poetry, anyone?

I decided, after the example of another “fellow poet” (if I dare to assign myself that auspicious title), to start a blog dedicated to my poetic thoughts.

Enjoy . . .


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A Haiku for the Sea

On Tuesday I stood again at the ocean’s edge.  The surf was gentle and the sun staved off enough of winter’s chill for me to walk long.  My daughter predicted it: “I know you, Mom. You can’t not go!”  Forgive the double negative. 🙂

The college girl lives just a mile from my favorite place on earth, so of course I “couldn’t not go.”  I delivered a duffle-laden Emma to her dorm, then drove that familiar winding road to the ocean.  I wonder what it is that makes me come, why I love to walk where the sand bends beneath my feet.  I have decided that this is the place where my Maker has my full attention.  When I am here, I think of how vast His world is–that at the other side of these waters, another continent rises.  I remember how small I am, but how infinitely loved.

When I come here, I also remember our first visit to this place.  The little girls played in the tide pools, the big boy (all of five!) played bocce on the beach.  We hunted for starfish and sand dollars.  We stuffed our pockets with little shells and rocks tumbled smooth.  We flew kites.  Life was full and oh so good.

I walked with my camera.  Two birds flew away. I try not to push the analogy too far, but my “girls-turned-women” are flying away too, bent on chasing their dreams.  Yet there is  joy in the flight, joy in the letting go even though it smarts a bit in the mama’s heart.


Before I drove away, I stood quiet and still and listened.  The waves beat with a slow rhythm, reminding me to simply breathe.  Then on a scrap of paper and with a scratch of my pen, I wrote my little tribute, thankful for the small moments of peace in the midst of good-bye:

Salted surf rises

and falls, brine breath composing

the song of the sea.dsc_0531

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DSC_0451I walk with my girl at the edge of the earth where the ocean rolls in and out.  There is the steady ebb and flow, just like my emotions of the last several days.

I’ve been on a couple of road trips.  Both of them began with giddy anticipation.  Both of them ended with a carload of empty bins.  The college drop-offs are complete.  A friend told me the truth about it:  “It wasn’t just a journey of miles, it was also the journey of letting go.”  Indeed there is something about driving away from a college campus that makes me feel like an old chapter ended just as a new one is beginning.


How have eighteen and twenty years gone by in the blink of an eye? 

I find myself asking–“Did we do enough?  Did we climb enough mountains and chase enough fireflies and make enough s’mores?  Did we read enough stories and give enough hugs and say ‘I love you’ til we wore out the words?”  At the end of the day, though, I must lay my head on my pillow and thank God for the “enough.”

So yes, there are the empty spaces at the table now, but there is also joy in what remains.  We have just had the first day of school.



There will be soccer games and chem labs and band concerts. It feels different and a little bit “not right,” but it is still good.  We will figure out the “new normal.” We will draw on the strength that comes from knowing that love is stronger than miles, and that love will always be enough.

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Dance /dans/ verb

an act of stepping or moving through a series of movements usually in time to music

Middle English: from Old French dancer (verb), dance (noun), of unknown origin.

But what if your experience defies definition?  What if the joy of dancing races with wild energy through your daughter’s soul? 

I remember this little one who pulled herself up with fierce determination.  She walked with that wide gait of a baby not quite ready to toddle.  And then she danced.  Every day.  Her little knees bobbed up and down to every.single.song she heard:  her dad whistling through a chore, hymns I played on the piano, the “kids songs” CD’s that streamed through our house.

She grew and she disciplined her muscle memory with ballet classes.  She joined a performance group.  She earned a spot on the high school dance team.

Abby Dance

Now she is a senior in high school.  Almost done.  Admittedly, a bit weary with senioritis, but still filled with her fierce determination to finish well.  As I contemplate sending her south to college, I find myself a bit reflective.  Abigail has filled our lives with the meaning of her name:  “The Father rejoices over you with joy!”  And a thread woven through her happiest times has been tied to her dancing shoes.

