all wiped away.

All wiped away. In the blurring winds circling in and out of days, blowing chaotic and careless, rest gets lost in the reach, in those breaths drawn in deeply and in tears that cut paths across dry cheeks.

I laid easy under a clear sky yesterday.  For hours, just floating in and out of thoughts as gentle waves reached and recoiled.  The sound whispered hypnotic abandon.

Rest alludes us.  Always seemingly ahead waving empty in mirage heat while finding escape in the details of life and circumstance.  We don’t rest.  What we do is recharge to catch up and prepare for whatever’s next.  We give regular pause when day gives way to night, but our minds race and unravel, our dreams reveal and recover and our hearts crave true belonging.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

...from racing ...from wanting ...from sinking ...from spinning ...from being lost ...from being apart

Rest lies real in the divine.

“I will give you rest. ...you will find rest for your souls.”

Wake up to start again.  Our hearts paused only to resume once more.

Yes, rest alludes.

Even the happiest and most well kept individuals recharge, at best.

Our sin, all the wrong that takes residence in our heart, the imperfections we tolerate, the energy in wondering of what more, these bear more weight than mere happiness and resourcefulness.  Our souls search for more.  Something that will appease the unrest residing in every existing minute.  Are we enough?  Are we right?  Are we okay?  

Can we truly ever rest?

Truth is, the soul quenching rest that quiets all fear innate and intrinsic is otherworldly.  We are incapable of such now.

We feel it in moments when we gaze at the sky or give honest observation to natural beauty.  All else fades, including time passing, and rest passes close by.  There, we unhinge from this life and feel the warmth of eternity and how much grander it is than all of the choking cares of now.  It is magical and deeply invigorating.  But rest, as in reprieve,

There will be a day when grace concedes to glory.  Rest will truly come then.

When worries wean and fears exist no more, when struggle ends and doubts prove empty, when the last redemptive stroke is made, in a day perfected by God’s glory, rest will be the inheritance of those clinched to grace today.

Ahead, pulling us forward.  Kingdom come.

The sky yesterday expanded in such unending, new beauty.  I felt as though I could look into forever and be found in each floating cloud.  I laid on my back in the sand next to my oldest daughter and together we spied eternity, not in clouds rolling gently but in time slowing between us and words together wondering.

Still echoing in her words and heart, “Why did mom die?” “What will life be like?” “Where will she rest when her thoughts run?”

There will be a day when all that once violated her heart, eroded her innocence and kept me up worrying, will forever fade in the glory of God.  Until that day somewhere ahead, we live in his Kingdom come here and now.  We find rest now amidst all wrong.  That rest in founded and supported continual in our residence established in God’s glory in a indescribable day to come.

All wiped away as night gives way to day, warm and new.  Rest in that tomorrow today.

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."   (Matthew 11:28-30, The Message)

"Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. 10 Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. 11 Give us this day our daily bread, 12 and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. 13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. (Matthew 6:9-11)

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a parenting must.

Once again, deeper there on the trail crowded by overgrowth and choked by dust, I felt the responsibility in each of their little vulnerable steps.

“Dad, I can’t.” “Trust me, you can.  Just put your foot right where you feel my hand.”

A few minutes earlier, we came to a small clearing right off the trail that gave glimpse to a waterfall.  The sound of water rushing.  The cool of mist hanging in air.  They had to see it.  The beauty of nature demanded attention.  Between us and the sight to behold, a small rock face and a ledge to balance on.  With little thought of anything going wrong, I started down the rock face determining our path.  The descent, not much more than 20 feet, a bit precarious for their little legs and tense hearts, but necessary to see the waterfall completely.  And in my mind, they absolutely had to see it.

I am father to three amazing little daughters.  They have no other parent now.  Just me.

I have little idea of how to raise daughters on my own.  All the shifting intricacies and suddenly swelling emotions.  I second guess myself and hesitate at least a handful of times most days.  They cry huge girl tears which fall unexpectedly and unpredictably.  I worry.  What’s wrong?  Before I can catch up and figure out what’s going on, they’re done.  The moment behind them.  Tears get lost in laughter.  And they talk way too much by my account.  Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing them talk about the day, their experiences and how they are seeing the world, but sometimes our conversational thresholds are very, very different.

