Coffee spoons

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a baby machine, maid, budget nazi, and bargain shopper… and not much of anything else.  If you asked me 3 years ago what I was and what my hobbies were, I’d say “I’m a dancer and a massage therapist, and I also play/write music and create art.”  My “art” was also expressed through my appearance (or so I tried), with dramatic hair color changes, tattoo designs, unique jewelry, and attention to maintaining my physique.  Ha.  How much can change in a short amount of time.  I’m currently in a season full of, yes, happiness, but also a touch of nostalgia, thinking back to those self-centered times of introspection and the creations that were expressed as a result.  But this morning I had a revelation…

I know I still have the Holy Spirit in me (you know, the One who created the universe), and I know that His gifts are without repentance, as well do I know that I am who I am and you cannot un-weave the threads of a tapestry however faded or stained they have become.  My revelation was this: I dance with my son like a maniac alone in our living room, not on a stage.  I write songs all the freaking time, but in the form of lullabies or “getting dressed” songs – no two are alike.  I explore my vocal range while I read stories aloud.  My “art” is expressed in the form of cardboard and construction paper letters and shapes on the walls of my children’s bedroom… and they are excellent.  The creativity displayed in the healthy recipes I’ve concocted on a tight budget nourish myself and my family.  My “poetry” is crafted into the form of love notes to my husband, as well as worship songs I sing alone in my room.  And the attention to my physique has been refocused into good nutrition/activity that benefits the baby in my womb.  Exercise?  Scrubbing floors and carrying toddlers counts in my book.

It’s not all about me anymore.

The best part is, this transformation reaps a lasting reward in the form of my children and marriage, instead of a temporary impression on those who see me.  Don’t look at me with my un-styled hair and flushed red face.  Look at the fruit of my life in that I am abundantly blessed and happy.

In the words of M. Ward:

Death is just a door, Blake said it first
It’s just another room we enter
It’s a threshold that hurts

Birth is just a chorus, death is just a verse
In the great song of spring that the mockingbirds sing
We come and we go, a-weeping and a-wailing
Our heads in the hands of the nurse

Well, put your head on my shoulder, baby, tell me where it hurts
You say you lost your one and only, could it get any worse?
I said, “Death is just a door, you’ll be reunited on the other side”
Yeah, death is just a door, you’ll be reunited by and by

~~~

Processing death has never been a strength of mine. In fact, I usually deal with it very badly, whether or not it was someone close to me.  I usually resort to uncontrollable sobs and music with alternating themes of sadness and hope. I still don’t have it right.  Sorrow is a lonely feeling. My darker side wallows in it and drinks it in with unquenchable thirst, while the rest of my redeemed soul tries to shake myself out of it.  Thankfully I can feel that God is slowly working a little more maturity into me.  Loss has made me thankful, which turns into praise.  So while I may be totally messy on the outside with my emotions, somewhere in my heart there is an anchor that I cling to.

(If anyone is wondering, there have been several unexpected deaths recently that have been bewildering and devastating to those affected)