I don’t have a lot to say.

Just that this is my white space. My days are full crowded with noise and work. Recently it’s decisions and worry. But everything has to drop and I pick up the lens to rightly see little boys in golden light. Night falling and they are still full to the brim with energy, running, running . . .

They say the most important part of a piece of art is the negative space.

When you’re putting pencil to paper or brush to canvas, what you’re actually crafting are the untouched areas. The decision to let lie at rest brings the beauty and the focus to the focal point, the point of importance, that one part that truly matters and has something to say in the work. The dancing play of white space lets the work breath, empowers it to speak.

The to do list looms, worries creep in. I try to think it all through, work out the puzzle, control the uncontrollable and I run on empty. Til I remember this cramming of it all in makes for kitsch and ugly paintings. The overworking of the brush strokes muddies the image. So I erase space to take a deep breath. This my white space, garden growing and capturing the moments, sitting with steaming tea and squares of chocolate to see where they will take me. I fell in love with editing my photos while I lay on the couch healing, baby snug on my chest, then as he grew, me at my desk with him lying snoring across my shoulder. Now he gallops through the day, nurses and falls to dreaming in his bed as I sneak downstairs for a few moments of quiet to soak up the day. For a few moments of white space . . . that helps me rightly see them

(I was inspired by  a photographer blogging his homemade slingshots. So I got my boys some slingshot bands but they are still in search of the “perfect” sticks for them. While they search they wreak lots of mayhem shooting playdoh from them with their hands. This night baby man joined in the craziness! What could be more fun for a toddler than a giant rubber band? And yes Baby Man’s other nickname is Ninja Baby! )

Do you have white space in your life? If not, get some quick! It could be anything, cooking, crafting, gardening, reading, running, anything you love that puts your mind at rest and lights your heart up . . .

5-14-12 . 24-70mm . dusk

I am a mother to potted plants and a baby flown away.

Children grown in pots, filled lovingly with soil and whisked off to the next home every few years. I want them to send their roots down, shoot out for miles and soak up the California soil, but I am afraid. Fearful to let down my guard, loose control because the earth is years and years, generations of life and death all mixed together. My pots are handpicked, filled exactly with what I “think” is best and they are a heavy but transient load to hoist and take to the next stop on our journey leading where? Do you know this fear, this uneasy unrest, the constant question . . . what do I have to give, where should they grow, when should I trim, how under heaven do I feed them what they need?

And the baby flown away, he reminds me the darkness in this world, he whispers that all will be well in the someday of eternity. I loose track of his blond curls, his sweet face and I forget he is a man running now, more real, more alive, more himself than we. I know that he loves me because he told me in a dream and I wonder why. Me a failure of a mother and carrying these children the only thing I’ve ever done that really matters.

Do you know this pain of feeling failure, of babies flown or never given? Is this day beauty or a scar? Can it be anything other than both? Questions, questions and they’re all I know anymore. Resting in their equilibrium the only thing to do. Soaking up the searing pain and scandalous beauty intertwining because they feed each other. Symbiotic and the death feeds the soil, the blooms making it worth all the sacrifice. Only today’s bloom can be held but it carries in it the seed of tomorrow’s sweet smell. Falling to the ground to rise again.

So we dig our hands down in the soil, no matter where home lies, no matter our space on the land. Blessed by the sun and rain and the Maker of this grand globe. Tiny specs pressed down and we wait for them to spring up and surprise with the miracle once again, bellies filled and tongues thrilled.

Questions swirl and my heart beats fast and frail, but this garden is so good. So good and the one to come is better. I thank him for these seedlings given undeserved, blessed children and the one He holds tight. Beg for wisdom to be a good gardener of little hearts and thank Him for the rain and sun that I could never shower on them.

No matter your journey or who you hold in your arms, I pray you can rest in His love this Mother’s Day.

Many days I’m blind. Hands placed decidedly across my eyes or hiding behind a wall, to timid to peek out. Some days just too dead tired to lift my head and look.

