My husband and I traveled to the California wine country for a work conference last November. The things we do for his career.
One afternoon, our group had lunch at Kuleto Estate situated high on a steep, rocky hill. Looked out over vineyards afire with fall color. The sky seemed larger. Our feet lighter.
our view from Kuleto Estate
Dined outdoors on the side of the mountain at a long table. Ate vegetables picked fresh from the gardens that morning, delectable meats and desserts prepared by the resident chef. It was so perfect, I kept looking for Martha Stewart to step out from behind a tree.
Couldn’t help but think this must be what heaven is like. Friends, food, fresh air, mountains, vineyards, olive trees.
That day left me longing for a place where I’d be with everyone I loved, eating and talking and laughing. Savoring each moment, followed by ten thousand upon ten thousand more. Finally safe. Finally home.
On the way back to our bus, we passed a pen of poultry. It was there I came face to face with a most majestic creature.
Heaven is filled with laughter that satiates the soul. I just know it is.
The best of the now is a hint of what’s to come. An assurance of the place He has for us.
Meet me there. One day, meet me there.
He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. Revelation 21:4 NIV
For our precious realtor and friend who handled the unexpected sale of our house and quickly secured another place for us to rent. I’m thankful for the blessing of a wise advisor.
running the yard in Kansas
June was only the beginning. It was then we first learned my husband’s employer was being acquired. I’m thankful for his job with the new company.
A new job in a new city. Where just last week, another savvy realtor helped us find another house in a mere 48 hours. One that wasn’t even on the market yet.
What are you thankful for today?
I’d be so thankful if you would share.
July 4, 2011, Cabool, MO
Happy Veterans Day!
Today I’m also thankful for the brave men and women who’ve served in the United States military. Thank you Dad, Uncle Jon, Uncle Bill, Michael B., Joe G., Jeremy N., Cordel H., Eric B., Jeff W., Uncle O., John M., Jeff S., and the many more too numerous to name here. Freedom is not free.
My mother used to tell me not to save my clothes. Go ahead and wear your best today, she’d say. Guest blogger Karla Foster explains how the same applies to the marshmallows.
jet puffed
Rummaging through my pantry, I came across a bag of marshmallows. I almost returned it to the back corner, but decided to bring it into the light instead.
Expiration June 2009. Oops.
Apparently, one day in 2008 I thought it might be nice to make Rice Krispies Treats. How many times since then had my hand brushed across the marshmallows looking for another ingredient?
I’d think to myself, “I should make something with these.” Then in the same breath, “No, I should save them.”
Not now. No time. Save for later. As I stared at the marshmallows now in our trash, I thought about what was missed because of my excuses.
as seen at Good Works, www.goodworksfurniture4u.com
The marshmallows could have been a quick dessert for a family in need. A greeting to a new neighbor. A snack for a friend’s kids. Or even a sweet reward for lots of us working out at the gym.
Recently, a member of our Sunday school class entered the hospital in a life and death battle. This only gives me more pause to consider that I am not guaranteed a later. There is just today. There is just now to do what God is calling me to do.
Why wait? And for goodness sake, don’t save the marshmallows.
Do not withhold good from those who deserve it
when it’s in your power to help them.
If you can help your neighbor now, don’t say,
“Come back tomorrow, and then I’ll help you.” Proverbs 3:27-28 NLT
The Winans’ voices are smoother than s’mores. This song is an oldie—even older than Karla’s marshmallows, but such a goodie. Take a listen now to Tomorrow.
guest blogger Karla Foster
Karla Foster and her husband Bill are dear friends of ours.
Besides teaching Bible study and apologetics classes with Bill, whipping folks into shape as an aerobics instructor, and making the occasional pan of Rice Krispies Treats, Karla enjoys a successful career in IT sales.
Oh, and she’s a Tarheel, which never hurts on this blog.
Uncertainty is no place to call home. Relocation is no picnic either.
As many of you have guessed, we’re moving this show to Wichita.
The man and his wife. The boy and the dog. The MacBook Pro (God rest your soul, Steve Jobs) and the blog.
There’s relief in making a decision. There’s also apprehension, excitement, hope and loss.
Responses have rolled in from across the blogosphere.
Here’s the Diehl is wondering what’s the deal through tears. Mine and hers. With strains of Green Acres playing in the background.
