I have a super hero ability.
I can disappear.
Unaware, I can change
from girl to ghost.
Gone.
Left alone where someone was supposed to be.
Silly expectations.
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She was never a house I built to keep.
she was a season passing through my hands.
A wild spring bird resting on my windowsill,
borrowing my sky before learning her own.
I counted years like I had endless summers,
not knowing motherhood was a suitcase packed in slow motion.
Now her silence drifts like unopened letters in the wind,
and I stand on an empty porch
Listening intently for her busy wings.
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She came with hazel eyes — both earth and spring,
With emerald light no shadow could destroy;
Her name means purity awakening,
Her middle name a breath of living joy.
and Behind her hazel eyes lives my whole heart.Happy 23rd, precious daughter. Happy Mother’s Day to all. 🌻
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She was a quiet hearth set in the center of a wide, weathered house, a fire that never demanded to be seen yet warmed every wandering guest who crossed the threshold. Her heart moved like a deep, gentle well, lowering its bucket again and again for thirsty travelers, never counting the cost of the water. In the garden of her life she knelt like rich soil, receiving rain without complaint and coaxing hidden seeds into bloom for others to admire. She walked through her rooms like a soft lamp at dusk, bowing to the wind yet never going out, casting gold across every shadowed corner. Even her silence in listening was a form of service, like a harbor that steadies restless boats. And in it all she was an altar wrapped in linen, steady, humble, and burning—offering every part of herself so that those who entered might feel seen, fed, and at peace.
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in a wide and quiet house
where the walls stood tall
but never leaned in to listen.
There were dreams of what was promised; of swimming in pools of tangible togetherness only to find that secluded dry land was more suitable.
The acres like secret friends, there were fields that knew his footsteps
better than she did.
He kept the keys to every door,
even the invisible ones—
the ones made of numbers and permissions,
the ones that made her feel small.
She would stand at the edge window some evenings,
watching the sun set on land
that took him further from her
with every golden mile.
And in that fading light,
she wondered how a life could feel so full
of things that were not hers,
Yet so empty of being chosen.
Once upon a time,
she still believed
that somewhere inside her quiet longing, there was a story of love, but she watched as selfish ambition ripped its plot from the binder, page by page.
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I am the third chair at a candlelit dinner for two.
Just close enough to feel the heat of not being needed.
Two glasses lean toward each other,
their laughter braiding like ivy,
while mine holds untouched water
reflecting a ceiling no one else sees.
I am the trio note in a duet,
hovering just outside the harmony—
not wrong, not out of tune
Not unnecessary.
They do not notice
how rare it is
to fit like matching bookends,
to move in mirrored light
without ever learning
the language of standing alone.
I am a moon beside two bright stars,
silver and solitary,
learning that even loneliness
Persuades the low tide.
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There was a winter that would not end.
Ice in the veins.
Silence in the bones.
A heart beating, but not living.
She thought herself useless
because pain had wrapped her hands in frost
and told her she was nothing
but the echo of her own mistakes.
But God does not waste winter.
Beneath the frozen ground,
roots were strengthening.
Beneath the wreckage,
a lighthouse was being framed
from splintered wood.
Six years ago
she struck a match in the dark
and chose not to burn —
but to see.
One trembling day at a time
the thaw began.
The river moved.
The pulse returned.
And now —
she stands in rooms heavy with sorrow
and her voice is a door.
She looks into shaking eyes
and says,
“I have been where you are.
Come with me.
There is a way out.”
What once froze her
now fuels her.
What once buried her
now blooms.
Six years sober.
Six years alive.
Six years of turning pain
into passage.
The girl who thought herself useless
became a bridge
for the broken.
And she wonders
how many are walking across
because she lived.
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She set her heart like a lantern
at the edge of a long dark road,
polishing the glass with trembling hands,
believing light could call someone home.
Twice she opened the door to summer—
twice the wind walked through her.
Love came like a ship at dusk,
then slipped its anchor,
choosing the quiet of deep water
over the shoreline where she stood.
Now she gathers the wick,
lets the flame sink low,
and closes the glass.
Not bitter—only still.
Tired of the longing,
She does not curse the night.
She simply stops waiting for the dawn.
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She learned music the way some children learn devotion
by watching her father’s hands.
At first memory she studied the way sound
leaned in toward him,
how a piano softened in his presence,
how songs seemed willing
when he asked them to speak.
She wanted to do everything like him,
right down to the way feeling
became music instead of noise,
Ashes became beauty.
And a Holy Shadow hovered nearby, waiting.
A shadow that would cover her, and carry her to her purpose.
Music came to her through her Father’s shadow,
a family language passed hand to hand.
She followed him into chords
the way a daughter follows footprints in snow,
believing that if she stepped where he stepped, she might arrive somewhere safe.