But the story is still there, revealed by each artist, shared by His body – wether I choose to witness or not. To see takes cutting through all the noise, stepping purposeful and looking what is important square in the face.

Strength comes from seeing his body sharing the same struggles, being nudged toward the same goals – longings, dreams and wisdom mingle online. I don’t know if it’s because we hear each other, wake to a thought and echo our own – or if it’s because He is leading us in similar seasons as a whole. Maybe both are intertwined, maybe He uses our words and images to speak to each other.

This week at worship the world overwhelms and I keep my lips shut tight, eyes clouded with tears. Come home in the dark to the man I love and see more clearly in His arms. Us silly kids, friends, lovers battle scared and road weary – one body we are, laying down our defenses, showing eachother the way back to being beloved.

And then the week starts frantic, nose to the grindstone makes it hard to see straight. He comes home, tells me I’m doing the right thing, just don’t give up. Calms my heart enough to hear a familiar voice that I have never met speak truth, beautiful radiant truth into my harried mess. I read and I see more clearly. A friend’s text and I know I’m not alone in being hard pressed. An email and I’m sharing past pain in order to give hope. I remember all the body giving each other sight, strengthening our arms for His work. A family who I know only from their words and images ringing true – remind me I’m not alone in the hard task and blessing of growing new life. They share my longing for space and wonder where to call home and inspire with their contentment in all seasons. A musician‘s iPhone photos open my eyes again to all the exploration and beauty that I forget in the day to day. Another family inspiring with their nonstop adventures overflowing with laughter, taking time to teach me how to capture my own moments. Mothers  laying out Bibles and scooping up light spilled on children. A daughter and mother crafting loveliness locally and spilling joy on everyone they meet. I could go on and on . . . His body broken for each other, sharing our scars and feeding each other with beauty and hope. It only takes a shred of courage to open my eyes a bit, just a peek around the corner with a faithful gaze to recognize His handiwork, to see His church amidst the fury of this world. And it takes a moment to slow down, to tear my gaze away from the whirling chaos that demands my attention, to hear and see Him speak through story, through art and through each other’s lives.

The photos above are from this session I shot of my friend and her boys recently. I didn’t ask them to pose like this, these images just came from them exploring interacting with the camera. Children are so raw and real, they seem to know it’s all about seeing – or not. I envy the honesty they know to look with, that honesty we forget as we “mature”.

I used to pound it out, all the fear. One shoe in front of another, running through the misty streets watching the angst steam away with my breath. Taking it all in, Yellowcard blasting in my ears, wind rushing, sun coming up, going down and and the sky always stretching on. I ran through every trouble, each separation. I ran to hold  on to sanity with my love a million miles away, not promised to return and two little boys clinging to me for dear life. Over and over I listened, “This is me afraid”, “Shadows and Regrets” . . . and I held on to a boy and girl in love and all the dreams we dared to see.

Then came disaster and my body torn apart. The steps slowed to a stumble, feeling blessed just to keep two feet firm underneath me. Swaying, carrying the weight of new life in my fearful self I marched slowly on. I gained a child to hold and forgot a few dreams and more than a little of myself along the way. L’Engle says we must forget ourselves in the making but when we lose the little girl who dreamed we are diminished, less than whole.

Now, emotions swirl as my baby grows up. I turn to what I know, quicken the steps of an untrustworthy body and for a few minutes I run again. The melody in my ears, the sun grown long, shadows, regrets . . . but I can feel the life pulsing in my chest, greedily sucking in the air. A smile spreads – I can’t give up, not on one solitary dream, not on my man, not on our love, not on all the romance of this broken world.

