#TellHisStory: Long Days, Short Years
Anna sits on the polished wooden rectangle in front of those 88 keys, with her feet dangling. My baby girl is learning about treble clef and time signatures.
I’m kind of listening. Only I’m not. I’m not really listening like I should be. Like, maybe half-listening. Like pretty much, half-daydreaming.
“Mom?”
“Mom.”
I turn to my daughter.
She asks: “What are you thinking about?”
“Oh … Not sure what to blog about tomorrow, and sometimes I don’t know until it just … comes. Ya know?”
She nods a knowing nod. She likes when we talk writing. She tells me she remembers that feeling when the teacher asked her to write a color poem.
We both know it’s true — We have to pay attention not only to write life, but to really live it. The best stories are right under our noses, beside the piano bench, or under the kitchen table, or tucked in beside you.
It’s true — God’s grandeur has tended to favor ordinary places like barns and bushes.
And writing makes us pay attention. Especially when we’re not paying attention.
“I have an idea,” my daughter tells me, jabbing a single finger into the air. “You should write about how you just can’t belieeeeeve how time flies, and you’re kids are growing up sooooo fast.”
She rolls her eyes, and giggles.
I ask her, “Where would you get an idea like that?”
“Oh, moms say that all the time.”
“That’s because it’s true. You’re growing up fast. I feel like I just put you on the school bus for the first time.”
“Yeah, well, that was, like, really long ago. There are 365 days in a year, Mom. And they last for-e-verrrrr.”
Except they don’t.
They don’t last forever.
And someday she’ll know. Maybe it will happen when she’s sitting near a piano bench, listening to her own child expound on life, and wondering when exactly Tinkerbell got traded in for Taylor Swift. And sadly, she’ll be dreaming of tomorrow’s blog post.
The other day on Facebook, someone’s son asked the question, “Who’s Elvis?” Another friend reported that one of her younger co-workers asked who Donna Summer was. We’re here for a vapor of time, and even the icons are soon forgotten.
Later, I tuck my girls into bed. One of the girl’s voices wobbles with emotion.
“Mom,” she says. “I’m happy that summer’s coming and everything, but I already feel kind of sad. Because summers always go by so fast.”
I hug her tight, without a word. I just grab hold of her. And I hold her of a long time. I grab hold of this one day that goes so slow, in this one life that goes so fast, because we know when we look back, that we’ll regret it if we let these moments — soaked with the grandeur of God — slip through our fingers.
A Color Poem
Pink is:
first beanie on a newborn’s head
velvety edge of baby-girl blankie
Pink is the clenched fist around a mama’s forefinger
and the midnight cry
and the chubby hand waving bye
Pink is:
front step together, watching morning sky
half-eaten dinner, beets untouched
cotton candy that Daddy gave you anyway
frosting, licked off birthday candles
tucked-in girls, with fluttering lashes
summer breeze at dusk, and sweat on the Mason jar
Pink is
love-you-more-than-all-the-stars-in-the-sky-times-infinity!
and remembering that days are long but life is short
***
Just for Fun
Make your own “color poem” here. Then come back and drop it in the comment box, or over on your blog.
So, what’s your Story?
A #TellHisStory is any story that connects your story into the story of God.
You’re invited to tell that story right here, in community with us.
Share your narratives, your poems, your Instagrams tagged with #TellHisStory, … your beautiful hearts. You are the chroniclers, the people who help others make sense of the world with your words and your art.
Story is how we know that, no matter what happens, we can get back up again.
Visit someone (or two) in the link-up to encourage with a comment. Then, Tweet about your posts, and the posts you visit, with the #TellHisStory hashtag. Come back on Friday to visit our Featured #TellHisStory, in the sidebar.
A final note: This is a safe place to tell your stories. You don’t have to be a professional writer to join us. Story is built into every single one of us. Your story matters, because it’s part of God’s story down through history, not because you punctuated everything correctly. Deal?
