsnaps, and shotsnaps is authored by a compulsive freak who indiscriminately loads all her pictures just because she can. Those of you who have days to waste may happily do so here; you'll just have to keep clicking "Older Posts" when you reach the bottom of the page. You're not done until you see the pictures of Millie's party with our Owen family on Long Island. You hear that?!? You're not done. No matter what other priorities should be occupying you, you're not done.

Here are hundreds of moments that I wrap inside for later.
And now the rain has turned to snow. How 'bout that.