The shadows reach long, regrets creep in and pile high, threatening to crowd out the beauty He gives. I haven’t managed to give them all I wish, I haven’t walked the path as well as I would have liked. But this is what I have, light on little shoulders. Spelling lesson in an evening wonderland (in nothin but undies

Fingers laced with my love, lying in his arms I am whole enough to let go a bit more . . . and we run on dreaming

“When we were only kids

And we were best of friends

And we hoped for the best

And let go of the rest

The shadows and regrets

We let go of the rest”

- Yellowcard

4-12 . 85mm . LR + VSCO . evening window light

There are days where the world spins right, all painted with beauty. Days when the smiles and silly and growing things are enough.When the feel of your desk solid and the tea warm make your heart sigh gratitude. There are days I am content and worry takes a backseat to all His goodness poured out right now. Days I can glimpse the golden gleam of childhood and feel the dandelions brush my cheek just the way they used to. Moments in this uncertain swirl of life where I remember we are always safe in our Father’s hands. When I see gifts everywhere and they are enough.

I don’t yet know how to forever linger in this wholeness, but it feels like coming home. We have been trying to find a new roof over our heads, somewhere to call our “own”. All we found was confusion sprinkled with disappointment. And yet as I return to where He has placed me, it feels like coming home. Joy to paint a wall, plant a seed, see my children run and play, create and grow. We live surrounded in beauty, smothered by a fallen world. Still I long for that tiny backyard, sheltered under one sprawling tree. I miss the honeysuckle bush sweet and how I popped its’ fruit between my fingers. Breathtaking gardens are visited, nature I never dreamed of is witnessed . . . but nowhere to be found is that green park rolling out between friendly trees, fairies dancing amidst the neighbors’ flower beds, elfin folk hiding round rocky borders. It’s childhood I seek.

Amidst all the diapers and responsibilities, if I can be a bit more Mary, a lot less Martha, my children hand it back to me. Between the add your sums and sound out your letters we stop to paint the world right with blue, yellow and red. We try to slow down the relentless march of days with lunches spread out on sand. Time is washed away in waves, while crabs are caught – me just hoping they will remember the golden light of innocence the way I still do.

“We write, we make music, we draw pictures, because we are listening for meaning, feeling for healing. And during the writing of the story, or the painting, or the composing or singing or playing, we are returned to that open creativity which was ours when we were children.” – Madeleine L’Engle  (she calls it wonderful racketty creativity

4-28-12 . 85mm . indoor morning light . painting pine wood derby cars, baby man’s first paint adventure

I’m not good at making lemonade. 33 and I had never made it before.

I don’t think I’m good at motherhood.

I’m a mess . . . Can’t even qualify for a hot mess, just a mess.

I have commenced drinking coffee. Me whose head already spins in circles . . . finally acknowledging that strong drink might be the only hope for making it through the morning mayhem of eggs and diapers, schoolwork and tying shoes. That barrage hitting me bleary headed, still trying to make sense of the day before . . .

The past few yesterdays haven’t gone as I had hoped. How can a woman, thirty some years accustomed to this world still sprout so many dreams in just one day, all to watch them trickle away? And still the mundane must do’s won’t all fit between sun up and sun down. I can’t find the path to talk of grace and hope right now so I rest in knowing  L’Engle says true faith is full of heavy doubt – that’s how you know you really care. The fact is I’m deflated, uneasy and my coffee’s gone cold.

We stepped off the roller coaster and have come smack up against reality. If grief is a coma, then awakening is slow and muddled. Just kids we were married and bearing our first child by our first anniversary. Lying,wrapped in each other, I ask him how we got here, how have ten years flown by? What to do when you realize you can’t go back and undo all the mistakes made, can’t grasp all the opportunities you didn’t recognize til now. How has picking wedding colors and assembling cribs turned to college plans and career paths? The panic sets in, I’m always quick to find my way there and to it’s friend despair. He holds me, reminds me we still share the same bed, we hold three healthy children, we care enough to speak our minds, we work hard and we love our God and in this world that is more than most have or even hope for.

