on the fog
I would like to tell you about the fog over the field of lazy horses, how it hung this morning like a lie you want to believe – one that says I’m deep in the country and all I have to do today is read. It’s gone already. I’m in town. The sun evaporates the grasses dry.
I would also like to tell you about my youngest and his obsession with weapons and cooking utensils – how he cooks pancakes and kills bad guys simultaneously.
If it were possible, I would consider writing my boys’ in-depth knowledge of Star Wars and how (yes, though a story of redemption) they share it with any stranger they can bust free to tell. Our neighbor had company, and J ran to him in the yard, held his hand, and witnessed to him about Anakin’s hate. Oh, the gospel of Star Wars be damned. How I wish I had a DVD of Jesus in action. How we want to see it to believe it.
AND if I could tell you anything, I would tell you how sometimes I growl. Growl until my throat rips. Sometimes I walk away and grit my teeth. And then at night I wake in a surge of work-till-tears adrenaline, a full natural cocktail of zealous chemicals, how I switch on with the misplacement of hair.
In spite all of this, there’s a baby girl in my heart, and I can’t wait to be her Mama. I want to tell you about that, how I would be her Mama tomorrow and how I know it doesn’t make any sense.
How not much makes sense when you’re exhausted, but you just get up and keep going, and you say your prayers where they eek out, how everything in some phases seems so inappropriate. So Incomplete. But it’s not. We just don’t know fully, but we are completely known. How glad I am of that.
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