The would-be stand up comedian asked if I know Kansas is not in North Carolina.
A lifelong friend assured me she always wants the best for me. How comforting, humbling and cool is that? Makes me want to break out in Count Your Blessings. Then cry some more.
Another lifelong friend wrote the most amazing sunset she’d ever seen was in Kansas. Suggested My Antonia by Willa Cather. Done.
arch base
Ms. Moderation dubbed me Carolina Cowgirl, a title I adore. If the blogging thing doesn’t work out, there’s always rodeo. Or clogging.
Pinke Post wasted no time doing what she does so well. Connecting me with her people on the ground in Wichita. The woman is a rock star.
And Cuisine For All sent sage advice. Don’t worry. Take time to absorb the changes. You’ll be fine, she wrote. She’s ventured far from her homeland. She should know.
Traveling With the Jones has logged enough miles to know too. Told me to embrace change. Enjoy the ride. And just think of all the new material for posts!
My faithful friend who shall remain anonymous assured me Cowtown is not in Kansas because it’s in Texas.
And a fellow Southerner in exile in the Midwest told me you can raise a southern gentleman in Kansas. “It’s about values,” she said. “The expectations we have for and of them, saying ma’am and sir and being able to shuck an oyster.”
There are many other words of treasured wisdom, prayer and encouragement. Read more on Tuesday’s post. Add your own if you like.
under the arch
One more here, in the gentle eloquence of Via Peregrini:
Our souls are quite particular in where they find their homes. Yet, sometimes, they find in the new, the unexpected, something for which they’ve longed and you’ll discover that you can’t imagine life without that place, for that time.
Our years in St. Louis have taught us the history of westward expansion. Thomas Jefferson’s Louisiana Purchase in 1803. Lewis and Clark pushing across North America in the spirit of discovery.
Those who followed their path west were filled with dreams. Pioneers, farmers, soldiers, cowboys, gold miners, gangsters, hippies, writers, artists, entertainers. None of them had the luxury—the blessing—of toting a virtual community along. None until this latest crop.
We’re headed west. I hope you’ll join us for the adventure.
Send me Your light and Your faithful care,
let them lead me;
let them bring me to Your holy mountain,
to the place where You dwell. Psalm 43:3 NIV
The man reading with my son in this picture is my Uncle Abe. He should be dead.
But he isn’t. This picture was taken in June. Abe’s still very much alive and well.
In late 2007, Abe began having chronic, acute digestive issues. After lots of tests, waiting and misdiagnosis, the real diagnosis fell like a ton of bricks.
Abe had a cancerous tumor on his right kidney. It could kill him. However, it was not responsible for his digestive issues.
So after a CAT scan and more waiting, the second diagnosis fell. Abe also had a cancerous tumor on his pancreas.
Anatomy is not my forte, nor is math my uncle would tell you. But I know you need your kidneys and pancreas to live. And I know my show biz obits. Pancreatic cancer killed Patrick Swayze in 2009 after a 20-month battle.
Uncle Abe was a dead man.
My experience with cancer and close relatives equals an immediate death sentence. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
I could hardly speak to Abe on the phone without crying. I knew I would never see him on earth again alive. That was 2008.
This is 2011.
Abe has always had a special something. He lives out loud. Gives generously. Exudes resilience. Manages to be both realistic and positive.
But that doesn’t buy a ticket to a cure. Or even a remission. Plenty of people who die of cancer have those strengths and more.
I don’t know why he survived and others don’t. I don’t know how he survived.
At 68 years of age, the man underwent a major surgery called the Whipple Procedure. And removal of his right kidney. And chemo. And radiation. For two cancers that should have killed him.
Yet today he is well. Thinner than he used to be, but just as sharp, sassy and humorous as ever.
Unashamed, he openly shares his experience. Credits God with sustaining him, providing the doctors and treatments, and letting him live. His Creator simply did not allow him to die yet.
A snapshot of Uncle Abe wouldn’t be complete without mentioning music. Abe is a masterful pianist and singer.
resilience
He’s directed or accompanied music in churches and choirs for most of his life. He sings and plays at nearly all our family reunions, weddings and funerals, including my mother’s funeral when she died of cancer in 1996.
Upon release from his treatment, Abe picked up right where he left off, playing and singing. He accepted a part-time job as music director for a small church. We attended that church with him and my aunt the weekend we visited them.