(photo credit:  Wayne Tarr Photography)


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“Thank you,” I’ve decided, are two of the most powerful words set side by side.  This humble couplet recognizes our need.  It speaks of someone else who has come alongside to meet that need.

There is that tender story of the one leper who is able to do more than dance in delight at his healing.  He returns  and lays his thankful heart at the feet of the Healer.  Perhaps it was because he was a Samaritan.  Doubly unclean.

And this One, this Jesus, He is the only One who can touch the unclean thing and make it new.

It is the time of Thanksgiving.  I love it all–the pumpkin lattes, the Macy’s parade, the busy kitchen, the prospect of having our college girl home for a few days!  I have a litany of gratitude.  But even if all my temporal blessings were taken away, I have an anchor for my soul.  I have a redeemed heart.  I have a Healer who has met my deepest need.


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Thou dost rule the swelling of the sea.

When its waves rise, Thou dost still them.

Psalm 89:9


Last week, I walked by the ocean’s edge, listening to the rhythm of the surf, watching the rise and fall of the moving water.  My daughter was having her first college experience, but I admit to skipping some of the parent orientation to take a walk on the beach.  (The sessions are all on-line, so no worries!)

The last few months have been so full–senior activities, graduation, visitors, college orientation.  All good things.

In some ways, my emotions have been a bit like the sea.  Up and down.  In and out.  Yet I am finding a gentle acquiescence in my spirit.

It’s time.

It’s time for my little birds to try out their strong, new wings.  To leave for work every day at 7am,  and get home at 6.  To buy that first car.  To toss that mortarboard high in the air in celebration of accomplishment, and in anticipation of the next bend in the road.


The verses I memorized years ago from Colossians have become my heart’s cry:

I ask that they may be filled with the knowledge of his will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding, so as to walk in a manner worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing to him, bearing fruit in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God. May they be strengthened with all power, according to his glorious might, for all endurance and patience with joy, giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified them to share in the inheritance of the saints in light (Colossians 1:9-11).

I have a strong sense that my work is not diminished, it is simply shifting.  Perhaps it is less a work of my hands, but more a work on my knees. 

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The Art of Good-Bye

At Christmas, Anna gave a special gift.  It was wrapped in the manner of a fresh ten-year-old:  lots of tape and a hand-tied bow.  In the paper was her first watercolor painting.  It was for Emma.  “To put in your college room,” Anna directed.


Perhaps it was prophetic–this seascape painting–since we are now at the threshold of sending Emma to her oceanside university.

I could say something pithy here.  “How fast the time has flown,” or “It seems like yesterday when she was little.”  And isn’t that how it is?  The years so quickly changed her infant form into the beautiful young woman she has become.

I feel the gathering tightness in my throat as I put the deposit check in the envelope, but then the Word comes alive:  “When my spirit faints within me, You know my way!”    I say it over and over again:  My God is a God Who knows.

He knows my path.  He knows Emma’s path.  And I know He will hold my heart for the hard good-bye, as I send my daughter smiling into her future.

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Motherhood Unexpected

Here’s something new! A friend of mine has published a book!


I remember the first time I met and chatted with Deanna. We were working in the church nursery together and she was just.plain.tired. She was nearing the end of her third pregnancy and I remember how she sat on the couch and directed the room full of toddlers, two of whom she owned. Carter was all-boy—a bundle of action and movement. And Addison was pure sweetness, ambling around the room in her DAFO* braces. I remembered these braces with a bittersweet sort of hindsight–they were a familiar “wardrobe accessory” in our house for several years.

Addison was learning to sign. She would climb up on my lap and make the sign for “music.” I can’t remember how many iterations of “Jesus Loves Me” I sang that day, but I’m sure I was hoarse by the end of my nursery stint.