Even now, when she plays,
there is an echo
not imitation,
but an inheritance.
Mantle passed down.
Music didn’t just keep her company—
it chose her.
Slipped into her breath,
made a home in her throat,
waited patiently for her to trust it.
When she sings,
it is not performance
but an involuntary recognition—
like answering a call
that’s been ringing her whole life.
She doesn’t borrow songs.
She makes them.
Draws them up from the deep waters of salvation,
where love, passion, heartache and memory share a heartbeat.
She writes because silence
is too lonely otherwise,
because her soul needs somewhere
to sit beside her father again,
listening and trusting what she hears.
Her friends are melodies
that remember where she came from,
lyrics that stand up for her
when no one else does.
She knows there is always a song
willing to agree with her,
a line that says,
Yes, this is right, Keep going.
She sings from the place
beneath courage,
beneath explanation—
from the quiet truth
that was taught to her
by watching someone she loved
turn feeling into sound.
Music holds her now
the way her Father did —
steady, familiar, safe.
Telling her without words,
“Here is where you belong.”
(I already played with a bare right foot.)
@1982
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I remember you first as sunlight, you reflected off of your father’s face the first time we met.
Brown-round.
Warm sunshine,
Sweet hair catching it,
skin warm as August,
your Dobby-laughter filling the rooms of our home that felt permanent back then.
We were a circle—your father, you, me—
hands linked, only tiny cracks that we tried not to fall through.
You had a joyous childhood, my love.
Let me say that plainly.
Soft mornings, bedtime stories, angel-protection prayers.
a mother and father who adored you
in the ordinary, devoted way
A way that feels invisible until it’s gone.
They are three together
They are for each other.
Something broke—
not all at once, not with thunder,
but with a quiet tearing I couldn’t stop.
The togetherness slipped through my fingers
while I was busy surviving,
busy believing love could wait, that I could somehow protect you from the glorious sadness.
What I would do differently if time could travel. What I would give to hear your contagious, silly laughter.
I see you now, searching.
Trying on selves like coats that don’t quite fit,
asking the world who you are
because the answer no longer lives at home.
I carry the guilt of that—
that our choices bent the ground beneath you, an uneven surface, that
your certainty didn’t survive.
But your sunlight did. It always will.
If I could give you one thing,
it would be this truth:
you are not unfinished. You are always enough, and you’re so wanted.
You are a beautiful sunlight girl earth-child.
You are not lost because we failed to stay whole.
You are always enough.
You were loved then, deeply, sunlight girl.
and you are loved now beyond measure—
by me in ways I don’t always know how to say,
by your father in his own quirky language,
By your Creator who never changes and has no tiny cracks in His Foundation.
Never change.
And by a life that has been watching you, and waiting.
Even in the ruins, love remains. Light breaks through.
Even in my guilt, this love never left you. My love, the love I love the most.
And you are still becoming, my beautiful brunette, warm sunlight girl,
it is not because you were broken—
it is because you are alive,
and loved in more ways than you could possibly know.
Keep sending your precious rays.
Love,
Mama
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Ten years ago today,
she tuned her guitar in the passenger seat,
strings humming like nerves,
like hope.
He smelled faintly of pine and cold air,
a boy who knew dawn by heart,
who could stand perfectly still
and listen until the woods spoke back.
She talked in melodies,
hands always moving,
as if the world might fall quiet
if she stopped making sound.
He listened the way hunters do—
patient, precise,
catching what mattered
between the beats of her words.
Their first date was small and brave:
coffee gone lukewarm,
laughing too loud,
two lives circling something unnamed.
Her songs hadn’t found their chorus yet.
His compass still pointed home.
But somehow, sitting there,
they both aimed true.
Ten years later,
the music is deeper,
the woods more familiar.
They’ve learned each other’s silences. She longs for more of him.
She still plays—now for keeps.
He still watches the light change.
And every January twenty-third,
the past lifts its head gently,
like a deer at the edge of the clearing,
like a song just beginning,
reminding them both
of the moment they first chose to heal.
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While preparing my chicken Parmesan, this reminder and reflection came to me: came to me.
Blended families are not for the faint of heart and it is tough to lose a long-standing identity and be the new-old girl. In the midst of a life that I feel I moved into, recognizing anything that is my own and many years familiar is a gift I seek regularly. I’m constantly looking for things that haven’t changed and craving a sense of “belonging”.
I’ve done this ever since my divorce.
Our children come over for presents the day after Christmas. His 3 and my 1.
When Lily is here, I feel that “thing” that moms feel at Christmas. There’s nothing quite like cooking and giving gifts to your children. It’s the most satisfying thing and justifies the 90 daily miles going to and from work. Lily could not come this year due to her work schedule.
