funny how these things work

So I spent the last week in Oregon, supporting my sister who has preemie twins. It was a momentary, gifted look at the world of neonatal medicine, and yes, I have a story idea brewing. But that wasn't the main point of this entry.

Nor is it about those gorgeous, striking twins, who set themselves into my heart forever, alongside their mother with whom I reconnected. But that trio floats in my head, so beautiful, wonderful, lively and lovely.

Really, this post is about the other love of my life, not my hubby to whom I am bound even more than I thought before I left. Laying beside him last night in bed that wasn't an air mattress on the floor was more perfect than I dreamed.

No, this post isn't about any of those blessed folk. It's about the one who turns my wheels, who gives me breath. It's about the one for whom I write, do most of the rest of the things I meander about, the one who matters most.

A Savior, a Holy Spirit, a God in three parts. The reason for my being, why I write. How I write is more to the point, and that I write at all is His gift, his purpose. I've known that, accepting and affording this gift to Him. But what I didn't know, didn't learn until driving home, nearly to the place where I'm most familiar, what I only learned yesterday afternoon along a freeway was that in writing, I'm praying, I'm connecting, I'm communing. That part I never really knew.

I knew that being away from my husband was difficult, but not deathly. Being out of my element was invigorating in many ways, immersed into another world with different people I love, learning how little lives are just as meaningful as big existences. I felt somewhat apart from my routine, of course that was unavoidable, but I was so busy, so taken over by all I saw, felt, smelled, sensed, that it was okay. Running on fumes of a different sort that weren't debilitating, but distracting. But only long enough to teach me what really needed to be learned.

What I needed to know was that all this writing, for all its creative musing, messages and deeper meaning underscored, all this writing is really a way for me to hear a quiet, small voice. And to give back what garbled response I can manage.

But I had to get away, unplug. Not from the web, oh no, I was plenty involved. I had to wrench myself from the writing to see just what it means, more than all the story lines I could ever come up with on my own.

And you know, it's not really about me at all. I've known that for a long time, but what I didn't know was how it's reciprocal, give and take. I thought it was all being handed a gift, and it is, but it's also about offering what I can, what I translate.



Translating the essence, oh goodness!! In translating the essence, what I receive, then immediately return, is better than spun gold, better than great sex, better than adorable twin baby girls breathing on their own. It's me breathing through words that arrive without fancy heralds, but arrive on time, time after time, and the words I let slip through tangled fingers are my way of saying thank you. Thank you and I love you too.