Abe sang with abandon. Gleefully he called my husband the tenor to join him. He worshipped with vulnerability, as one who was dead but is now alive.
When I spoke to him last week about this post, he was preparing to sing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in German with a collegiate choir. He’s 72, but I’m sure he’ll fit right in. Abe still has his edge, now tempered by fire.
On my bed I remember You;
I think of You through the watches of the night.
Because You are my help,
I sing in the shadow of Your wings.
I cling to You;
Your right hand upholds me. Psalm 63:6-8 NIV
Great is Thy Faithfulness is a cherished hymn. Sara Groves sings a beautiful interpretation in He’s Always Been Faithful.
Thanks to Tim Robbins, writer/director of Dead Man Walking, for inspiring this post’s title.
Stroll through the city with me. Come on. Let’s go for a walk.
Down along the river. Across the bridge then back again. It’s early evening and quiet here. Silent compared to the bustling day.
Look up to the top ledge of a building. Under the signage, still unlit as the sun begins its descent. What are those dots against the concrete? Is that dentil molding? Decorative relief?
One dot moves near the middle. Then a flutter far right, a quiver to the left. They’re birds. Hundreds of them perched in a row across the building. Lined up one by one on the ledge.
image by wili_hybrid via flickr under creative commons license
In comes another, furiously flapping.
“Make room! Make room!” beat his wings.
And they do make room. Comfortably he is enveloped in the rest as if he’d always had a place.
Another lands. And another. One leaves, diving off the edge and lifting up. More come. Some go. Most stay.
The evening sky reaches above the building and the ledge and the ones resting. It’s filled with dots. Thousands more birds in endless, circling flight.
There are plenty of high buildings here, plenty of ledges to make for safe rows. Room enough to keep them all.
Come settle, little flying ones. Break from your wandering journeys, your weary circling and dipping and floating away. Come. Land. Many find rest. And still there is room.
“The servant reported back, ‘Master, I did what you commanded—and there’s still room.'” Luke 14:22 The Message, from a parable of Jesus
Standing in line last week to board a plane to Nashville. Gee, I thought to myself. That voice sounds familiar.
Turned around to see none other than Steven Curtis Chapman. We were on the same flight!
Might not have recognized him except for his voice. I’d heard his voice in an interview on Joy FM earlier that morning and a thousand times before. Added up, I’ve been listening to this man sing for 20 years.
The line was moving fast and soon he was out of reach. I’ll look for him on the plane, I thought.
That didn’t happen either because I found a front row seat. I happily spent the short flight sitting between a man who slept the entire time and a lovely 84-year-old woman who recounted to me her adventures traveling the world with her late husband. She may get a post of her own.
But before the plane took off, I updated my Facebook status: Steven Curtis Chapman is on my flight to Nashville!
When we deplaned an hour later, I figured I’d lost my chance to speak to him. Then I turned on my iPhone to check messages. A dozen excited Facebook comments popped up on my status along with a groundswell of likes.
Oh, dear. I vowed if I saw him again I would speak to him. I had to. For the team. And I got my chance in baggage claim. Yes, he carries his own luggage.
The businesswoman in me firmly shook his hand while the fan in me gushed and giggled. He was so gracious, so unpretentious, so normal.
Who among us cannot relate to the story of his songs and the story of his life? Love. Grace. Salvation. Adoption. Triumph. Tragedy. Grief. Mercy. Renewal.
(1990) Tomorrow morning if you wake up and the sun does not appear, I will be here.
(1992) Go on and say what you need to say while it’s still called today.
(1996) But when it all comes down, you know it all comes down to the walk.
(1999) So sink or swim I’m diving in.
(2004) You spoke and made the sun rise to light up the very first day.
(2008) It’s all Yours, God. Yours, God. Everything is Yours.
(2009) Out of these ashes, beauty will rise.
(2011) Do everything you do to the glory of the One who made you.
on 2nd ave north
Keep singing, Mr. Chapman. The team’s listening and loving every word.
He has given me a new song to sing,
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see what He has done and be amazed.
They will put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40:3 NLT
Hmm, what video to link up here. You choose: Dive or Do Everything or both. How’s that for interactive?
St. Louis area readers may like to know Steven Curtis Chapman will be singing in our city on October 13th. He will be joined by special guests Andrew Peterson and Josh Wilson. At time of publication only a few tickets remained. Get thee to joyfmonline.org quick.