#TellHisStory
For more details on the #TellHisStory linkup, click here. Share the love of story by visiting someone else in the community!
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this was so much fun…have to do with the Lovelies today. Thanks Jennifer!
green
is split pea soup
the first buds of spring
and grass stained knees
green means go and yes to anything I ask
the best kind of smoothie
the hush of a an open field
green is wheatgrass juice
fresh steamed broccoli
and crunchy kale
green is an open library
boughs and branches and new books
green is the scent of pine and the evergreen of Christmas
green makes me feel alive
Love this Lisha!:)
“boughs and branches and new books” … Love that, Lisha.
Do come back and add the color poems from your Lovelies!
I love green, too! Grass-stained knees! I see green as Life, too! 🙂 And the nice reminder…green means GO!!! 🙂
Thank you for hosting! Love the story, yes, time goes too fast!
Thanks for being here, Debbie.
Chocolate Brown
his smooth beautiful skin
wall color behind the piano
delicious rich treats I sneak during nap time
deep low bass notes
the harmony that enhances the melody
jazz that’s smooth
warm hot fudge that covers a sundae
thick molasses that flows like lava
savory gravy poured over mashed potatoes
leather thick and sleek
velvet like Elvis’ home decor
flannel sheets that warm in winter
comfort to a weary day
beautiful! 😉
Love your chocolate brown poem Katie!
I just can’t stop smiling at the loveliness. Thank you, Katie!
Yes, this, “I grab hold of this one day that goes so slow, in this one life that goes so fast”, thank you.:)
Green is the how you feel after the roller coaster ride,
and when you’ve eaten too much crawfish at the party.
It’s straight out jealousy for
you friend’s curly hair.
It growls like a Deere mowing the yard and whispers loud like the
ocean in the pines.
It’s sounds like children pulling weeds
in a urban garden.
tastes like pistachio ice cream and
tart like limes.
It reveals it’s sweet side underneath
the fuzzy skin of a kiwi.
It feels warm like summer
and ruins Christmas for the Who’s.
You might think it’s talking behind your back.
The color green is perfectly suited for the red head,
sets off her freckles.
Love this, Dea! Just. Love.
With there was an “an” where the is a “a”! I am a terrible editor! It’s the little things that drive a person nuts! ha
Ruins Christmas for the Who’s!
Oh Dea. This is so very delightful, top to bottom.
Love this…we both chose green.
I know Lisha. 🙂 Love yours too. The first time Jennifer posted this color poem prompt, I chose white. Not sure white is a color but it was fun. I want to write “all” the colors just for kicks. Maybe sometime soon….
Oh, I love this! I love the vision of the fingers and keys and the feet dangling and the way you painted the story, Jennifer. It makes me think of my own little girl at the piano. And I love the prompt to write poetically.
Liquid blue
sliding across the image in my eye,
the rippling dress
tinged with yellow and green
as you sway to the notes
and yoru fingers fly.
Honey brown
dancing to the floating notes,
cascading curls
highlited with twinkling sheen
make me smile
as your head bends to focus.
Majestic white
floating through the mosaic,
the colored glass
bending light in rainbow
lifting my eyes
by memories of music.
Bless you!
Dawn
Goodness. Such beauty here in the comment box from you, Dawn, and the others. I’m feeling a little sheepish about that pink poem up there. But then again, I’m just over-the-moon excited for all the ways it’s encouraged such a colorful, beautiful display here in the comments. Such fun.
Dear Jennifer
This is beautiful. Your daughter seems to be quite like her mom. Yes, dear one, before you know they get married like my eldest did 4 weeks ago.
Blessings XX
Mia
Oh Mia! Congratulations…
One of the most gifted artists I know lives right under my roof. My 16 year old daughter Lily. Today I’ll share with you one of her recent works of prose. Enjoy~
The Story of a Cloud and the Sun
A heavy lightning bolt slips out of the limp hands of a dark gray cloud.
The bolt hits the ground with a great force, shaking the earth’s floor violently.