And this—true story—though I noticed Addison’s DAFOs and the glasses correcting her vision, I did not see the familiar “outward” signs that people recognize associated with Down’s Syndrome. I met an engaging little girl who clearly loved: 1) her parents, 2) keeping up with her brother, and 3) my singing (thankfully, she was not a harsh critic).

Fast forward a few years and I’ve learned much more about Deanna. She is a talented musician, she has overcome more than a couple of hardships with decided grace and courage, and she opens her heart and shares her words on a lovely blog (Everything and Nothing from Essex @ www.deannajsmith.com).

And now she has written a novel.  Though not autobiographical, Deanna draws on her experience to wrestle with questions surrounding infertility, the loss of a child, and the privilege of embracing a child with special needs.  Deanna explores these issues with candor and dignity.   She allows her protagonist to ask honest questions, and in the end points her readers toward the goodness of God in all circumstances.

Deanna is offering it at a significant discount through Amazon.  I invite you to treat yourself to this lovely novel. I promise you will be blessed and encouraged!

*DAFOs are orthotic braces.  You can learn about them here:  http://cascadedafo.com/about

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I stood in the rain this morning, wrapped in my polka dotted raincoat, waving and blowing kisses. They are off, headlong into the setting sun. How many waves of the sea are between us now. Yet, this is how it must be. I feel my fingers releasing, one by one: these gifts given are not mine to keep.


As I am checking the flight tracker, Sam comes in, telling me that he’d like a quiver and some arrows to round out what he’s planned for his Spring Break. “Ahh, Samuel,” I am waxing eloquent with the poet’s words, “Tell me how children are like arrows.”

He muses on this a bit, then declares it must be because children are sent out, just like arrows, to be “Leaders for Righteousness” in the world. I smile, determined to pray for the path of the arrows and not to dwell on the dwindling quiver.

I find a new focus for my prayer life. Estonia. Baltic Europe. A little red star on the southern tip of the Gulf of Finland marks Tallinn, the capital city. This is where my children are going. It is one of the least religious areas of Europe. These people are not hostile, just indifferent. But might the Lord have some in this city? In Tartu?

And perhaps you would join me in praying for a motley group of flannel clad Vermonters, longing to bring hope to a broken world.


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Always A Mama

I am sitting in the waiting room. Daughter #1 is in the small, sterile “operating” room. Within an hour, her third molars will be wrested from her jaws (I’m making it sound perfectly horrific!).

She signed her own forms, adult that she is. I can start to feel that I am simply the financial guarantor and designated driver in today’s experience.

This girl turned woman, she is ready. Yesterday, she submitted her own prescription at the pharmacy. And she is poised for today, following all the instructions, willingly acquiescing to the “no food” directive.

Of course I remember the days when she demanded juice within a few moments of waking. The requisite sugar high. And the days when she was immature and unreasonable—or perhaps, better said, the days when she acted like the child she was. And sometimes on those long, long days, it seemed that she’d never grow up.

But now I wonder how I got here already. I am the mother of older children. Adults. Life has shifted. Those days when they were all little and all at home are gone. Now this stay-at-home-mom is rarely at home. In fact, my 10-year-old recently depicted each member of our family with a defining icon. I am holding car keys, which look a bit more like small hand saws.  At least I am smiling!!

Yes, I am the driver.  In the last week, I have driven to piano lessons, the grocery store, ice skating, church activities, the grocery store, dance classes, dance competitions, doctor’s appointments, the grocery store again (and we’re still out of milk!). I wonder why I often feel so scattered, why I can barely string a logical thought together. Sometimes it feels like life is fractured and disjointed and defined by the next outing.


So here I sit, caught between the worlds of childhood and adulthood, neither of which is well defined. It is a new place, a new way of parenting which is not quite as intuitive to me  as mothering little ones.  But I am still “Mom.” I am the one who will hold my daughter when she wakes up, and help her up the stairs and try to make the pain go away. I am the one who knows her heart. Yes, I am still mom, and she’ll always be my girl.

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