Summer is a Memory

Summer is grass scratching the soles of my feet

as I fly down the hill to the tree swing.

It’s dipping my toes in Papa Jim’s swimming pool

and watching the water bugs skate across the green water,

the sun bleaching my hair and browning my skin

as watermelon juice slides down my chin,

my sister and my cousins’ laughter drowning out Material Girl on the radio.

Summer is an umbrella in hand and water beneath my feet

as I splash and stomp in puddles in the pockmarked road.

It’s the wind in my hair and my hands in the air

as I ride my bicycle to the store just down from Nana’s house,

then coming back and laying on blistering concrete

with candy cigarettes hanging out of my mouth, an Etch-a-Sketch in hand,

and my cousins beside me peeling stickers off the Rubik’s Cube.

Summer is a lemonade stand at the end of the driveway,

drinking more than we sell, ten cents a cup.

It’s my sister picking okra out of the garden

and eating it raw, not even bothering to wash off the fuzz.

Summer is a blanket-tent city in the living room

while thunder roars and lightning flashes outside the big picture window.

It’s running though the sprinkler,

blades of cut grass glued to the soles of my feet

and my cousins’ laughter chasing me into the house.

It’s Nana toweling us off and Spaghettios for lunch

and singing Thriller at the top of our lungs.

It’s a Spoonful of Sugar to the help the medicine go down,

and pallets on the floor,

a sleepover with cousins,

telling stories and scratching each other’s backs until we all fall asleep.

The Palm of His Hand

Some time ago, a friend posted a graphic on Facebook that had the phrase "God has you in the palm of His hand", or something similar.  I've heard this my whole life, but that day I actually cupped my hand and looked at it, studied it, and this is what I saw.

My hands are rough things.  They are scarred and textured, rough and calloused from use.  My hands shovel dirt, rake yards, paint walls, hang drywall. They cook meals and wash the dishes that multiply in the sink.  These hands sew clothing, wash cloth diapers and mountains of laundry, sweep floors, scrub tubs and dust furniture.  They bandage scraped knees, wipe away tears, rub backs and hold story books.  My hands love.

Looking at my cupped hand, I realized that despite how little it is in comparison to the Creator’s, it overflowed with immeasurable love. 

I imagined God's enormous hands, how incredibly big they are, so vast that they hold the universe with room to spare.  And despite how small I am in comparison, He loves me and shelters me in the palm of His hand.

Being in God's hands is a great place to be.  There I can find shelter and love, protection and security.  For those of us that love the Lord and know His Son, Jesus is clear, saying, "I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.  My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father's hand.  I and the Father are one."  (John 10: 28-30 NIV)

I observed that a cupped hand is actually a bowl, but it's not a smooth-sided vessel.  There are bumps and ridges, hills and valleys, dips and heights.  In places it looked to me that my hand held plateaus and canyons, and just like in life, there were very few straightaways. 

God promises that he holds me in His hands.  The truth of the matter is that I may be at the top of His hands, standing on a fingertip, or clinging to the cliff of a knuckle.  I might be lounging on the meaty part of the base of His thumb.  Or I may be at the bottom, rock bottom, flat out on the floor of His gracious palm. 

I've found myself rock-bottomed out, huddled and crying, beaten and exhausted.  But then I looked at my hand.  Where is the safest part of a hand when it's cupped?  The bottom.  It's at this place that God shelters us the most, so that we can get up safely, pull ourselves together and start living in His palm. 

I find myself climbing to the top, scaling the bumps and valleys along the way, rising and falling, living and learning.  I continually strive, challenge myself, test my mettle, like a toddler yelling, "I'll do it myself!"  And I get to that high place, where life is good and I can see for miles.

And inevitably, a strong wind will knock me down, and I tumble down the mountainside, hitting every pebble, rock and boulder along the way, until sliding to a rest at the bottom again, bruised and battered, bleeding and torn.  And I ask myself, what's the point?

Maybe the point is that the heights are a dangerous place to be, the most vulnerable for God's children.  Why do I try to climb out of His hand and make it on my own?  The bottom of His caring and loving hand is the safest place to be, when I am at my lowest and totally dependent on His love to get me through.  Maybe rock-bottom is where I need to build my home, sheltered in a hand that protects my soul.

“That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”  2 Corinthians 12:10

In My Own Skin

Confession:  I weigh thirty-six pounds more than I did when I graduated high school nearly twenty (gasp) years ago, and twenty pounds more than when I got married.  Somewhere in the middle was my "ideal" weight, where I was more than comfortable in my own skin.  And hey, I was in the Marines at the time, so I was pretty much in peak physical condition.

Over the last 14 years of marriage I've added a few pounds and five children to my life.  I bear the scars and varicose veins from growing people, and I harbor more than a few doubts about my self-image.

How can my husband still find me attractive?  (He does, and lets me know it quite frequently.)  Is it even possible to get back down to that "ideal" weight?  Should I even try to get there, or should I just be happy with the way that am?

I have young girls growing into young ladies, and I want them to have a healthy self-image that doesn't focus on weight, but on health.  At eleven, my oldest has already had friends picking on her about her weight.  It's devastating to her to have a friend say that she looks pregnant.  It's devastating to me as her mother to have to console her and try to nurture a health vs. weight attitude when I have a hard time with it on a daily basis.

Many of my friends are on a life-changing journey to change their body image and get healthy.  I applaud them, truly!  They have great willpower and dedication and are an inspiration to many people.

One day I'll get there.  For now, I've arranged a thirty minute slot in the day for exercise, and I'm eating less junk and more good stuff.  I'm trying to eat treats in moderation, but I have a horrible monster of a sweet tooth.

But the questions remain, the ones I mentioned up there at the beginning.  What are the answers?  They may not be correct, but these are the conclusions that I've come to in thinking and praying on this.

I have wrinkles on my face, but it just means that I laugh and smile a lot.

My arms are a little flabbier than I'd like, but they can pick up babies and hug children.  My arms may not be as trim as I'd like, but they snuggle my little ones tight to my chest.

Speaking of chest, my "girls" sag a little.  I don't look like 23-year old me anymore.  But my breasts have suckled five beautiful children for varying amounts of time.

My stomach ... well, it's kind of chubby.  A lot chubby, and it's my least favorite part of my body.  There are scars covering the entire part of my abdomen and then some.  But I got those scars carrying five sweet babies in my body, and I love every line and wrinkle.  They are my battle scars.

The rear end is a little on the wide side.  That's okay.  My husband really likes it.  He tells me so.

I have chicken legs.  Always have and I always will.  But my legs let me chase giggly children around the house, carry me around so that I can do my work and get me where I need to go.

How many times day do I thank the Lord that I have hands and feet, eyes and ears, arms and legs?  Yeah, they're not in perfect condition.  And yes, I know I could put forth the extra effort and in a couple of years get back to prime  physical condition.  But at this point in my life, I need -- NEED -- to be content with what I've got.  It's a spiritual thing for me.  When I get there, I'll work on the physical even more than I am already.

But for me, and my daughters, I want to be comfortable in my own skin.  I'm getting there.