A loud groan from the cloud as he awakes to realize he’s lost his most valuable lightning bolt.
Rage fills his translucent lungs as he shouts out in anger.
A pang of sadness hits him as he recalls what he’s done to achieve that particular bolt.
Tears begin to fall from his cheeks, he doesn’t bother to wipe them away,
and lets them fall to the ground.
Thus begins an unstoppable storm of tears that fall heavily from his face.
Once again he fills himself with anger and shouts out,
grabbing a basket of smaller lightning bolts from the shelf,
and throws them to the ground.
Each thrown hard enough to rumble upon its impact with the earth.
He sits down and weeps gently into his hands.
Sorrow overwhelms him,
until a beam of light shines down on him.
He looks up, blinded by the light, he calls out.
A choir of birds sing such a beautiful note that it brings the cloud to his knees.
With a voice that sounds like a chorus of angels playing their harps to a most wondrous song,
the light greets him sweetly.
The cloud finds himself walking towards the light,
knowing in his heart that he’ll spend the rest of his days by her side,
for she is far better than any lightning bolt he could ever earn.
As he grows nearer he’s astonished to look down and see
that he is the purist white of any cloud he’s ever seen.
His heart beats loud and he smiles genuinely as he runs to her.
For the rest of the clouds life he stays by her side,
his love for her never wavering.
They live out their days together in the bluest of skies,
in the brightest of lights,
and in a love that radiates across the world.
So good, Rachel. And Lily!! Impressive!!
See if Lily will add a color poem for us. Would she?
Yes, I will ask her. But maybe you should? My suggestions these days are quite uncool. Oh wait, “cool” isn’t cool anymore…so I’m told. Ha!
Oh, a poem! In color… wow. Of course I got all teary eyed when I read this, and then just plain smiled big at the poetry. Thank you, Jennifer. I’ll maybe give that a try….
I hope you will, Jody! This is so fun! I posted this late, late last night, and was so tired, and felt a little guilty about not putting more time into my post. It just felt flat. But you all are bringing the colors … and the colors! I came over this morning to see such a colorful display here. Such loveliness!
red
chubby cheeks in the cold
a single rose in a creamy milkglass vase
the scissors on my desk
the screech of a siren
the crackling of thunder
a teapot whistling
watermelon
cherry ice cream
cough syrup
warmth of a fireplace
the sun on my face
burning soles on hot sand
red soars
I feel that sand between my toes! So fun, Susan. Thank you for sharing.
red…
red is strong as if it sits sentinel as a cardinal on a branch
red is bold akin to poppies boldly displaying their glory
red shouts warning resembling a fire truck racing through the streets
red warns to us to stop… to look around before moving forward
red colors a face… when we feel exposed
red covers all imperfection
red was bled from the cross
red washes our robes
red is our righteousness
red redeems…red renews…red restores…
RED SAVES!!!
Ro! So fun to see you showing your true colors here today! 🙂
Red restores and redeems. Yes, yes it does.
Jennifer,
so fun to read Anna’s pink poem…impressive 🙂 funny, i wrote about listening today…
Now I feel so unspiritual! LOL! Of course red SAVES – the blood of Jesus – my poetry attempt is so carnal. I am laughing at myself! Ro, you will have to read my worldly effort below! ♥
Please please don’t feel one is more spiritual than the other… Aren’t we all learning … All is spiritual… You wrote of the beauty of red too… God’s gifts… All the ways He loves us… After I hit publish… I thought I wish I would have said… Red is fun and sassy…read lipstick,nails and pumps. See… I wanted to lighten mine up…you think yours should be more “spiritual” and neither one needs to be any different… God’s world is too beautiful and full of amazing depth and layers…to express and reflect this best…we need all shades of all colors.
Ro,
So fun to read your poem….and yes, all is God’s gift 🙂
“We have to pay attention not only to write life, but to really live it.” Yes! Attention is often the missing ingredient.