Even though she was not here, I had determined not to be sad and to give the party my best; as I would if she were here.
I felt a Gentle belonging.
Maybe you’ll understand this one.
It happened in my kitchen. There is never a time in my whole life where I have not belonged in the kitchen. My Mama gave me that gift by encouraging me to cook.
And this particular chicken Parmesan is the first recipe I remember creating on my own. Served it for Christmas 25 plus years, and is the recipe I am most proud of. I would serve it to the Lord Jesus Himself and I think He’d like it! 😂
It was a passing moment but certainly helped me to find Christmas..as I made my favorite recipe, I felt His delight and warm smile come over me, and that was all the belonging that I needed. God with us, in the kitchen, as I make chicken Parmesan. His creation making her creation, that He created. I smiled at the familiarity of His presence and joy filled my heart. I forgot and then was reminded that he’s been familiar with me for over 30 years.. The belonging does not leave. I just needed that reminder.
We look for God in these big overly spiritual ways and moments. While leading worship, while praying out-loud with a friend. All the while, He sits in the kitchen waiting. He knows our recipes better than we do. And He longs to reveal His delight in us so that our IDENTITY in Him is solid no matter who or who doesn’t attend the dinner.
It was a gold nugget. An anchor that has held me in place since I was a 19 year old girl trying to make something delicious for my friends. A gift that I was not expecting. I found Christmas this year, not in a present, a song, a prayer, or a candle. I found Christmas in my kitchen, in His presence…where I have always belonged.
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In the last moments of her brief four-day stay, she spent most of her time in our arms, and I spent all her time praying she’d stay, then with grace, anticipating her departure almost with a jealous sorrow;
my daughter was about to awake to the sight of the King of Kings.
I felt the honor in that moment. It would be that very honor that would carry me through the void I would feel for the rest of my earthly life. I would also feel a longing that lingered all my years.
All these years I’d spent as a small earthling-singing-praise vessel, earnestly seeking to usher in the tangible healing presence of the Lord, our King, through worship and music, digging a deep well so that other seekers could taste and see that the Lord is good…and in an instant she would see and know all of Him, not in part but in full, not in a mirror, dimly, but
her face to His FACE.
She’d have instantly my heart’s desire, a drink of the refreshing living waters of Jeshua, with me seeing only just a tiny portion of His perfect love, the love that I had longed for all my 29 years, she would be consumed and fill her everything. I would remain engaged but she, she would be his wife.
I looked down, Kellan’s sweet little face, trying so hard to make the tears stop so I could see her beautifully feminine and perfect, fragile baby. Everything I would want in a little girl. I could see all of us:
Lillian-like,
Suzanne-like,
Brenda-like
Lynda-like, yet
Kellan-like.
His masterpiece original.
Wavy dark brown hair and
her Daddy’s Cowan hairline,
her Blythe-shaped head.
Knowing the King was near, I lifted my baby tightly, as if I were holding up my very own flesh-heart, my costly offering of great price to the Lord, pulled her up to my face, my hand the pillow for her precious head, and breathed in slowly and deeply and smelled
her fragile flower babygirl-scent one last time.
I whispered in her perfect tiny baby ear, “Worship the King for me, sweet daughter, Worship Him for me.”
I felt a deep sense of Mama-pride and basked in what was to be the Holiest moment of my life.
I knew HE was drawing nearer, and then He was right in front of me.
Though I cannot describe in words how very gently HE lifted her from my arms, I knew He held her and it was okay.
She was safe, life completed, ready for her wedding, her chariot: His scarred arms.
The LCU fell quiet,
Silence revealed Heaven’s wedding bells.
I trusted Him.
I love Him.
His word hidden in my shattered heart:
“though He slay me,
I trust.”
Strength made perfect in weakness.
Given to me,
taken from me,
He could do either.
His Promise kept.
They both left. but their thickness lingered for some time.
I would return to this moment in my mind for the rest of my life.
Years from now on a day not so far away, I will leave, too.
My wedding bells will ring. And whether this comes to pass, I won’t know until that moment, but on days that I miss her the most,
With my earthly mind
I imagine it:
I’ll open my eyes and see Him, my King, not in part but in full.
A tear-filled jar will be clutched in one of His hands. And I’ll start to bow before Him.
Just as I bow and my forehead makes contact with His feet, a sweet and familiar voice will call,
“Mama, mama” I’ll turn and see her, and get up to run, embracing my Kellan in joyful laughter. Ever-so gently Her hand, a pillow for my head, will pull me close and she”ll whisper in my ear,
“Let’s worship Him together, sweet Mama. Let’s worship Him together.”
Then, jar emptied on the King’s feet, I will be whole.
(Written on my Daughter’s 20th Wedding Anniversary to the King. )
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