One of the places I've been reading is over at SheLoves Magazine. SheLoves is a group of ridiculously talented writers who have hearts for Jesus and authenticity and justice and community. When I read their posts, I feel at home with these women whom I've never known in person, but feel like my tribe.
Each month they post a theme and this month's theme is HERITAGE. They invited their readers to a synchroblog, and when I first read it, I thought maybe I should write a piece.
But then Fear and Intimidation spoke loudly. They asked me who I thought I was. In case I still had any momentum, their buddy Busy got to work on me. I hadn't written my synchroblog.
And then this morning I read a Facebook post from Idelette, the founder of SheLoves. Of the synchroblog, it said this:
"
And I knew, that if I allowed Fear and Intimidation and Busy to bully me, I would miss out on this opportunity of Tribe.
And so, I humbly present to you my offering of this exercise.
I Am From--Then and Now
I am from snowboots,
from dog bowls
and plastic blue tumblers,
Full of apple
Kool-Aid
I am from the log
cabin on the side of the mountain
The bead board
ceilings and wrought pine floors,
an amber box called
home.
I am from the aspens
The blue spruce
pines
The creek
trickling, carrying nuggets of gold
Smoke from the
pot-bellied stove filling the sky.
I’m from Christmas
morning breakfast and suspicion,
from Nana and Grandma
Jane, who died before I was born.
I’m from keeping
busy and working too much
and from being
in the same space without really being together.
I’m from “you
can be anything you want to be” and “mind your manners”
and Jesus Loves
Me (but you’re a dirty, rotten sinner).
I’m from mashed
potatoes, and white meat,
and stuffing
cooked outside the bird.
I’m from Colorado
and the Wild West,
the lonely,
lonesome, ghost towns.
I’m from chocolate
chip cookies and scrambled eggs with toast.
From the sister
with Down syndrome
Who beat all
the odds,
To live a life
of her own choosing.
A picture of a
mother, two boys on her lap, reading the story of the Christ-child
Hangs on the
wall in my father’s house,
His mother,
A grandmother I
never knew.
Now,
I am from cast
iron skillets,
From local
honey and slip-on shoes,
Piled in
baskets at the back door.
I am from the crumbly
brick ranch with the red front door
I am from
coffee, freshly brewed in the pot
A sofa which
you need not ask before you put your feet on.
I am from the white
crepe myrtle
The magnolia
Whose giant
blooms drip from its branches.
I’m from morning
snuggles in bed and grace for mistakes,
from JoJo and
Stellar and Monster.
I’m from clean
laundry stacked in baskets and grace
and from
opening the windows to let the fresh air in,
every chance we
get.
I’m from “I
love you” and “I’m sorry”
and “Hush, Little
Baby” sung in whispers to their ears.
I’m from
princess crowns on your birthday,
because we
deserve to shine.
I’m from Carolina
and the South,
it speaks to
me, “You’re home.”
I’m from banana
bread and spinach smoothies,
Black beans and
rice, and homemade maple nut granola.
From a son who
never made it to his birth day,
Yet changed our
lives forever.
His ashes sit
on our bookshelf,
Reminding us of
our hope for Heaven.
So glad you decided to share your story! You might live somewhere else (in the world) - but really, I think all of us have lived in some of those 'places'. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteThis is one of the best of your writing I have ever read. It makes me love you even more, and feel proud that I get to call you a friend.
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