Sunday, August 24, 2014


Today the air is heavy and moist. I walked by the river all morning. The flowers are changing this week…not that I'm a master gardener. But each August, the hydrangeas turn green, the tiger lilies dry up, and the black-eyed Susans erupt. Summer is almost over! it screams to ensure I don't blink and miss it. The parkway smells like wet earth. It reminds me of early mornings at a campsite when everything is damp, but the oatmeal and flannel shirt warm you up.

Later this afternoon, once the kids were safely in the hands of grandparents, I drove 226 miles west. Matt usually drives my Corolla these days, so the car and I were like old friends reunited. Music blared and the warm wind whipped in and out of my hair. Chaska. Glencoe. Olivia. Marshall. I slowed down in each, taking in the old signs and friendly faces.

I have deep memories of these roads that lead through southwest Minnesota. We spent many summer weekends in Cottonwood when I was growing up. Street dances and corn feeds were magical events. I remember chiggers stuck to my legs after a lake swim and hours tossing water balloons. Cousins I now call friends seemed light-years older than me. I wrote my name on the chalkboard inside the Little Red Schoolhouse every summer, in awe of my own addition to the infinite memories that place held for my family.

The wind farms just east of Tyler were beautiful. The clouds rolled above us, stirring my songs and my memories. They propelled me across the boarder somewhere brand new.

And then I checked into my hotel. Though the rich yellows and greens of the plains know my heart and my ancestry, I was still a tired City Mouse without children underfoot(!)  So I fell into a king-sized bed of pillows and fluff. I buried my head in the covers and disappeared for 8 hours.

Alone. At peace. Completely still. And maybe (just a little) lonely.

This is only the second time I've had so much sleep in a full year. My body and mind are always carrying more than themselves - and have been for quite awhile. But, for a night, it was just me and the plains and a bed to myself. I did not listen for whimpers or crying. I did not write sermons or do dishes or vacuum or take phone calls. And I did not rise until I was ready.

From this place of restoration, I ironed my clerical wear and my alb, signs of just one of my calls. I dressed for the ordination of a friend and spent the morning listening to his promises, his gifts, and his willingness. It made me feel grateful and glad.

And then I drove 226 miles back through open fields and small towns, into the warm and wet heat of the city. And there I gathered beloved babies into my arms. They giggled to each other and nestled into my neck. They did not know how far I'd gone, but they were so glad to have me back. Before dark we walked through the yard with them, pointing out the verdant hydrangeas, the wrinkled tiger lilies, and the joyful black-eyed Susans. Don't blink, girls, or you'll miss it.

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