Now to think about a color poem… 🙂
Thanks, Lisa! Always enjoy your contributions to the weekly linkup.
Love what you have written here today (as always)… ties in with something I’ve been pondering for writing on my blog too. Especially love your color poem… and I’m thinking on taking up that fun challenge! 🙂 Thanks Jen…~ Pam, apples of gold, http://wordglow.wordpress.com
Always a joy to see you here, Pam. xo
I’m not a poet but this looks like too much fun not to join in. Here it goes for color brown.
Brown, the uncelebrated color.
Dirt, dead leaves, meals gone wrong.
Brown, used by God and yet unsung.
I know where I’m brown. On the inside.
Covered with shame, hidden from the rainbow.
Down deep it hides and waits for color glow.
Brown is the place seeds go,
the place new life can be birthed.
Brown is the color of mountains and valleys,
of worn pastures and worth.
From the brown dust I was made, in the brown
dirt I will lay.
My secret sins and hidden parts are cherished by God
and need not remain in the dark.
He chose to redeem,
He holds this brown one in hands that love
and one day will lift from the earth to be his, above.
Glorious brown.
I’m not a poet, either, Pat, but I think it’s so fun to play around with words. And this is a safe place to play. So glad you brought your word-crayons. 🙂
Purple
a sparkly Senior Prom dress,
graduation decorations strung across the social hall,
my daughters favorite color,
youth band praise & worship,
the air whooshing through my bicycle tires,
friends around my table belly-laughing,
fizzy Shasta grape soda,
soft as snow Hawaiian Ice,
a steaming slice of blackberry cobbler,
an ultra-soft fleece blanket,
singing alone in the car at the top of my lungs,
cruising with the windows down,
Purple can turn a frown upside down.
I’m a sing-at-the-top-of-my-lungs girl, too! 🙂 Thanks for sharing your love purple poem with us.
White…
White is snow
a sheet unfurled from heaven
swirling feathers from an angel’s pillow
a soft dusting like a baby’s powder.
White is clouds
scooped like ice cream
in a pink peppermint sky.
White is simplicity
frosted with a fresh stillness
cool and calm.
Sandra,
love the image of “a soft dusting like a baby’s powder.”
🙂
Pink peppermint sky!
Jennifer,
Your post made me cry…and then it made me smile. I just love this!
Orange
is the sun stretching its arms above the trees on the east side of the lake
staring at the color washed walls of my inviting kitchen as I sip my morning tea
the vibrant yolks of the farm, fresh eggs lovingly delivered by a friend
the sound of lively jazz music as I stand barefoot on the hardwood, mixing up muffins
the sound of Coppertone being squirted into my hands at the beach
the delicate crunch of freshly fallen maple leaves under my boot covered feet
creamsicles in the sun
citrus oolong on the back porch
butternut squash soup on a chilly fall day
my tangerine silk scarf, worn only on special occasions
the nail polish applicator as I brush “It’s a bird it’s a plane” on my toes
the sway of the boat dock as I soak up that wonderful Vitamin D
Orange welcomes you to a new day. Gives life. Brings energy. Wakes up the soul…
Oh my word. The Coppertone. Yes. I can see it, smell it. Oh, summer, come quickly!
About many colors–and music:
Royal Fireworks
I am now writing
About yesterday. An angel
High up in pine tree.
Two doves in a tree.
A woodpecker pecking.
Geese flying overhead.
Playing Frisbee with my dog.
The way my dog knows when I
Pick up my camera we are going outside.
Learning story of Handel’s
Music for the Royal Fireworks.
The music providing a background
For the Royal Fireworks the wooden building
Caught fire. Over twelve thousand people
Rushed to get away. Causing a tree-hour traffic jam
Of carriages, after the main route
Was closed due to the collapse
Of the central arch of the newly built London Bridge.
I listened to the Overture
In the car on my way
To my physical. Stopping once
To photograph The Lower Mill Pond
In Easthampton, Massachusetts
Where I once lived.
