Mending

1.  Tomorrow night the poets from Concordia's ENG 326 classes will be reading at the Gallery (somewhere between 5 and 8).  To see each one of them tie their poems together in the same space--I've been thinking about it all day today--a heart swoops and rises in my throat knowing it will happen, that there will be a beginning and a middle and an end, and I pray these mended moments keep their pens warm forever, from here to there.

2.  Nora's hand in mine walking down the aisle to the window mending light, the rainbow at our feet, the bread in my hand, the hand that blesses her for Him and when we return to our place strewn with coloring book/crayons/puzzle, I forget to worry because He remembers.

3.  The hole we dug for the hostas, tucked inside and sewn together with the lose, dark soil.  We identify the weeds as she takes the hoe in hand:  lambsquarter--edible.   African Violet--beautiful.  Both "unwanted."  And it's a problem of terminology.  Because all things made by the Creator are functional.  The hoe is frozen above the dandelion.  Beautiful lion's mane of yellow stained knees and golden chains braided for princesses at recess.

4.  This is not unravelled life or torn fragment lost and useless though it might feel like it comes undone at times.  He enlarges the patchwork moment by moment by moment.  To allow ourselves to be mended in the language, the soil, the golden thread He uses to make our lives something good and whole and useful.