The light of the world.

"Jesus said, 'I am the light of the world.'"
~ John 8:12

Today is Easter - Resurrection Sunday - and I want celebrate this light that has entered the world...my world. Today, I am struck with the fact that I've seen the literal light of God shine down on so many places in this world. I have seen the skies open up over Florence after one of the hardest rains. I've seen dots of crystal dance on the water in a New England bay, and greenish-goldenness highlight a single blade of grass in New Mexico. There is so much light around us, so much light to be captured. I think it's amazing we were given this light first in Christ Himself. And then we were given things like grass and sky and sea and people's faces, so we wouldn't forget. Oh God, I hope I never stop seeing it.

{For more, see The Perfect Time Of Day. And last year's post on Eastering.}

{rome, italy: vatican city}

{dallas, texas: SMU campus}

{florence, italy: sunset from piazza michaelangelo}

{india: peace city orphanage}

{dallas, texas: my livingroom}

{las mochas, new mexico}

{palos verdes, california: my and jen's shadows}

{manhattan beach, california}

{franklin, tennessee}

{dallas, texas: at the arboretum}

{clinton, new jersey: roadside harvest stand}

{kampala, uganda}

{nairobi, kenya: at new life orphanage}

{new york, new york: central park}

{east texas: blueberry farm}

{nashville, tennessee: centennial park}

{san antonio, texas: guadalupe river}

{nashville, tennessee: belmont campus rose garden}

{seaside, florida}

{maine: acadia national park}

{deer isle, maine}

{new york, new york: my and steven's shadows in central park}

{mackinac island, michigan}

{tuscany, italy}

{cinque terre, italy}

I watch this morning
for the light that the darkness has not overcome.
I watch for the fire that was in the beginning
and that burns still in the brilliance of the rising sun.
I watch for the glow of life that gleams in the growing earth
and glistens in sea and sky.
I watch for your light, O God,
in the eyes of every living creature
and in the ever-living flame of my own soul.
If the grace of seeing were mine this day
I would glimpse you in all that lives.
Grant me the grace of seeing this day.
Grant me the grace of seeing.

~ from Celtic Benediction by J. Philip Newell

A new piece of paper, please.

Growing up, I loved art class with a passion. I lived for the moments spent each week in that classroom at the end of the hall at Central Avenue School, tucked away as if it was an afterthought. Instead, the art room was more like the center of everything in my world and where all of my senses came alive...the scent of tempura paints dried around the rims of the plastic containers...the texture of prickly brushes crammed into a mason jar...the feel of tissue paper as thin as poppy petals. And the colors. Bright colors, lots of colors, millions of possibilities, like wildflowers.

But even in third grade, I wanted all of my artistic outpourings to be perfect, or at least perfect to me. I wanted them to come out exactly as I saw them in my mind. And when it didn't come out that way, or just when I felt I needed to start fresh, I loved the freedom of asking for a new piece of paper.

And that is what I love about gardening. Gardening is forgiving. We start with a blank piece of paper, and each year right before the last frost, we get a new one with which to begin again.

"More than anything, I must have flowers always, always."

~ Claude Monet

Before we had our home, we borrowed a friend's backyard where he generously allowed us to dig up a patch of soil and plant some vegetables. Bless our hearts, we were so desperate to grow something - anything - that first year that we drove across Dallas a few times a week just to visit and water our fragile seedlings. I'm almost positive we had no idea what we were doing then, and no matter what happens now, it has to be better than harvesting one single cucumber, which is all we got in the summer of 2006.

That fall, we moved into our home and stood on the back steps overlooking our positively blank piece of Texas soil - a perfect square with a bit of grass and an old brick patio framed by a new wooden fence. I knew one thing - I wanted flowers. Lots of 'em.

But that winter of 2007, a fire pit and some tiki torches was the best we could do.


Come spring, we tried our hand at a small square-foot garden with a few marigolds and some very sad tomatoes.


Then, on Christmas Day 2007, we really started digging. We first started digging up the brick patio to form flower beds {landscaping edging isn't cheap, you know}. I attacked weeds so fierce that they bit back, throwing me to the ground, leaving me with a few shredded leaves in my fist, the stubborn weed still firmly planted in its place. And oh, the "treasures" we unearthed, decades of debris - old pieces of shag carpet, bent spoons, plastic action figures, and even a cat skull {sorry, kitty}. But little by little, it took shape...

{december 2007}

{march 2008}

{summer 2008}

{now: spring 2009}

I never knew how building and growing something from scratch would teach me so much about life and patience and hope. Yes, hope. We are hopeful that the time we've spent building this together will be an investment into our marriage and into the people we love who finally get to exhale and relax in the red hammock after a tough day. We are hopeful that we'll cook a meal for someone with the tomatoes we grew from a seed starter in the dead of winter. We are hopeful that our labor will turn into something useful...and beautiful.

In the garden, I've spent quiet hours with my own thoughts {much like those moments in art class when the entire classroom was hushed and hovered over their pieces of paper}. I've watched my husband as he so diligently and meticulously plants vegetable seeds, reminding me of another reason I married this caring man. Our garden is a home for birds, a haven of rest, the site of laughter over a camp fire, and a place where hymns are sung on guitar.

It's our fourth year of trying, and we're certainly not pro's, but we've figured some things out. I'm fairly sure we won't try to grow wildflowers in the shade anymore, and I won't step my ruby red Crocs into any more red ant piles {owie}.