The nurse said we now ask
Everyone two question.
Do you feel depressed?
Have you recently fallen?
No and no. And I said
To her I remember being
Depressed. Still so clear.
I was waiting in the doctor’s office
And I picked up an magazine and wept.
When the doctor entered the room
I help up the magazine, Newsweek
I think, and on the cover a photo
Two young women. One from Palestine
And the other from Israel. They had
Killed each other. And there
In the doctor’s office I wept.
I took medicine for a few years.
Those feelings are gone.
I told the doctor I had been feeling
Light-headed and that my back hurt.
He talked to be about the foot railing
At bars. Made to help people
Drink longer without hurting
Their backs. He said I should
Try using a foot stool when cooking
Or cleaning the dishes. Raise one leg
For a few minutes and the the other.
I said to him it sounds
Like a Seinfeld joke. And I was happy
To hear my blood pressure was down.
Back in the car heading home
I heard to story of The Tam O’Shanter Overture
By Sir Malcolm Arnold; based on a famous poem
By Robert Burns depicting
Tam O’Shanter drunk. Leaving the pub
Tam rides home on his horse Meg.
A storm is brewing. He sees
the local haunted church lit up,
witches and warlocks dancing.
The devil playing the bagpipes.
Tam is still drunk, still upon his horse,
Just on the edge of the light watching.
Amazed to see The witches are dancing
As the music intensifies and seeing
A witch in a short dress
He shouts,`Weel done, cutty-sark!’
(cutty-sark : “short shirt”).
The lights go out, the music
And dancing stops and many
Of the creatures lunge after Tam,
With the witches leading.
Tam spurs Meg to turn and flee
And drives the horse on towards the River Doon
As the creatures dare not cross a running stream.
The creatures give chase and the witches
Come so close to catching Tam and Meg
That they pull Meg’s tail off just as she reaches the bridge over the Doon.
What a story.
What a poem.
What great music.
Over dinner I tell Susan
Both stories and we talk
Later of framing art.
~~
Wow, Bruce. Thanks so much for sharing. So many rich, vivid images here.
You’re amazing. And such an incredible inspiration. Thank you for writing these words. They’re beautiful and everything I wish I could say. ~Jenna
Thank you, Jenna!
Whew! It does go by in a hurry. Enjoy every minute, Jennifer, because before you know it, they’ll be 28! But there’s a lot of joy in that too. Thanks for hosting each week!
Forgot to leave my poem:
Purple is
the color of my kitchen walls
my favorite sandals
the sunset over the ocean.
I hear it in the baby’s giggle and
a three-year-old running down the hall.
Purple is on my lips like grapes
and Kool-Aid
and popsicles.
Purple is at home
in a grown kid’s hug.
Purple can light up a twilight sky.
Purple’s my favorite color, Holly. So nice to see that color through your eyes today.
bubble tea
crisp health like a spinach salad with abundant strawberries
cold, fresh Wate:-) r over thirsting dreams
freedom to twirl and twirl
running around barefoot, a flower girl
breeze through freshly washed long hair flying all about the face
singing a new song, writing a new chapter…
Green is Grace.
PS i am still figuring out how to do all this from my tablet, as i am between computers! 🙂 Hope to join you all in community!
They grow up way too fast my friend. Before you know it you will be a 51 year old Nana wondering how in the world she could be old enough to have 9 amazing grandchildren!! Have mercy and thank you Lord!
Sigh… I know you’re right.
Green of every shade
late spring, early summer branches swaying in the breeze
a crawling baby caterpillar under a steady leaf
the patient new plant securely tied to a stake until due season
laughter on the merry-go-round and jungle gym
hope trying to take flight against all fear
pure words of comfort from a trustworthy Friend
honey-dew melon bubble tea
crisp health like a spinach salad with abundant strawberries
cold, fresh Water over thirsting dreams
freedom to twirl and twirl
running around barefoot, a flower girl
breeze through freshly washed long hair flying all about the face
singing a new song, writing a new chapter…
Green is Grace.