Once someone told me a secret. And no, I’m not going to tell you what it is. But trust me. It was a doozie.
It wasn’t a secret that isn’t really a secret like, “I’m a perfectionist.” Or a secret that is odd but inconsequential like, “I loved Riverdance.” Which I did.
Or even a secret about a stupid wrongdoing like, “I stole a bath mat from the hotel where I stayed on a j-school trip to New York my senior year of undergrad and felt guilty about it in my late-20s so I donated it to Goodwill as penance because I was too embarrassed to mail it back to the hotel.” Whew! Run-on, girl. Feel better now?
No, not that kind of secret. This secret was destructive. If it went public, it would wreak havoc on unsuspecting lives. It had to be resolved between the transgressor and the transgressed against. Now I, the confidant, was in the mix.
Time went by. Things happened. Life continued. No one said a word. I held that secret for about three years. As far as I know, I was and may still be the only one the person told.
It burned like hot coal inside, charring my resources. A heavy anchor, pulling me down, down, down.
“What is it, Aimee?” a friend finally said.
“It’s a secret,” I said. “I think I’m the only one who knows.”
“You have to share it,” she said, “or it will destroy you.”
She was a safe person, a third party who didn’t know the others involved. I told her the truth. And the weight I carried lifted, buoyed up by my sobbing. It still hurt, but it no longer crushed me.
“You have to tell your husband,” she said.
“No,” I said. “He knows these people. I can’t tell him.”
“He loves you. He can help you bear it.”
stationery anchor
So through tears I told him, and she was right. He helps me bear it to this day.
A secret kept is a powerful thing. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can carry one without paying for it.
You don’t have to broadcast it on Jerry Springer, but you have to shine a little light on it. Bring it out into the open. Take away the weight of its secrecy.
Let someone safe—someone who loves you, bear it with you. Or help you face the transgressor. Or sob alongside you. And feel it lift, then fall away.
You have set our iniquities before You, our secret sins in the light of Your presence. Psalm 90:8 NIV
The Newsboys’ song Million Pieces is apropos. Not sure what’s with the fuzzy quality of this video. Chalk it up to “artistic treatment.” Love the song anyway and couldn’t resist the flying pink elephants. This is not your floor/You’re going higher than before…
The first Ebenezer was a place of upheaval, distress and defeat. But God transformed it into a place of victory, remembering and thanksgiving. You can read the full saga in 1 Samuel 4-7.
It ends with Samuel setting up a stone memorial, calling it Ebenezer, and saying, “This marks the place where God helped us” (1 Samuel 7:12 The Message).
My friends Nicole, Katie and others have reposted significant blog entries to remember the places God helped them and their families. Fabulous idea. One I need to employ as it’s too easy for me to forget.
So here’s an Ebenezer in July. It comes not from this blog which is only five months old, but from a July 2007 email. Some of you received the original email or read the story in our 2007 Christmas letter.
A little background. Our only child Theo was born with an ASD or atrial septal heart defect. This condition usually heals on its own. Theo’s did not. He had open heart surgery four years ago when he was only two years old…
A Sigh of Relief, July 16, 2007
Hello, everyone. I am home to get some sleep after this long and truly amazing day. Theo’s surgery went very well and very quickly—only about two hours. He was away from us for a little more than four excruciating hours. Being separated from him was the hardest part for us—like holding your breath, stepping off the high dive, and waiting, waiting for the water to break your fall.
Theo has been resting with us at his bedside in the cardiac intensive care unit since lunchtime. Our incredibly compassionate and capable surgeon kept Theo’s incision small…“neat and square” comes to mind, like one of Mike Mulligan and Mary Anne’s corners. Theo is being kept sedated because when he wakes up, he immediately requests to “go bye-bye, please,” and then tries to sit up and pull out his IVs. What a relief to see his spunk has not faded one bit, nor have his manners.
I will relieve Jeff early tomorrow morning. Jeff insisted on staying the night, saying he is used to being up to all hours working and sleeping in strange places like airplanes and hotel rooms. He made me, the morning bird, come home to rest while he, the night owl, keeps watch by night. What a good daddy and husband he is!
