Me, with my daily postings.
In a good way.
Me, with my daily postings.
In a good way.
“Ten days” was the phrase/number I had in my head as I made the decision to sit down to write today’s post, only, looking at the date displayed on the upper right corner of my laptop, I realized I was off by two.
In ten days, less two, I’ll fly back to a place I used to call “home”.
In ten days, less than two, I’ll set foot on land I haven’t seen in three and a half years.
In ten days, less than two, I’ll smell my son’s head and crush him in hugs and sit next to him and lean my head against his shoulder.
In ten days, less than two.
Where do you land on this; the idea that there are some things you simply cannot leave unvoiced. That there are words and phrases and paragraphs of thoughts and feelings that need to be said?
Be it to another, to your God, or to yourself, how do you approach giving voice to what might remain silent?
This morning, scrolling through my emails, I saw that someone had “liked” one of my posts here. That’s when I thought about yesterday and realized I think I forgot to post.
Like, plumb clean forgot.
Like, never once entered my mind.
But, I did remember something else yesterday, or should I say, someone else, and maybe that’s better than posting on a blog every day.
Inte idag is Swedish for , “not today”, which is “Leanne” for, I have no desire to say or share anything here.
Not little, not big.
Nothing to place in this daily posting space.
*but I smell apples and a baguette is baking in the oven, soon to be topped with Cambezola. i can share that.
Years and years and years ago, when securing enough food to put on the table for my son and myself was a weekly struggle, we happened upon a perfect saying, “Bread rich”.
It came from my son after I had used a coupon, punch card and “daily double” special to buy approximately FIVE bags of bread, bagels, pastry, etc. for only FIVE dollars.
This largess came from a bread outlet about a 45-minute drive from our home.
Pulling into the grass and gravel covered driveway on the side of our tiny rental house in the country as we returned home, my son started carrying the bags inside.
When I had placed all the items from the bags on our worn out Formica counter top, my son said in awe and delight, “Mom, we’re bread rich!”.
And he was right.
And I loved that he had learned how to see “wealth” in this way and that bags of day-old bread (that would be put into the freezer to save until we needed them) could thrill him as much as I imagine Disneyland thrills kids who haven’t experienced scarcity.
From then on, whenever poverty came calling and/or I would start to feel lack, I’d look around at all the ways in which I was rich.
About ten days ago, laying on my sofa and knowing I needed more – contact, interaction, help with daily life and the living of it – I reached out to some of my friends both here, in Sweden, and in America via Skype.
The lies that had been circling in my brain about not fitting in, not having worth or value, not being loved or connected, pretty much floated away as soon as my friends and I started talking.
And, I knew I had forgotten what I had already possessed all along.
I continued reaching out. SMS’s, phone calls, emails. I readily extended and accepted invitations to connect.
Which, oh, thank You, Father God, saved me yet again.
Looking through one of my prayer notebooks, I saw that I had listed FOUR pages of names, just here on the islands alone, of people to pray for. These were people I knew liked me and that I liked, too. People, not all of them yet but a handful, whom I could be honest with and share my heart with.
I realized I was “friend rich”.
On Saturday, three of them came over just to hang out and brought a plastic shopping bag full of apples and a plastic container full of hand-picked blackberries. ❤
After they left, I placed the apples in a large glass bowl and set them in the middle of my table.
They were so beautiful. Yellow and light green on top of pine wood and against the backdrop of white walls, accented with soft blue curtains and green plants on the window sill looking out against a light-filled sky.
The beauty filled and soothed my soul.
But, there’s more to tell, because that same Saturday, just an hour after my first visitors had left, another friend came by to go on a bike ride with me and she brought another plastic bag full of apples; these, blush red and spring green!
I took out another large glass bowl (I have three of these, making me “bowl rich”, too) and put the apples in them and placed that bowl next to the other on the table.
That’s when it hit me. “I’m apple rich”, I said to myself with a soft, deep, soul-settling smile.
And later on, at Sunday evening prayer service, I spoke up and out (in automatic Swedish! :O ) and told the group of believers what I’m typing just now (except the part about bread rich and the history of the term), how I was struggling, how I reached out, and how I remembered how “rich” I was and how large a part their love and acceptance of me had played a part in my healing.