Being dad rests as a huge responsibility in each day and decision.  So much more than ever before or imagined.

Together, we crash landed onto the shores of life now and new.  The wreckage of the life we knew still ablaze and in sudden disarray.

“DAD, you’re here!!!” they yelled with excitement.

Leaping hugs ensued as they engulfed me with energy building during the week we were apart.  For a moment, I was raptured back to the world I knew when they would run to greet me as I returned from work.  That world and the loving memories of it vanished with the words that followed.  “Where’s mommy?” asked Elizabeth, our oldest daughter.  “When is mommy coming home from the hospital?” asked Chloe, our youngest with anxious excitement.  I could not even swallow to say something.  This was so much more terrible than I could have ever imagined.  Emily, our middle daughter, was quiet.  I could tell she knew something was wrong, very wrong, as she backed into the shadows of her heart trying to not be part of what was happening.  My heart crumbled and quaked inside of my chest.  They had no idea yet exactly how dark the day was and how different their lives had become.  As their daddy, the one person walking this Earth set to protect them, their words were like someone violating the sacredness of our family, our togetherness.  It felt as though someone stabbed me in the heart with the dullest knife, maybe a spoon.  And I swear I could see life dim a little in their eyes as they saw the loneliness present in  mine.

“Let’s go outside.  I need to talk to you, girls.”

That is how this together started; me and the three of them.  A conversation about death and tragedy, what’s no more and unknown ahead.  Together, in the middle of two very different days, all sinking and me trying to keep our heads above water rising.

Before their mother’s death, we were five together.  Life was tamed by love and dreams to chase after.  In so many countless little ways, life laid out far less complex and with comforting ease.  Life made sense.  God existed always measurably good.

I never imagined living life as a single parent.  So much responsibility.  Most of the time, details slip past me and dates fall through the cracks.

Here’s the thing: parenting is much more privilege and much less about responsibility.

It has to be.  Otherwise, you’ll raise robots, rebels or aging dependents.  It is not your responsibility to make your kids succeed in life.  It is your privilege to lead them along treacherous paths and be a part of revealing the panoramic ahead.

Responsibility is a to do list, a weighted must; a burden lacking discovery, heroism, courage and love.  Your kids will always remember moments you lifted them, times you saved them and whispers of greatness planted in the soil of their little looking hearts.  The scariest thing I’ve ever had to do as their dad was let go.  Responsibility hangs heavy in weighty apprehension.  Do this.  Say that.  Allow this.  Never that.  Responsibility will keep you running to little fires with an always leaking bucket of maybes and overreactions and weak second guesses.

I can no more save them than I can myself.  I had to let go of responsibility as priority in parental definition.  It is a parenting must.

More than father to my three little beautiful daughters, I am a son made to belong where I shouldn’t by a forever loving Father who just does not quit.  Loosening my grip on responsibility as king didn’t make me less responsible, but more responsive to their growing needs.  The privilege of being dad to Elizabeth Marie, Emily Anne and Chloe Grace opens me to lead them wherever life turns and towards the women they will soon one day be.

We inched down the rock face, my hands and words guiding each step.  Together we took in the view and felt the mist lightly spraying about us.  We shared a small victory, their little hearts grew stronger and I learned more about parenting in that moment than most others before.

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a confession.

::I’m not always okay. Days hang without home in the quiet.  Not all days, some.  I drift out with the tide receding, fleeing from shore, the sand on fire.  And all I want to do is float.  Maybe sink a little, too.

It gets lonely not forgetting.

The woman who was my wife, whom I loved fully and forever, died.

I remember what’s been done, how life would not stop, how her body would not heal, how I trusted God only with words while my heart seethed betrayal.  Yes, I remember.

I remember that I’m okay with what’s been done and in days laid in waste and wait, those words trusting bloomed alive.  I know that it is not my doing, but His strength continually coming into its own.

::I do not need to always be okay.

My grace is enough; it's all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness. (2 Cor 12:10, The Message)

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. (Psalm 147:3, NIV)

a patient reminder.

