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Happy blogiversary to me!

That Darn Thing with Feathers

"Hope is the thing with feathers," chirped Emily Dickinson, "that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all."

There are days, good days, sunshiney spring-is-here-at-last days, when I sing hope's praises alongside Emily, as well I should.

There are days, grey days, drizzley winter-may-stay-forever days, when I want to strangle the thing with feathers to silence its incessant song.

You irritate me, little bird. You tantalize me with your promises and frighten me with your risk. You're unabashed, Emily says, by the sorest of storms or the chilliest of lands, but I'm not interested in storms or chill; I'd rather stick cynical thumbs in my ears than be lured out to sea by your sweet song. Emily insists you've never asked a crumb of her. From me you demand my final meal. You're not safe, you unassuming feathered thing, and if I sing along, I may be disappointed.

But sing I must, like it or not, because I've read the Book and I know the outcome and I see that I am called to join the chorus because I'm loved by a God who doesn't just offer a hopeful option or wistful thinking or blind optimism but is Hope, my only hope. To run from hope is to hope in myself, and that's a chilling thought if ever there was one.

He does promise, after all, that those who hope in him are never disappointed, and of course it's true --how could he ever disappoint? It's the "in him" that makes the difference, since he's the one, the only one, who never fails.

That's the pitch I'll tune my heart to.

Sooner than hoped.

But definitely not daffodils.

Happiness is...

...an open sunroof.

Prrrr

Winter may remain for a time, but rejoicing comes in the spring.

Daffodils are not far off.

Hangin' Out in the Kitchen

Snow Day, Part 2

Some offices have coffee breaks involving burnt Folgers and styrofoam. Around here we build snow creatures inspired by Dr. Seuss and sip lattes. Don't you wish you had my job?

Oh, and we definitely have the best snowman around. Those kids down the street didn't stand a chance.

Snow Day

It's the kind of snow that comes down in thick, wet flakes, sticking to my hair and my nose and my tongue (which, of course, is hanging out to catch it). It's sticking to the trees, too, transforming suburbia into fairyland. The boys across the street are building barricades and itching for a fight. The neighbor kids have the first big snowball ready for their snowman. I have firewood on hand and everything I need for a batch of homemade hot cocoa.

I love today.

Waking up to fresh-fallen snow holds the same wonder it always did, even though I'm a grown-up now and can't stay home and don't even own a sled. Suddenly the world is clean, and even the drab parking lot behind my cheap apartment brims with potential and magic. I know I'm far from the first to make this observation, but when I look out my window at the white-draped world I can't help but be reminded of how God blankets my dinginess with His purity. That's cause for a wonder that only grows, and with it gratitude and delight and awe.

"Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven,
whose sin is covered." - Psalm 32:1

Some days grace is brown and hot and liquid.

I drink deeply.