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Why Our Crafted Lives? 

 I yearn for beauty in the world around me and see it as an inner haunting of the Greater Beauty that continually draws us. I firmly believe that part of our nature as Image bearers is that we are all creatives; more blatantly in some than others, but there is hidden “craft” within us all.  Life is craft. Even when circumstances seem to move beyond our control, we can foster an inner quality that shapes the world that surrounds us. Words are craft.  They have the power to create or destroy. A timely spoken or written word can be life to a parched soul.

 

The Bittersweet

The Bittersweet

Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
— Oliver Wendell Holmes
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It's home inspection day. They will be here at ten and it will take at least six hours. The property is large and it's complicated. This has been my home for the last twenty years. We raised our three sons here with the thought that we wanted a place where they would have space, to let their imaginations roam, to create a "big world." They have now ventured into that big world where they live with large hearts and eyes that see, and no intention to return.

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She walks by, oozing joy that this paradise will soon be her own. She gushes, "I  pinch myself and still can't believe it!" I am pleased with her delight. She looks around and casually states, "did you actually plant all of this?" I'm taken aback and my heart catches in my throat.  I had never stopped to consider all the holes we had dug; I the small, Chris the large. The soil was clay and I see him venturing out, pick ax in hand.,hacking away at the hardness. I would hear the sound of the pick ax  peppered with an occasional expletive as he hit the ubiquitous rocks. There would always be a few initial grumblings, but he would always do it for me, and I know he really liked the flowers as much as I did.

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I walk over and introduce her to Belle Portugal and I explain how "she" is always the first rose to bloom. I remember how being tree-sized she toppled during a rain storm. I was out of town and Chris, who knows my heart, picked through her thick thorny branches and righted her before I had time to grieve. We look and on her hangs hundreds of the most fragrant pale pink droopy buds. She blooms only once each year, the harbinger of spring. I explain how she is followed by Eden, their  branches are tightly entwined. I point out and name a few others. Our conversation ebbs and I go and sit alone in the sunshine. 

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It is that perfect spring day, when the warmth of the sun on my skin is a delicious kiss. The air is heavy with memory. The tears come and I can't stop them. I sink into this moment. There is no sadness just completeness, blessing...Shalom. I am overcome with gratitude. I was able to walk here, and know this terra firma by name and call it home. 

 

The Hard Side of Love

The Hard Side of Love

Even Longer Friends

Even Longer Friends