saving a little girl.

[gallery link="file" columns="5"] We are a family of four.  One dad, me.  Three daughters, them.  Four of us together learning life again.  The beauty peeking in every one of their eyeful glances and playful smiles strengthens me and opens my eyes to see.  They are leaning on a man to show them how to be women.  It is more appropriate than I ever imagined.  In many treacherous ways, it is harder to become a woman than it is to be a man.

A study found that on average, women have 13 negative body thoughts per day and that 97 percent of women in the study admitted to having at least one “I hate my body” moment daily. 80% of women who answered a People magazine survey responded that images of women on television and in the movies make them feel insecure. In one study, three out of four women stated that they were overweight although only one out of four actually were. Some of the pictures of the models in magazines do not really exist. The pictures are computer modified compilations of different body parts. One half of 4th grade girls are on a diet. 95% of individuals who diet as opposed to those who follow a healthy food plan will gain their lost weight back in one to five years. 81% of ten year old girls are afraid of being fat. A study found that adolescent girls were more fearful of gaining weight, than getting cancer, nuclear war or losing their parents. When preschoolers were offered dolls identical in every respect except weight, they preferred the thin doll nine out of ten times.

There it is.  That thing robbing happiness and fullness with ease and with little fight.  Everyone just gives in and maybe enables thieving hands to pull long and reshape lasting what little girls see with innocent, bruised eyes.  The sun only shines on thin.  Smiles made to effortlessly open the heart and bear the soul to broad possibility wear loosely intent on bowing always to generated images of people that never existed.  It is oppressive, servitude hanging the price of freedom in happiness on a sliding scale forever sloped unreachable.  It is tainting the divine.  Every eye, ear and nose, a content stroke of the creator’s hand.  Beauty skin deep, surface holding, mutes love true and absolute, actual gorgeousness of individual.  Shapes and sizes, height and weight, blemish, curves and lines, all beholding and unveiling beauty in individuality.  No two alike.  Neither should they ever be.  Every one holding beauty deep and divine.

The disease feeding on socially acceptable, preying on innocent while little hearts still warm in the nest.  Wings forming strong maimed as they stretch to embrace life before flight.  Cut all the same length.  The world is flat again.

As a single father of three little girls quickly approaching double-digit age, this breaks my heart and overwhelms and intimidates me.  Tears welled up as images of my little girls innocent and free moved through my thoughts.  I can only run in panicked circles warding off these thieves.  But that will buy little time.  The windows will break, glass will shatter and they will come in uninvited and despised.  They are coming.  I am waiting.  Images manufactured precisely.  Idols all empty little hearts aspire to please.  Models that don’t exist.  Women that don’t fit.  Empty little hearts always wanting to be filled hungry just to be held as they are, where they are, how they are.

My little women, do they feel the weight?  More frightening even, do they identify the wrong as right?  Are their little knees still scuffed with dirt and sweat fading too fast giving way to a thieving normalcy, a must achievable mold they must fit into?

Someone needs to yell something different, look into their eyes beholding and everyday grab that disease thieving by the throat, crush it underfoot and open the door to beauty actual.  Let the lies swarm and pick and invade.  I am the destroyer of deceitful beauty, treading heavy footed on every lie making room for itself in their filling little hearts.

Reading through this information my heart caught flame with fear and resolve.  Acceptable images of how women are said to be but were never intended to be or should be influencing all watching, capturing the attention of those needing to be caught.  It is not right.

How do you undo an empire but by one brick at a time?

I have three.  They will be loosed with the continual help of the one divine.

a shadow.

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He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. Psalm 91:1

"The nights are loneliest."

Standing there in a room of his most loved, he was all alone.  So was I.  I found myself connected to more than words, to the disconnect and fear floating in his eyes.  The years stacked neatly for them.  They were happy.  I could tell by the way he spoke.  The papers that I had for him to sign seemed so insignificant.  His words rang familiar.  She was not yet gone, but close.  Death ready to come and it needed to happen.  She had suffered and battled with disease long enough.  He was waiting as she was letting go.  I had to reel him in out of the sacredness waiting with her, his love, to leave to discuss her end of life care.  He signed the hospice papers, looked long into my eyes and thanked me genuinely.  I heal a bit more every time.  Much like a victim, a survivor, the one remaining shell shocked and moving slower than life surrounding, I watched as he stood tall by her side.  He knew that the path ahead would be trying.  So did I.  It’s the one I’ve been walking.