Thank you for your prayers, calls, emails, visits, gifts and concern for us. It is not a coincidence that Theo was born in a time when this surgery is accessible to us and the technology exists to support its success. Nor is it a coincidence that he lives in a house 15 minutes away from a top 10 children’s hospital. That is the tip of this iceberg. How humbling to realize we cannot begin to understand all the connections and repercussions of God’s purpose.
Breathe then a sigh of relief with us that the first and highest hurdle of this race is past. Tomorrow will be a challenging day as Theo is weaned off the sedatives and strongest pain medications. His doctors hope to move him to a step-down unit, which in layman’s terms means a step-closer-to-going-home unit. Please pray that God will quiet Theo and help him to remain as calm as a two-year-old boy can remain in such a situation, and that He will give Jeff and I an extra measure of strength and wisdom to comfort Theo. Pray God protects him from infection or other complications, so he can come home soon. Please.
I leave you with one of Paul’s doxologies from Romans 11:33-36. It sums up our elation, amazement, and gratefulness. I see this short update is getting lengthier as I my mind spins and treads around the events of the day. Humor me as I cannot resist also including a verse from Charles Wesley. I read it early this morning in the near dark before we left our house, and it still seems appropriate as the sun sets on this evening. Good night, and sweet dreams.
Love,
Aimee
our heart breaker made a quick and full recovery. he was released from his cardiologist's care last year.
Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
How unsearchable His judgments,
and His paths beyond tracing out!
“Who has known the mind of the Lord?
Or who has been His counselor?”
“Who has ever given to God,
that God should repay them?”
For from Him and through Him and for Him are all things.
To Him be the glory forever! Amen. Romans 11:33-36 NIV
Other refuge have I none;
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, ah! Leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenseless head
With the shadow of Thy wing.
Charles Wesley, from Jesus, Lover of My Soul
While my husband traveled for work, my son and I tagged along, toured museums and rode public transportation in America’s finest cities. Each time we came to a new place or experience I thought to myself, “This is my favorite part of our trip!”
That was true until we came to the next destination where I thought, “This is my favorite part of our trip!”
Themes emerged. American history. Aeronautics. Waterways. Jellyfish. My brain is heavy with ideas. Watch for fresh stories on the blog.
We negotiated a contract on the road in Illinois, finalized it somewhere in Michigan, endured inspections in Pennsylvania and Maryland, received the buyers’ signoff before leaving Virginia, and placed change orders for the utilities in North Carolina. Today we closed back in Missouri.
With our real estate agent’s help, we found a place our family can rent for the next few months. Signed the lease agreement in an Outer Banks hotel lobby.
Also while we were away, everyday epistle seamlessly churned out posts. Thanks to many of you, one post entitled Milk Wars sparked a small but exciting viral episode. Readership spiked to set a new personal record for the little blog that could. Count on more from the farm side in the future.
Other things happened too, other stirrings in thought and action. A likely partnership in one case. A necessary breakup in another. An overarching resolve to press on with new ideas, ventures and stories collected along the way.
We left town in one place and have come home to another, not by our own doing. We left determined to take a break from the concerns. Put life on cruise control. Engage autopilot.
We set it aside, but God didn’t. He never does. As Henry Blackaby and Claude King write in Experiencing God, God is always at work around you.
Wonder what He’s up to next?
Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior,
who daily bears our burdens. Psalm 68:19 NIV
The Waltons, image used with permission from sitcomsonline.com
Much as I hate to admit it, we don’t have daily family devotions. We don’t live on Walton Mountain either. Great if you do. I confess we don’t.
But we do love God and the Bible at our house. We’ve shared Bible stories with our son since he was itty-bitty.
Noah’s ark was his favorite for a long time. I told him how God brought two of every animal to the ark, a mommy and a daddy. He wasn’t satisfied.
“And the babies,” he said in his tiny three-year-old voice. “The mommies and the daddies and the babies.”
“Well, the Bible says a mommy and a daddy of each animal,” I said.
“And the babies,” he said. I dropped it, granting him liberty. No sense arguing with a three-year-old. Certainly there were babies when they departed the ark.
He’s six now. The Bible stories he likes are the bloody, gory, fighting ones.
We were running early one morning, so at breakfast I said, “I’ll read you a Bible story. You pick!”
“Read about when Queen Jezebel died,” he said.