But the most important thing I've learned is that in the garden, if you mess up, that's okay. Just clear the land, amend the soil, and start again. It's okay to be creative and to just be yourself and to ask for a new piece of paper. Please.

Still good.

I'm sharing my testimony, my story, tonight at community group. As I was preparing for that this morning, I was going through some CDs and "stumbled" upon this one: Sing Over Me. I put it in the DVD player to play it through the TV {I like that our TV is used for music now} and continued on with my morning, making breakfast, drinking tea...until the third song, which disarmed me.

It was "You are Good" sung by Nichole Nordeman {one of my favorites always}. I forgot this song makes the tears well up at the first word, every time. And then at this line, I completely lose it:
So how can I thank You? What can I bring?
What can these poor hands lay at the feet of the King?

{listen to the song here}

Because now, at 31, I really feel this. I feel so humbled and broken and sorrowful, yet full of joy and more whole than I ever have in my life...if it's possible to feel all of that at once.

For the majority of my life, I thought I was the good one. I was raised to love God and "worship Christ" {whatever that means} and to attend church, and that was what I needed to do to be a Christian. It was easy to say I trusted Him when I got A-pluses and everyone thought I was the best and I ruled the youth group.

Then, I didn't know Him as the One who is in the slums of India as much as inside my room at night, when I was so scared of the dark that I couldn't sleep. I didn't know Him as one who would rather my life be difficult with Him than comfortable without Him. I get it now...all those times, He was trying to win me.

I never want to forget what I felt at this moment in India - unworthy to even pray for these people who kept coming to me in this concrete room, in the middle of a pasture, so far away from everything familiar. It all felt so sticky hot and humid and foreign and uncomfortable, but at the same time, exactly what I was made for.

Tonight as I share my story, I want to celebrate that there is no goodness in me. I'm so glad I know this now. HE is good. So good.

When the Sun starts to rise and I open my eyes
You are Good, So Good
In the heat of the day with each stone that I lay
You are so Good

With every breath I take in
I'll tell You I'm grateful again
When the moon climbs high before each kiss good night
You are Good

When the road starts to turn around each bend I've learned
You are good, So Good
And when somebody's hand holds me up, helps me stand
You are...So Good

With every breath I take in
I'll tell You I'm grateful again
'Cause it's more than enough just to know I am loved and
You are Good

So how can I thank You? What can I bring?
What can these poor hands lay at the feet of the King?
So I'll sing You a love song
It's all that I have to tell You
I'm grateful for holding my life in Your hands

When it's dark and it's cold and I can't find my soul
You are Good, So Good
When the world has gone gray and the rain's here to stay
You are STILL Good

With every breath I take in
I'll tell You I'm grateful again
Though the storms they may swell, even then, it is well and
You are Good

So how can I thank You? What can I bring?
What can these poor hands lay at the feet of the King?
So I'll sing You a love song
It's all that I have to tell You
I'm grateful for holding my life in Your hands

You are holding my life in Your hands

California: the ocean, old friends, baby love, and stunning sunsets.

I'm back from California, where I visited my dear friend Jen, her hubby, and little girl for a few days. I savored the glow that covered my face in the sun. I inhaled the ocean air as the weight of life slipped away for just a few moments. I rolled up my jeans and dug my melon-painted toes deeply into the sand. Life is made of moments like these.




A swing set on the beach in Newport...you know I couldn't pass that up.



Newport Beach...or Italy?



An open-air market just begging you to pick up some fresh oranges or perhaps a bouquet of orange tulips...



An ode to Jen and I, and all the growing up we've done in the last 7 years...



View from the cliffs at Palos Verdes...








Enjoying the ocean through a baby's eyes...




My sweet hosts, the Lee family...

It's here...

Signs of life.

It's almost March, and signs of life are all around. The red hammock is ready to hold a reader with a book on a warm spring day. "Volunteer" herbs sprout in unlikely, unplanned places, a forgotten Tiger Lily surfaces from a hidden bulb. Spring is pushing forth. Remember me? she says.

At this moment, I'm thankful to have a sunny spot in the back yard to spend my lunch break. I stare hopefully at my wildflower bed, willing those seeds to start sprouting by Saturday. The packet said 7 days....

Meanwhile, it seems that everything, including my body, wants to shed the heaviness of winter. Sweet potato soup for lunch seemed too dense, too filling. I ate a few bites and turned instead to a bowl of fresh, juicy grapefruit, with a drizzle of agave nectar, a sprinkle of sea salt, and a few scoops of coconut cream. {Remember when I learned to love grapefruit?} Tomorrow, it might be mango for breakfast.

Spring beckons you to both speed up and slow down: Get up, get out, start moving again. Start putting your hands in the soil or your feet on the sidewalk. And then stop long enough to see what's becoming all around you. I hope I never forget to see the changing of the seasons or how our bodies and souls coincide with it. I hope I never stop reminding myself.

So let's take a walk around the yard, and see what we can find.

Thyme - it pretty much survives anything. I haven't as much as touched it all winter, and here it is, growing new leaves with a vengeance.


Some Forget-Me-Not's in an old tin pail-turned-planter...


Red Leaf Lettuce growing out of a crack in the patio - oh, why not?


One of my favorites - the vanilla-scented Sweet Alyssum...coming up already from last year's seeds!


Oak-Leaf Hydrangea beginning to bud...


And a surprise...the Tiger Lily that I thought died last year - apparently not!