They all forget.  The next day just happens as the ones before and the ones following.  What's worse is the thought of them remembering at the sight of you.  A walking tragedy, polarized.  The one left to tell of perseverance and the found silver lining.  Most days, especially close to the interruption, you fake it hiding in a facade of strength and learned living.  You get lost in the day. I still forget even now.  Lapses of time, circumstance and reality erase death in fast fleeting moments.  I forget I'm a widower.  I forget I'm alone.  Until night comes and busyness fades with the day.  Then I remember again very well the cause for all this commotion, this upheaval of life.  Disruption.  No one likes to be stopped mid-conversation with words still left to say.  Interrupted and the words left just hanging with no place to land.

There you go.  That's the prickly heart of the matter.  Life interrupted.  Left hanging, suspended and final.

Loneliness is lost.  Deeper than companionship so sweet and identifying is the wandering afterward.  I wander as I wonder.  What of life now?  This dark interlude.  Does it give way to something better?  Some place happier?  Will life again ever resemble the day lost?  Should it?

I am convinced ever so deeply that it will, but when, where, what and how, require trust and faith that is, in spots, thin.

This is nothing new.  I've been lonely since the moment she left.  Many steps through treacherous impasses have made me more honest and bare.  Being honest about being lonely feels good to me signaling stability and security.  Admitting to loneliness for me is saying that I do not know the way, I am searching for place to rest, I need people close to me more now.  I am more vulnerable.  I am weaker.  All signs of greater strength of lasting, guiding value.

Being lonely has never meant being desperate for companionship.  That will come just as soon as it again makes sense, and it will, but that is eternally secondary to finding my way now and discovering purpose in loneliness.  In loneliness, I find great strength.  In solitude, I find solidarity that I've not known before.  Because I need it, it is there.  Companionship with God.  The Author of life littering my path with his graces leading to shelter.  Covering me in storms. Finding me in fog.  Stabilizing me in turbulence.  Allowing me to hide when I need and breathe when I cannot.

A real God finding me amidst real wrong in real life.  This is good and unique.  Dare I even think it, a blessing.

My prayer is that I always remember the bountifulness of these lonely nights leading me to stronger shelter.  One day, probably sooner than later, life will be settled wondrously and clean.  Fuller.  In that goodness, apart from this loneliness, may I always remember this couch, the silence, the distance and the ringing of questions.  For these are the beams of his shelter in which I dwell.

surrender.

[gallery link="file" columns="5"] No matter how well you put it together.  The height of the work of your hands, the weight, significance and value, the pride of day and sweat of your brow... accomplishment, possession, power... nothing is as meaningful as opening your handsLetting go of what you cherish.  Feeling the wind move through fingers once clinched in defiance and desperation holding white knuckled strong to rust and rot.  It all goes away.  I mistake moments and memories as forever.  I hold tight and run in circles chasing moments fleeing.  The moments don’t matter.

Sunlight turns the page of a new day.  Its warmth wakes the day, ushers in change as beams of light flood and fill, search and kill the silence and cool of night when memories are awake and moments live forever.  I feel asleep in yesterday.  The ease of then invites sleep.  Some days I do not make it past morning.  Waking to a new day is just too uncomfortable.  I go back to bed before noon just going through the rest of my day in motions.  I am indifferent.  I am defiant.  In protest.  I want today and long for tomorrow but I put a heavy foot in yesterday because it’s easier and I know who I am or who I was then.  Rotting.  Rusting.  I don’t want to be there.  Knowing where else to be, now, is foreign.

Foreign.  Free.  It comes at a cost.  Yesterday.

Bury your broken heart into the dirt of today.  Every day.  Surrender.  Lose to the current swiftly running foaming grace and mercy and finding.  Let go of breaking branches.  Sink deeply into love today while adoring the beauty behind.

Little eyes are waiting, watching and wanting.

Today’s heaviness relents to the reminder of surrender and the release of all my hands try to hold onto.


'...
but joy comes with the morning.' Psalm 30:5, ESV

FEAR and the sinking.

[gallery link="file" columns="5"] FEAR: The best behind me. FEAR: Life will always be this way, shadowed in loss. FEAR: My daughters always wounded learn to survive, emotionally maimed. FEAR: All goodness is fleeting and happiness constantly reframing. FEAR: Love past will suffice. FEAR: I will not be enough. FEAR: These fears and more will condition me to loss, shrink me to small, shell me.