Seems I’m always driving now, red light sitting and a motorcycle’s roar takes me back to days of fast freedom. Remember rockin out at the straightedge show and the good and the fierce they embolden my heart heavy with a world of work and worry. Modest Mouse stirs me up and the Lord’s courage appears in the unlikeliest ways. Isn’t that how He always comes? The music washes over, I’m living by songs recently, heart a great yearning ache. The melody draws it out, that deep cry, for . . . for I don’t even know what. I try to walk through the week worthy, stumbling back together with His body. Unworthy. Powerless. It’s all I can think, feel. Tired. Uncertain. And when I am all of this – HE. IS. He is POWERFUL. Washes it all away, brings me in, asks me to ask Him. Breaks my heart, Heals my soul. I’m crying and I’m laughing and I’m opening my eyes . . .

The past few weeks have shared a glimpse of other’s lives. Chances given to covet, peeking at easy street, heaven on earth never works as well as it looks I try to remember. And seeing all the harsh struggle and how we’ve all fallen down, still so hard to get back on our feet. Taking looks at dishonesty, uncertainty, lives destroyed, dreams lost, people hanging on, honest hard work  and unquenchable creativity. It all just weighs heavy. Presses down and gives weight to the letters, the message inscribed.

“Keep Calm and Carry On”

Each generation carries the weight of the whole world so the next can play under their wings. A few years of innocence till they shoulder the load. Heaviness presses down.

Our Lord steps in, takes the burden. We are not of this world and so we can smile at the days to come. What a crazy path we walk with hearts lit with passion and death the certain destination. We must hold the days with open hands.

And so my son asks to make lemonade. He who hates singing and too much attention has taken to heart the school musical – “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

So we squeeze sour juice til our hands sting and the pitcher’s full. Stir the sugar in and drink, proud of what we have made. This is all we can do, receive what is given, add the sweet, drink it up sitting round the garden with the ones you love, and give thanks. Give thanks for a cold drink on a hot day. Sing thanks for little hands working next to yours. Shout thanks for food to fill bellies and roof to shelter from the rain. Pray against the dark and breathe thanks for the good and the love,

and make lemonade as much as possible.

“Alright don’t worry even if things end up a bit too heavy – We’ll all float on alright – Already we’ll all float on” – Modest Mouse

Makin Lemonade from sharon mckeeman on Vimeo.

4-2-12 . 85mm . indoors midday

“The artist, if he is not to forget how to listen, must retain the vision which includes angels and dragons and unicorns, and all the lovely creatures which our world would put in a box marked CHILDREN ONLY.” – Madeleine L’Engle in Walking on Water

You can find the first half of this session here. We met for dinner and I photographed this lovely Mama and her boys in a tiny upstairs room of an old house around a big wooden table with evening light streaming in through little windows on every side. That’s where the boys looked at me with their souls and I played with capturing her hair in golden light. On our way out to the cars I had visions of trying to get some rad shots in front of old walls, everyone lined up looking cool and disinterested. But there was a Koi pond on the way out and alleys are for running and brothers are for being silly. On this my first attempt I have learned I am not one to take those stylish images, but to grab what they give me and play with it as much as they enjoy the moment.

She and I live in the world of children, homeschooling our kids. It is a wild and ridiculously fabulous world. Sometimes I have to remind myself of this after a long week of containing the chaos enough to teach a few lessons. But these moments always come, such as Saturday morning coffee in hand, editing photos of little boys all lit up with life. I’m reminded how my little men keep that box wide open with dragons and such spilling all over every inch of our lives.

I’m rereading a favorite book. More than a book, as my eyes fall on it’s pages like an old friend, I’m reconnecting with who I forget that I am. Falling back in love, committing to the dangerous life that is the artist’s. Maybe just to the life that is real, that we all can reach for and loose ourselves in the pursuit of. The kind of loss that gives you back what you most desire and never even dared dreamed of. So as I hear these words again you may find many of them shared as I bring them in and try to give them a home . . .

