bits of sunshine

this husband of mine

every once in a while i look at him, this husband of mine, this wildland firefighter of mine, and i think, he is so wonderful.  and i get to spend so much of my life with him.  fourteen and a half years, so far, and working toward, oh, seventy or more.  

he'll go - sometimes for days at a time, sometimes for weeks, sometimes even for months.  our space feels different when he's away.  a little bit bigger.  a little bit emptier.  

he'll return.  and fill our space with emptied-out bags, and laughter, and some combination of rocks and pinecones and magnets and pins and maps and chocolate.

he headed out last night.  with all that gear and a pile of homemade granola bars and protein-loaded cookies.  i'll see him when i see him.  and that'll be good.  it always is. 

a glimpse in a box

one day last week, there was a box outside my door when i ran home for lunch. i opened it just enough to see that it was packed full of goodness.  too much to enjoy in the few minutes i had right then.

for the rest of the afternoon at work, i knew that box was waiting for me.  when i returned home, i took it out in the sunshine and slowly worked my way through each wonderful bit. 

inside i found music and drawings and words and zippers and coloring and scents and more words and stories and thoughts and love. 

i sat and soaked the warm sunshine in through my skin and soaked all kinds of love and bits of my friend's life in through my eyes and my hands and my heart. 

i took one bit to work with me the next day.  good, good words - lettered and framed with love. 

be at peace once more, oh my soul
for the LORD has been good to you
for you, oh LORD, have delivered
my soul from death
my eyes from tears
my feet from stumbling
that i may walk in the land of the living
psalm 116:7-8

 

what a lovely gift.  a box filled with a glimpse of her life. 
a box filled with sunshine, ribbons, wrapping and joy. 
thank you, dear e.  thank you.

brown sugar

i am editing a book.
a book about a very hard, heavy life
full of sadness and darkness and ugly selfishness and brokenness.
and the things that people do to one another
the things that people survive through
the things that break one, but not another,
are so heavy on my heart
and under my pencil.

the other day, after working for a few hours, i stopped
to make the cookies i had promised my kiddos.

as i was taking my brown sugar, in the cheery red tin canister i keep it in, out of my cupboard,
my hands trembled, my breath caught, my eyes filled with tears
over the brown sugar.

and i thought

really, how many people have brown sugar in their cupboards?
and i even have a red tin to keep mine in.
and i make cookies with it
for myself and my family and my friends.
and when i use it up, i buy more.
and once the bag is open, into my red tin canister it will go
so it will stay soft and fresh.

brown sugar in a cupboard means something.
i am pretty sure that there are only a few houses
that have a partially used bag of soft brown sugar in the cupboard.
really, who even thinks to buy brown sugar?
only the mom who is going to make cookies.

there might be a token bag shoved way back in a cupboard here or there,
rock-hard or ant-eaten.
but a partially used bag of soft brown sugar
speaks of love and stability and time spent on a warm, homemade treat.

soft brown sugar is a love language.
soft brown sugar is a testament.

i grew up in a brown-sugar-in-the-cupboard kind of house.
so did my husband.
our house is a brown-sugar-in-the-cupboard kind of house.
and i am realizing more and more and every day
that a brown sugar house
is a very rare house indeed.

{i am so very wildly, wonderfully blessed.}