I like that image, Christine … of hope trying to take flight against fear. And the breeze in fresh washed hair. Yes …
Love this! I also love that you featured Darlene Collazo this week, she is wonderful! : )
Yeah. She’s pretty awesome. Thanks for stopping by, Sybil.
so so SOOOO true!
yellow
daffodils blooming
bright umbrella on the beach
goldfinches courting
honeybees buzzing
wind chimes tinkling on porch
classy, brassy trumpet tunes
sweet tartness of lemon merengue pie
buttery summer squash
birthday cupcakes with candles
warm sunshine on face
hugs from grand children
rainboots splashing in puddles
Yellow can put a smile on your face!
I can hear yellow in your classy brassy trumpets!
If only we had more time… but them, we do have eternity to look forward to! Thanks for hosting & God bless!
Always a joy to have you here, Laurie.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hugged my kids and tried to figure out how to “grab hold of this one day that goes so slow, in this one life that goes so fast.” I wish I knew how to make time just…stop. Your words spoke to my “mother heart”…reminding me to hug a little longer again today.
So glad you stopped by this week, Amy. xo
Gold…
the color of a wedding band that starts the
adventure of two becoming one
the color of eyelashes that cover sleepy blue eyes
of your newborn son
the color of life when you look back
through the years.
the sound of a grain dryer on a crisp fall evening
the sound of a family laughing around the kitchen table
the sound of your grandchilds’ feet slapping on the wooden floor as he runs.
tastes like a cool, clear glass of ice water, when baling,
on a hot, muggy Iowa day
tastes like fresh strawberries picked and eaten right from the plant
tastes like grilled burgers with family and friends
at the fourth of July picnic by the lake.
feels like the days after going through the
darkest hours of your life
feels like hearts so full of gratitude you can hardly stand it
feel of God’s hand on the journey that is your life.
the color of Gold can seep into you heart, mind, and soul…
Love is the color of Gold…
God is Love
I love this Faye … Gold, like the sound of a grain dryer. Perfect. Thanks for showing your true colors here. 🙂
I was summoned
on Twitter for poetry,
assigned polka dots
which–I never wear.
Still, d o t s for a dancer
in a wide puffy skirt.
I don’t really mind them,
circles make no right turns
with angles that dig
into ribs like the elbow
that asks pointedly–
would you please
get in line.
🙂
Bravo!
And because I was Twitter absent, I was assigned gingham…
You blew in from Kansas
in a blue gingham dress
skipped down yellow bricks
in ruby reds
with a dog in a basket.
Your story’s a bit warped,
your past hints at checkered,
and now someone’s dead.
Ha! Someone ought to make a musical out of this one. 😉
🙂
LOL!!!
I adore this.
Gotta love those polka dots. They’ll never line up. 😉
Squee! I love the way you look in these polka dots, my friend.
I found a strand of
melancholy’s hair
on my pillow
this morning.
It was dull
brown.
(btw – i dropped this at twitter this morning and then saw your link-y-tweet about this color post.)
Oh you…
Thanks, Darlene.
What fun, Jennifer! Yes, writing does make us pay attention and see the unseen–usually. I didn’t notice the form for the color poems until after I’d written mine.
White
Child’s eyes watch white flakes
settling on yellow, daffodil cups.
Shivering, fearing that winter will never end,
never thaw into spring,
that it would be “always winter and never Christmas.”
The un-truth swirling in the snow whispers,
“Why pray?”
“Nothing will change.”
“There is no hope.”
No white lie, but a black one from the pit.
Wisdom’s eyes watch,
waiting for the potential
held in cold sap and dark roots,
expecting spring.
White apple blossoms bud and bloom.
Petals flutter,
fall feather-soft,
full of promise
of autumn’s white-fleshed, scarlet fruit.
Like incense smoke
prayers of hope rise.