“Obedience is an unpopular word nowadays, but the artist must be obedient to the work, wether it be a symphony, a painting, or a story for a small child. I believe that each work of art, wether it is a work of great genius, or something very small, comes to the artist and says, “Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.” . . . But one does not have to understand to be obedient. Instead of understanding – that intellectual understanding which we are so fond of – there is a feeling of rightness, of knowing, knowing things which we are not yet able to understand. . . When the artist is truly the servant of the work, the work is better than the artist . . . When the work takes over the artist is enabled to get out of the way, not to interfere. When the work takes over, then the artist listens. But, before he can listen paradoxically, he must work. Getting out of the way and listening is not something that comes easily, either in art or prayer. Before I can listen to God in prayer, I must fumble through the prayers of words, of willful demands . . . until I have worked through self I will not be enabled to get out of the way . . . We must work every day, wether we feel like it or not, otherwise when it comes to get out of the way and listen to the work we will not be able to heed it.” – from Walking on Water : Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeleine L’Engle

To be a servant is humbling, but it makes clear your duty. To give birth is incredible pain, danger and fear but it brings the glories of new life. If my role is birth giver and servant then confusion melts away. If the work knows more than I, there is no room for ego and neither is there a place for insecurity. I can have confidence in the work, my trust lies in He who is all truth and beauty. The most I can do is put down what He opens my eyes to. That is the least I can do in this magnificent story He has written. Rest is found in the fact of His authorship and I must be diligent to put pen to paper or whatever He spurs my heart to do. It is my duty and I may not understand where I will be led. All I know is that window light is calling and I must attempt capturing it’s loveliness on a friend’s deep tresses. Or that there are words inside my heart that need a place to be scrawled down and seen. And even humbler, there are socks which must be arranged in clean piles, an installation of the art of everyday. To birth the moment of a child’s head on your breast even when a million other tasks are clamoring. To let God’s grace wash over all the mistakes, when the brush goes wild and crazy and only His love can wipe the canvas beautiful clean. That is the realest kind of art.

And we all are artists, His children created to take after our Father. His creativity bursting wild with joy to make this world and still careful to craft the handiwork of each atom beyond what we can fathom. Him placing us here to love with the mad intensity that knows loss and betrayal and can choose to cling to the one they adore. We cannot breath without this love and in this story painted with the bold colors of life and death, our Father is all Goodness. Tears and laughter, houses built, babies born and lovers held testify to the truth of our story. Each act, another mark made in what is truly art. And so I search out, I learn . . . how to hold the light in a box . . . how to place the artifacts of life on a screen . . . and I try to step out of the way and let it be more than I know

(Thank you to my friend and her lovely boys for having dinner with me in the upstairs room of a favorite restaurant, around a big wooden table with evening light streaming in and my camera clicking away! Her boys are so sweet and fun. They were so into interacting with the camera and can go from really deep to super silly and back again which was so interesting for me to explore with me lens. I see the beautiful art of her family she is creating. I don’t know how to portray that, all I know is how to grab a glimpse of boys so in love, climbing on their mama’s lap and dancing round her as we walk to the car. I will share the photos I took as we left in another blog post soon! 4-5-12 . 85mm . LR + VSCO . evening window light)

These are the glorious days and the best are yet to come

Glorious all bathed in light and rolling in His love. New feet trod light the grass and find all there is to be delighted in. Ah, these days of roaming far and wide and cuddling close at home . . . they are filled with work but need not hold worry for the best is always ahead of us. His glory is to come. When they are no longer babies carried in my arms and dangled on my knee then they will be boys running off to adventure as his brothers did this weekend. Off to learn the ways of men  with fishing poles and sleeping bags in the classroom of the wilderness. And when they no longer need us to drive and teach and pack their bags, when their lips no longer quiver at the fearful dark – then they will be men and we will experience who they have been created to become. When I can no longer fit them inside my embrace, they will wrap strong arms around for a quick hug and I will wonder at the wonder of it all. This miracle God has employed me in.