Patience is a virtue slowly grinding to dust impulse and taming wild irrational beats of heart and emotion. We hurry, rush to ends, often preferring what’s fast over lasting.  Houses dug into sand dependent on the tide rising and receding.  The poverty of rush is just that.  Lives always shifting.  Mine, a pace bent on sprinting, panting breath and often missing eyes.

Good things come to those who wait because they are slow, deliberate, intentional and patient with life.  They are constant in wait, protected in storm and growing through it all.  The rush of circumstance always in flux do not move them because circumstance is not what owns them.

I’ve written about it many times before, but for the sake of now, I remind myself again.  Wait is action, not static and stagnate.  To wait is to choose a response of pause or steady continue until the right time presents itself.

In each of my passing days, there lies a drive, partly panicked, to run back or rush ahead out of the moment into another.  I want to be somewhere else and have it all figured out, be more established and further down the road in life.  I always envision life to be better there.  It will never magically just be better there.

Life is real now.  And tomorrow is shaped today.

The imagery helping me to slow and trust and dig into today fully is my heart as a garden.  Leave a garden alone in neglect and weeds grow.  Overgrown, it sets unbalanced.  Growth and beauty stunted.  But tended to daily, it has all reasonable chance to flourish and give evidence of life.

The garden is beautiful because of cultivation.  Hands dirty and dig into the soil planting seeds and investing time giving cause for health both now and into tomorrow.

All good things come to those who actively wait now.

A garden is a grand teacher.It teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift; above all it teaches entire trust. Gertrude Jekyll

manuscript done. almost.

"My eyes open slowly, knowingly to a new world." And with that, my fingers stopped moving and my manuscript complete. ...for now, at least.  Those are the parting words.  The very last words that wrap up my first book.  For the past year, hours have piled high, words have bled out and memories and reflections recorded.  Forming and shaping the base of what will soon be my first book completed.

I emailed my manuscript off for editing last week.  And it was with plenty of anxiety. It’s one thing to write words.  But to have someone comb through those words holding close to your heart, life lived fibers connecting your heart to days behind and hope ahead, can be a whole ‘nother level of vulnerability.

I winced a bit as I hit the send button releasing my manuscript into the hands of my editor purposed on cutting, slicing, adding, suggesting and critiquing ...all for good, of course.  But still.

I winced even more when her initial response filled my inbox.

When I first started writing this book, my approach was simple: a revisiting of life and recounting of God’s grace in light of grief hanging heavy.

My fingers found reprieve in a blank screen and comfort in the retelling, the sharing and the journey.  God found as my words came to life.  Writing grew into quite a cathartic exercise.  The discipline required to stay on schedule (somewhat), a healthy tether to life as it happened and hope ahead.

I guess only part of me expected an actual book to result.  Being an author always seemed like an audacious reach for me.  That’s precisely how big dreams should exist, as life in the far distance imagined.  The reach required to close that intimidating, romantically imagined distance demanded sweat and furrowed brow ...and steps defying resistance.

Books aren’t written by ideas or even pretty words.  Books are written by authors who don’t quit.

The same holds true for anything in life hoped for.  Hope is not enough.  You have to be a dream taker owning what is hoped for in your dripping effort.  Plenty of people hope for things better and years grow, aging hopes.  Eventually hopes and dreams get swallowed in the distance and diminishing effort given.  Steps cease and the distance between where you stand and where you hoped to be never met.

Quit and you’ll never arrive.  Discount your dream as unimportant, unworthy and unreachable and you will always be where you are, never a step closer.

I’m still staring at hope in the future.  It’s still out there in front of me, but the distance is closing quickly as step by step I draw nearer.

My manuscript still needs to be completed after editing.  A publisher will need to accept my book.  People will need to read it.  Another book will be written.  And another.  That is the fullness of my dream.  Not one book, but as many as I will write.

I set out to be a writer.  That is the dream glowing and the hope hanging.

I’ll keep you posted on how my manuscript evolves into a book over the next couple months and share excerpts and behind the scenes type of thought and information.

And I hope that the slightest bit of inspiration from my journey eases into your effort as you hope, dream and close the distance.