I am dangerously holding disappearing beneath wave’s surface foaming tossing and beating losing and dreaming eyes that uncover the hand folding the lights bright blinking

I am afraid of the door closing fading in the sound creaking bending and bowing seeping and hoping my hand warm on the knob turning yesterday leaving

Then he asked them, “Why are you afraid?  Have you still no faith?”

The wind no more.  The waves still and inanimate reflecting sun as glass.  Their feet still soaked.  Hearts still pounding.  Breaths still drawing deep and out of rhythm.  His eyes disturbingly calm as if nothing ever did happen giving little value to the panic of moments before.  He’s wet, too.  And he gets it, the moment before.  His eyes so calm and seemingly disconnected did see waves and squint in howling wind, but they saw something else.  Now.  Afterward even then.

‘Why are you afraid’ invites us out of wind and wave and panic and dread and finish and into his moment standing now.  Afterward even then.

Staring at the day wondering when it will release, waiting for things and people and love to all make sense again.  To be well fit for the life so bright just right there at my doorstep, but tripping over toys and clothes and books and dreams while trying to open the door.  That is grief.  Excusing yesterday and wishing it well.  Embracing now and forthcoming holding it so tight and familiar.  Wanting so badly for that to be now.  But that is not rescue or reason.  That is reward.

So what, then?  Faith.  Have you none still?

These are my fears minus a few howling throughout the day darkening my sight, damning tomorrow in the tumult now.  These are the things that must be let go if I am going to do more than write and hope for tomorrow.

There are things now maybe ruined by my hand not letting go of fear my eyes gazing into the storm giving reality to what ifs and hope nots.  Fear becomes us when we just cannot, will not let go and when we run around in panic that the settling of how things now will apparently always be.  Fear became me and changed me altering words and sight.  The disease of losing is fear not loss.  Loss is the lasting reality left in the wake of fear.

Grief is faith.  It is releasing what can no longer be had and opening to newness in time.  To trust his eyes standing there right in front of me.  He’s wet, too, dripping with the moment we are both in together.  And all of him, the eyes calm, him stained constant with the moment whispers comfortably, ‘Why are you afraid?’

 

FEAR is a thief with pockets full of surrender. ASSURANCE: II Tim 1:7; Mark 4:40

healing me.

Open my eyes and let them see over and beyond fear and finality, insecurity and insignificance, loneliness and the letting go.

My heart must trust if it will go on.  I have to be able to be strongly weak, trusting that God is still God and that he is indeed good and aware.  The recoil of loss has been the posture of strength and holding it all together.  Into the eyes of my daughters drifting and grabbing for a solid something to hold them in the stormiest of emotions and the most frightful of dreams, I look with strength.  And they find solidness.  And they hold.  That strength is not my own though I have owned it.  It is Godly and it is given.  No man no matter the training, experience or fortitude can survive the pain of death present and grief of loss not leaving in the absence of God’s good grace and mercy.  It is just not possible.  Whether we see it or not or believe it or not, God is active always.  The smile of a friend, the compassion of a co-worker, the kindness of a stranger, the sun warm on a cool day, details just working out, all God’s handiwork and allowance of grace and strength in our lives.  We somehow make it through.  That somehow has a name.

I AM, it is.   God enough.   God always.   God forever.

It is indeed in this exactly and only that my healing is held.  Trust is the way to that healing always.  My prayer simple: open my eyes that I might see you through all and trust again despite the deepest wound and the fragility remaining.

I have seen the dawn.  Now I must hold the light.

Trust.   Healing.   Whole.  

Wanting tomorrow is not nearly enough to get me there.  Desiring God’s goodness is great, but short of having it.  Hoping to heal is only a start.  Writing about healing in my own heart has put my foot to the path, but only my foot to the path.  Trust is the activity of walking and the reality of wholeness in my life.  Not trusting leaves me as an observer standing still on the path, knowing but not doing, wanting but not having the wholeness needed to be fully alive again and compatible with the new day.

For me, to trust is to quiet the fears at rage inside.  To find home in the shelter that God is.  Anchor points that hold and remind me.

Psalm 23:6 “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life...” Goodness and mercy will follow me as I trust and move forward.  I will find these as I am moving not standing still waiting for them.

Psalm 91:1 “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.” I find home in God and his words that give life and direction.  His shadow casts a magnificent terror upon all fears haunting and threatening me.