They run off into the wild and I enjoy quiet enough to hear my own thoughts and time to soak my baby in. We dilly and we dally, ride bikes and take long baths. We sleep in and eat our favorite food and we go to the garden. The garden on a cloudy day with no plan and no timeline and we walk in circles and inspect the dirt. He finds a fig tree, dignified in its stance, roots spread out like gnarled fingers, sweet fruit dropped round. He picks up dried figs, too big treasure clasped in his little fists. He drops and gathers, climbs and trips, wanders and wonders through the beauty of it all. This earth given for us to cultivate, this moment given for me to cherish.

A fountain is found, statues covered with succulents dancing round the water running. A wonderland we circle and circle, staring through the drops cascading. And on he runs to a field of green, exploring on and on . . . a shady spot, a lovely day, still he wants to see more, know more, do more. I walk by his side and let him explore, surprised to find no sadness in the loss of his helpless days but joy in meeting who he is become.

He wants to help the gardeners, but he is not yet grown enough to hold the tools and trim the lawn. They give him a flower, his consolation prize. He runs, brings it me, his offering of love. Is there anything ever that I could need more? No this is all, ever, always enough and will be even in its changing state. In this knowledge I am. Content.

3-31-12 . 24-70 . LR + VSCO . cloudy afternoon in the garden

I don’t know if this will make much sense, but I have to get it out, put it down in words – this is a bit of my journey with what is called “church”

It rings in my head – “Bone Dry.”

You’ve heard it said – “Dry as a Bone.”

But bones aren’t dry . . . unless they are dead.   Dead Dry Bones.

Alive and they are strong – giving life, cleansing the body, not dry at all.

So when did I become bone dry? Dead? Forgetting, dying . . . Old and grey I wonder how a mind can fail to realize what they have forgotten, children fading into nameless faces. Watched my grandmother’s mind fade into oblivion as her spirit held onto her Lord. Those bits of pain they fade, the grief’s crazy edge dulls, like how I can’t remember quite how my breasts burst for him. The mad raging howl inside has subsided. What I am left with is Love and all the good.

I flip back through pages of memory and find the beautiful writing unfaded, I still know the feel of my babe’s silky forehead, the only kisses I would ever give him. I can trace his button nose like it was yesterday that I held him those few moments. Glad that I have come out of the coma of grief, no longer a wounded animal lashing out in fear and pain.

Good God, He walks us through the steps, each stage faithful to bring you to the next even when all feels lost in the uncharted madness of loss. Aren’t we all grieving and aren’t we all blessed? What do you do when you step out into that wide space of healing though? When you can’t blame your stumblings on a disabling hurt, when it’s no longer time to wait to start living again – what do you do then?  Praise, a sacrifice lifted from lips free of bitterness, from a heart purged by pain. If I mumble my thanks amidst petty gripes and complaints I fall back into the walking death of apathy, numb to this riotous beauty that is life truly.

No  - Wake up! Remember your first love, See where you have fallen from! Raise your hands in His freedom, Revel in his grace! The dead bones will Rise, they will Dance in the Desert! Giddy on the wine of His ever giving, all quenching water.

Long ago, not much more than a child, I stumbled into the circle of friends, sons and daughters in the flower of their youth. I thought I was grown, thought I knew life. We had no idea what we were doing, but we knew Him and we gathered round, to sing and to receive. Kneeling on that worn carpet, cross legged, holes in our jeans, flannels wrapped round, we hurt each other and we gave each other grace. I tiptoed in after parties and the wrong guys had kept me from their fellowship. My heart aching, my soul searching, I wondered if I would still be welcome. Gap toothed grin from behind his guitar let me know I was in the right place among brothers and sisters. Afterwards he said, “Come to the cornfields, pitch a tent, listen to the music, He will bless you, join us.” That was the last time I saw him. Driving to the festival, dark road and a semi, and we gathered round a hospital bed to whisper goodbye to his broken body. We prayed and cried, kids hit by life, didn’t know how, didn’t know, just didn’t know anything – but God . . . and we drove and we pitched our tents and we listened to music and punk rock and Jesus held our broken hearts together. Met at the skate ramp, black haired boy with his flesh pierced reminded me Who had been pierced for me. Reminded me Christ didn’t care what I had done, just loved me that was all, and knew I would need Him before I ever did. Said “Just Stop, Just Follow Jesus.”

