The House That Built Me

Let me tell you about the house that built me.  It was old. Drafty. And smelled of farm on a sweltering day.  There was dirt on the floor as you walked in that front porch. The porcelain kitchen sink was often deluged with something fresh from the garden in the summer.  In winter, the scolding hot water where Nana did dishes seared my skin, but her love healed my heart and hurts.  The worn green carpet may have been rough to touch, but it was warmth and security in this child's life.  A place to rest my weary soul, nestled under layers of blankets handmade by the same hard working farm hands that labored in the milk house. There was a simple porcelain, again, tub that made for gleeful play for a handful of girls at bath time.  Putting on the baby powder scent afterward lavished my skin like God's grace is lavished upon me.  Bobby pins in a tin are a reminder of Nana getting "dolled up with pin curls", as if she wasn't one of the most beautiful people I had ever known.
I have already said I was one for tears, and my kin often remind me of there frequent trickling, staining my cheeks.  Sometimes I wonder, as a child, if I could have expressed what all those tears meant, that they wouldn't have been so misunderstood.
But in the mist of grief as a child, of feeling as I didn't fit in that farmhouse, the stark reality is that that was what built me.  It is me.  I remember the most joyful of moments being wooed to sleep by the warm sun in the back of Papa's tractor.  That sun and Papa were the reminder of faithfulness in what seemed to be a broken childhood.  Riding in the feed barrel as Papa pushed it down the center aisle in the barn, sustaining the cows need for nourishment symbolized how he would nourish us physically and emotionally and reminds me of what my God does for my soul and body.  Papa's bedroom would chill my growing body, but jumping into his bed and resting by his side brought comfort that I desire to now give to others. Coffee from a saucer, sitting on his bold, strong lap assured me that strength would come each day. I never could have imagined the lessons about life that man's quiet and rare words would breathe into my soul.  Life giving words that shape me.  That house was simple, as were the people who inhabited it.  Oh that I can build that simplicity for myself and those I call my own.  Let nothing of this earth satisfy me but my God.  May He establish the work of my hands, and the house that builds my little loves be nothing less than a holy firmament.  A trusted gift of what is good and beautiful, healing and soulful.

Snow

The fluffy white frozeness falls to the earth. I will admit, the first snow is an exceptional transformation of the seasons.  All those unique little essences that fall the days following can be mostly an invasive flurry of coldness.  Each are a reminder and beckon me into the past, when every part of my being would fight to reject what was inevitable, considering the location of my physical existence.
Oh sure there have been moments of glee as I would bundle up and hurry out to construct the perfect snowman as a child. Or my heart would beat rapidly as we sped down the runway of the hills that surrounded us! I could be almost certain that I would melt all my layers off in front of our wood burning stove, always taking extra caution to not burn myself on the glass that I couldn't get close enough to.  Even as a smitten girl, who adored the snow angels that I had created, that snow never held my attention for long.   My sisters still occasionally remind me that I may have lasted all of ten minutes before I would stomp my way indoors to escape the shrewd cold that chilled me inside and out. Tears often came streaking down my rosy cheeks and the comfort of hot chocolate and an embrace from my mom, dad or Nana or Papa, assured me that I would survive!
And now, here I am again. Face to face with another Iowa winter, that so far shows promises of layers of cold woven in the deep prominence of blanketed whiteness.  And I sigh.  This time in acceptance.  Because this is where I am at.  A place of acceptance, in my heart, my soul and my life as a rural Iowan woman.  Acceptance of my perfect imperfections as a wife and mother. Acceptance is such a beautiful thing I find.  I want to linger here.  This place, where there is no more, "once was", but only what is. I dwell here in peace, not knowing what lies ahead, not needing to know, but able to say it is well with my soul.  I feel humility tenderly caressing my inner being and I rest in thankfulness for this day.  Christmas Eve, 2016, surrounded by those I fiercely love and anxiously waiting for my next rendevous in the snow.  Piling it high, packing it into a hundred balls of roundness to challenge my boys in a snow ball fight and laying still before waving my arms and legs to contest who in our family of seven has made the perfect snow angel.  
This consideration of acceptance is being birthed, I hope, into a journey of a well lived soul.  I may not always be found here, but I believe it possible to frequent its origin.   And in between my coming and going, embracing my longings and restlessness as worthy passages dutifully leading me back to abiding in His Presence. My place of Rest, where the past, present, and future are drowned out by the stillness, which saturates my soul. Much like when I gaze out into the inspiring drifts of well laden snow.

Passion

I believe that passion is in us all.  Some of us are quietly passionate.  Others of us, me included, have passions that rise and burst out of us!  I am a passionate person! One of my passions is writing. So here it is, Birthed. My very first, feeble attempt at blogging!  I hope those of you who visit here know that you are invited into my reality. My world of words. Some unspoken, but my greatest desire is for them to be inspirational! Thank you for hearing my heart as the words flow.  May you somehow be a better person by indulging my simple creativity!