I turned to 1 Kings 21, the story of Naboth’s vineyard. How King Ahab wanted it for a vegetable garden, but Naboth wouldn’t sell it to him. How King Ahab pouted and refused to eat.
My son’s favorite phrase these days is It’s not fair! No matter what it is, if he doesn’t like it, we hear the refrain It’s not fair! My husband and I are about to pull our hair out over It’s not fair! No sense arguing with a six-year-old.
So that morning I read the story my son had picked: His wife Jezebel came in and asked him, “Why are you so sullen? Why won’t you eat?”
As my child listened and munched cereal, I smelled a teachable moment.
In the whiniest Ahab voice I could muster, I said: “Because I said to Naboth the Jezreelite, ‘Sell me your vineyard: or if you prefer, I will give you another vineyard in its place.’ But he said, ‘I will not give you my vineyard.'”
Then—God, forgive me and grant me liberty, I said: “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see my son’s head pop up from his bowl.
I continued reading: Jezebel his wife said, “Is this how you act as king over Israel? Get up and eat! Cheer up. I’ll get you the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite.”
As it goes, Jezebel had Naboth killed, Ahab took his vineyard, and Elijah caught the king and queen red-handed. Elijah spelled out God’s judgment against them saying dogs would eat Jezebel’s body. Told you it was gory.
We turned to 2 Kings 9 where the prophesy came true: But when they went out to bury her, they found nothing except her skull, her feet and her hands.
My son was quiet.
“It came true,” I said, “because God does everything He says He will do.”
The Whetstines
Then I dropped it. No sense arguing with that either.
As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is My Word that goes out from My mouth:
It will not return to Me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. Isaiah 55:10-11 NIV
Proudly presenting The Waltons Theme Song by Jerry Goldsmith. Loved that show. What a week and what a way to end it!
Just put my bitter pants on. Hmm. Looks like they still fit.
So read my friend’s Facebook status. Splendid term, bitter pants. I promptly commented: What are you doing with my pants?
I wondered. Did she steal my pants last time she visited my house? Thought they were hidden away where no one could find them. Deep in my closet, behind my collection of silent, toothy skeletons.
See them there? Hanging next to my pink pity party panties and my emerald encrusted envy glasses. Pink and green. A preppy girl at heart. Where did I put those Tretorns?
My yellow slicker o’ slander hangs there too. Covers me well when the rains of gossip fall in fluid torrents.
There’s my angry red wool scarf and my grudgeful orange leather jacket. One poor, beautiful Guernsey died to make that jacket.
But the bitter pants? Those are silk. Thousands of white mulberry worms sacrificed themselves in Shanghai. Boiled or baked in drying ovens for their spun cocoons, for filaments twisted into strong, continuous threads.
as seen in Ann Taylor
Wine-soaked artisans in the alleys of Paris caressed and worked the silk, dyeing it a glowing chartreuse. It radiates the ghosts of the caterpillars and Parisians. A matte luster of fogged up windows and lipgloss on glass rims.
The silk was whisked away to the house of Versace or Givenchy, I can’t remember which, and fashioned into the bitter pants. Haute couture, not because of their rarity but for their expense.
Oh, how they fit! No matter when I put them on, they are snug as a bug in a proverbial rug.
Lots of women have them, tucked away like mine for special occasions, or flown daily like a flag. A crisp shock of citron popping in the wind.
Men have them too, though they are harder to spot–usually look sullen or vengeful on men. On women you can see them a mile away. Cool. Sharp. Lean and mean. These girls wear the pants as much as the pants wear them.
I’ve thrown mine out several times. Somehow they keep finding their way home. Magic, homing, bitter pants. Destined to climb back into my closet of tricks. So for now I still own them should I choose to wear them again.
They’ll suffocate me if I do. Squeeze my life like a boa constrictor squeezes prey. Devour me, bury me, render me a useless, angry, forlorn frame of a woman.
as seen at The Limited
I plead with God for protection, for the will to take off my pride and find something else to wear. Hand me my linen robe. Bring me my coat of arms.
The bitter pants. Magnificent zombie of my sin. Scary but lifeless. Dead with the old woman. Condemned to burn in a hot blue flame and boil in a river of fire. Then I will dance, finally completely free of them.
Look after each other so that none of you fails to receive the grace of God. Watch out that no poisonous root of bitterness grows up to trouble you, corrupting many. Hebrews 12:15 NLT
