We once had some very odd neighbors. Odd is not an insult; it’s a correct analysis!
Here’s why – every fall, a crudely constructed cardboard sign was erected in their front yard which read, “Love Potion #9 For Sale.” We mused if the potion would help someone love you or maybe it was the perfect formula to make you love someone! If the latter were true, I may want to buy a flask because loving someone, well, is often tricky. So, without cost, I offer you my very own “Love Potion #Mine!”
The tip of his index finger feels light against my skin. He taps, blends, and smears ever so gently.
“I love you and I think you’re beautiful,” he says.
It’s yet another black eye. This one, courtesy of the six-foot-tall bedpost in our bedroom. The arrangement of the furniture in the room hadn’t changed, but evidently, my brain had. I’m older. It’s hard to remember everything all the time. Where am I walking? Which way am I turned? What wall am I facing?
So, into the bedpost I walked. Another black eye. This one, though, just seemed to heal more slowly than the ones before. Another change of aging.
As his fingertip swirls the beige putty that hides the blueish reminder of my memory lapse, I realize one thing has not changed. He loves me gently. He loves me well. He loves me in ways that no one really could imagine.
There were 11 girls. They all sat on couches in the small room around me. This was not their home … but it was where they lived.
My friend Carolyn and I were visiting a girl’s shelter. As I shared pizza with the girls, I listened to their stories, and then talked with them. Each young lady sat there with me because her home is not safe. These girls have experienced abuse, neglect or abandonment. This was a safe place to stay in the meantime, waiting to go home again.
Britney said it, Taylor said it, Connie and Shalonda said it too. They each spoke of it – home. Every girl seemed to hold on to the hope that she would one day go back.
When I find out what a teenager’s done, I’d like to ring one slender neck.
Dirt rings the mudroom sink like nasty vandalism. To-do lists keep scrawling ugly, longer and longer. I can’t find my watch. The bathroom mirror is splattered and smudged. The weather forecast makes it impossible to know if we should plant our next field or wait till the next rain or what to do.
We watch the sky for a sign.
We pray, we pray these begging prayers.
Dear Jennifer,
I am leading your Missing Pieces Bible study at my church. We need some clarification on the conclusion of Day 1 of Week 1.
One lady on the first night shared that one of the questions she has of God is, “Why do I suffer with all this pain? I’m not old enough to hurt so bad.”
The next night we read that you wrote, “We often assume God’s apparent inactivity in our situation is evidence of His neglect [so far, so good, but . . .] when it really may be His way of showing compassion to protect you, provide for you, or preserve you.”
Help us understand how your quote relates to that lady’s question. Thanks a bunch. We had 23 show up for our first session. Praise His holy name!
Michelle
