And today she suggests a synchroblog: In Which We are Saved, Right Now . . . and Yes, and yes.
What is Saving My Life Right Now . ..
Five a.m. is saving my life. . . Because every night before I fall asleep I ask the Lord to please help me wake early and every morning about 4:30 someone in the house stirs so that I need to check on them, and it is just the nudge I need to keep moving, to force my feet down the steps and to the coffee pot and to ignore the choir of voices singing what is the point? go back to bed . . .
and there is one blue chair and one beautiful lamp I bought at a yard sale for $5, and they are saving me as I sip my coffee and the house is calm, and I am reading through the Bible in a year with my church, chronologically, and this is saving me and this morning the story of Abigail saved me.
. . . and then about 5:24 I find my way back upstairs to my desk, and I pull up a document titled Jane and thinking I've got nothing . .. nothing nothing nothing . . . but I poke this keyboard anyway, and I remember Anne Lamott says to write a shitty first draft, just keep typing, and every once in a while an image will emerge . . . and somehow, miraculously, later while I am sweeping the floor or holding kids in the pool I am getting to know Jane, just a bit, and she is telling me her story, and story is saving me.
And french braids are saving me even as they are just killing me I don't know why they bring tears to my eyes every time I watch her with hair braided and ratty t-shirt, freckled nose, skinned knees, the perfection of summertime.
Iced tea is saving me- such a violent act- these crushed leaves, this heat, this darkness, this waiting . . . and then I pour it over ice and it crackles like laughter and dances in the sun and grins in the glass and I pray Come Lord Jesus.
My grandmother's mixing bowls are saving me, the one treasure I dug through her kitchen to find. I brought them home and declared her magic remained, though the blueberry coffeecake I made first fell and proved it untrue .. . yet I think of her every time I whisk or stir or sprinkle sugar over peaches I think of her hands and that all is love love love.
Notebooks are saving me, one stashed everywhere, and our new minivan, and The Creative Habit, habits are saving me, and Josie's sweaty scent and her bad breath because the girl loves garlic, and how she wraps herself into my neck and kisses me on the lips. And tan legs and white tank tops and laughing with Jim and the eyes of friends, and Me Too, and walks in the woods and the way the light slants into the guest bedroom at 8 o'clock in the evening.
Words are saving me. Greg Boyd, Sarah Bessey, Rachel Held Evans, and this post saved me and now I know that Dan Evans is saving me too.
And I could go on about the red pepper downstairs on my counter, how it leaves me speechless that such a thing exists- this red- that it could possibly be here, lying casually on my counter, how reverently I slice it-- and what piles of produce do to me-- I know why artists always have painted them; certainly they painted through tears. I hold baskets of tomatoes in the grocery store and imagine the farmer carrying these tomatoes, chest puffed out just a little, tipping his hat to God and I think what holy work it is to be a farmer, and yes maybe too a mother, this work of kneeling down, of looking up, this work that saves us over and over and over again, this work that is saving me right now.