And my path was never the same, I turned from the dark road I had stumbled down but I did not become what I had hoped. I hoped for perfection and a person I could be proud of. That I am not. I am a mess, always wandering off, hurting others, failing and fearing, holding not even a handful of the faith I long for.

But my Lord brings me back in brokenness. I stumble hesitant, fearful off to College. After more boys and way too much of my own way, He leads me to another circle of friends gathered every Monday night for Koinenea – Fellowship. Singing and telling each other what He had saved us from. Another smile, this one with curls and a young wife, leads us into worship and we grow together in His Presence. Undeserving I am graced with a husband, strong man with a  dream to fly. As he learns to soar, we move and move again till I begin to loose track of where I am. Graced again, the babies come and I am terrified. I just don’t know what I am doing, too young, too small, feeling more than a little alone. We cling together and search for fellowship. A small church and we find another circle to worship amidst and then we move and we move, on and on it feels . . .

more babies, and separation and loss and suddenly I am older, and tired and finding it hard to see my way. Unable to remember just how much I am forgetting. I struggle to worship amidst a sea of faces, I sneak out of services and begin to stiffen at the mere thought of Sunday morning. I know perfection is lost, unattainable and that true fellowship, friendship takes living life together and still I LONG for more. I yearn for more and heap the guilt on myself – I am too picky, unrealistic, difficult. Frustration builds, angry at an undefined enemy. Yet hope still flickers deep within. There is something, something . . . though I have forgotten what it is. I know I need it and that it does exist. I tell Him I don’t know how to find it but I will wait for Him to give. I will not give up.

Then I meet them. Surfers overflowing with joy and it sparks in me, remembering a time when I had that crazy uncontainable taste for Him, living just to be full of His spirit. They tell me of a time when believers gather – and worship. Then I meet her. A photographer whose images and words have moved me. Her full of life and honesty and telling me of a time when friends meet – to worship. I know He is leading me and despite every hurdle rising up we go. Children in our arms and at our sides . . .

We step into the room and are bathed in His presence. We come tired but His joy rushes in fast and strong. I come ashamed and He lifts my head, breathing forgiveness overwhelming. We laugh and cry, raise our hands and hold our babies. We kiss and look at each other afresh – in His love. We do not know anyone in the room but they carry us on the shoulders of their praise and prayers. Their spirits magnify the Lord and infinite God grows larger to our myopic eyes. We know not a soul but see Him through His people, His body broken for us, His church.

We enter into worship and I remember.   I remember what I must have to live.   I drink the water, slurp it up, splash and play.   I revive enough to realize how dry I was.   We in our brokenness, a vessel to be filled and we hold each other.

I still don’t know what comes next, how to live this season of healing. But it is no longer forgotten that I need the places of oasis. In a land of walking dead, we all traveling to the grave – I am dry bones dancing. Crucified in Christ it IS no longer I who live, but He lives in me and He has a body – my brother, my sister, my husband, my children. I am not my own. And He lives in the praises of His people – Not in programs or buildings, churches or “Christians” but in His children. The broken believing sinners, forever failing, bought with His blood, filled with His spirit, saved only by His amazing grace.

In that grace, in this world – I am dry bones dancing.

dry bones Dancing

“It’s foolishness I know but when the world has seen the light, they will dance with joy, like we’re dancing now.”

“And He will say dance, dance, children dance, dance forevermore. Hold hands and sing of your freedom as you dance around my throne.” – worship songs

“Tenderness and grace - How you’ve come this place  - However dangerous or safe – I will find you – I will find you” – Avett Brothers

5D . VSCO 800Z+ . Grampa’s Polaroid 420 Land Camera . need to figure out how to fix the bellows so they don’t leave dark shadow across bottom . . .