Home.  It's time.  Early morning light streams golden warm across boot leather smooth... and my heart calls home.  Through generations lived out, home catches tears of joy... tears of sorrow... they wash the view clear. They spill together upon this solid ground of family... and nourish life.

Home is where necks are hugged first and words are spoken second. It's where mom's bread rose full and tender in oven's glow. It's where the milkman delivered clear bottles of purest farm cream to the door, and corn stretched tall all around.  It's where Grandma's potatoes sizzled in morning's skillet, and crisp emerald cucumbers soaked up summer flavor in crocks heavy.  Mom's stitches gathered Sunday dress ruffles. Daddy would hoist me to his lap on the tractor. A white plank tree swing grew worn in the middle, arching high above tiger lily blooms nodding orange in slightest breeze. The bed of Daddy's '52 Chevy was the ladder for two little girls stretching on tip-toes to reach peaches plump with promise.  Cattle called low across rolling pasture, and the sweet smell of spring hay filled my lungs with life breath.

Across every numbered mile from these Georgia foothills, an unbroken prairie horizon stretches in sunrise glory and my whole being sighs content.  It's time to be home.

When I was scarcely more than a girl, my daddy, burdened more by heart than by the succession of boxes taped and labeled, loaded everything I owned into a truck bound for half a country away.  With eyes earnest on mine, his caution came gentle... I was going too far from home. 

Simple girl.  I don't know how many times I've said those words.  A proud farmer's daughter. Daddy, a farmer's son.  I've been spun around a city block a time or two.  Awe poured hush in the presence of world leaders who brought peace and knew war.  Adrenaline coursed high, bustling across the floor of the New York stock exchange, where one nod of the head could build or topple lives.  Twirling across cool ballroom marble on balmy ocean nights, dresses swirled in the flowing grace of little girl dreams.  But those little black dresses don't fit as well as Grandpa's flannel shirts.

Home is where our hearts are planted in the fields of family.

Morning light casts long its beauty of clarity.  I see a couple little boys with seeds to plant.  It's time to go home.

Simply, 

Suz

Oh, to live out the love that is Christmas!

"Who here among us has not been broken?  Who is without guilt or pain?"  Strongest voice resounds with violins and hearts alike.  Who, but Him?  A perfect King born as an infant in a stable to walk, to live, to love among us, the undeserving... the broken. 

Worthy. Unworthy.  These very words have week-long tugged upon my heart, raised my defenses, and tenderly became a whispered prayer.  Words I have stumbled and fumbled over, though I longed to carry them fast with grace... now they rest upon freshest laid cornerstones of my heart.  Nothing of worth is built without greatest effort.

"Come, ye unworthy."  Did He wait?  Did He wait until I was worthy to come?  I would surely perish.  He came precisely because of my brokenness... bearing love and grace flowing over every fault.

Do we wait?  To love and be loved upon an earth that is fragmented by our own failings... do we wait?  Or do we come to the side of one another breathing grace and love... as if life itself... into hearts brought before us as gifts from a Father who knows?  How blessed is this simple girl, with those who do not wait for the perfection I'll never attain... for me to be worthy to receive the gift of another... but love me wholly in this moment... as I am.  What greater gift can we give and receive than this Christmas love?  A come-as-you-are kind of love?  Unfailing.  Unending. 

Come as you are... to love first born in a manger... now the light of hope and joy to us all.  May we love one another with a Christmas love... perfect, even in our imperfection, through grace.

 Lord, may I love with a Christmas love.

 Suz

Faith.  Faith is seeing the beauty with our hearts before it springs to sight... before it is perfected... before it is full.  Isn't the most miraculous sometimes witnessed in the intricate creation?

And in the waiting, the growing that is winter? As for us, 'tis laughter, snuggling and stories by the fire with plates full of cookies and mugs steaming with cider.  Beneath blankets wrapped warm, dreams are whispered.

Are you seeing with your heart today... while delicate beauty waits but yours... to be treasured... nurtured in the quiet?

Tenderly,

Suz

Isn’t that true of God’s every blessing? He shapes. He offers. He pours the radiance of His grace upon our most meager of offerings and comes forth the rare, the powerful, the long-to-be treasured.  We laugh joy in our praise.  We bow humble in quiet thanksgiving.

So many blessings.  How do we begin to acknowledge fully?  How do we number them?  For I know so many... so many.  But the greatest of these is love.

This girl knows the sacred blessing of love abundant and pure.  Ink-scribed words rest tender in my hands.  Raw-soul prayers bridge hearts where miles divide.  Hand-stitched quilts wrap warm as mother-daughter life-dream whispers span midnight sky. 

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 1 Corinthians 13:13

Where are the words,  the breath, to offer gratitude sufficient? Thankful... for the greatest of these... spilling.  Abundantly, eternally thankful.

Today I offer thanks with our family of families at the Homeschool Village.  Last year I shared how we write on the wall each Thanksgiving at our home.  This year, I share with the Village how our tradition will change as we give thanks to a God who loves... a God who is love.  Promise true... neither love nor God ever fail.  Join hands with me?

I pray this Thanksgiving your homes swell with the greatest of all blessings... love that does not fail... authored by our God who loves perfectly.

Devoted,

Suz

"Mama, what I'm really craving is your bread."

Sustenance.  Basic.  Familiar.  Nourishing.

For a flash of a moment I was surprised.  And then I smiled, knowingly.  Warm memories rose in my senses as if the aroma of my mom's bread baking golden could be savored wafting through the kitchen.  This singular aroma stirs tender thoughts of holidays, my mom, home.

So here comes my own little man quietly, wistfully seeking the basics.  Amid the flurry of life, sometimes we just need the most simple of needs met.  Isn't that what motherhood is really about?  Nurturing our families through meeting their most basic, yet essential, needs?

 
Sometimes I think the treasured joys of my days must seem entirely mundane to much of the world.  Baking, gardening, sewing, teaching.  Days are about kissing the mistakes away, dishing up hot meals and reading bedtime stories.  Those perpetual acts are home more than a house could ever be.

When I was but a little girl with bronzed cheeks, dark braids and bare feet, my mom offered up home in the same way.  When I would nap in the afternoon, I would often find a new little purse or doll's dress sewn and waiting for me on the door knob when I woke.  When the mail came, we would race down the lane... and I would always win.  When she washed dishes, I climbed up to play in the bubbles.  She made more oatmeal pies, no-bake cookies and bread-and-butter pickles from our fresh cucumbers than I could ever number.  It was a million simple acts that were home.

 
The world woos us with the sophisticated, the glamorous, but when we hunger for the essence of life... when we find ourselves craving to fill a void... the simple nurturing acts of home sustain and satisfy.  No matter how far we are in our journeys through life, a home-cooked meal and a good night kiss, an embrace that enfolds and a look that knows... these are the things that never fail to feed the soul.

Tonight I pull out Mom's handwritten recipe card.  It bears her signature smiley face and a few splattered stains of use.  And I drink in home.

For every simple act seen and unseen, past and present, which continue to feed my soul... thank you, Mom.  I love you heaps.

Suz

P.S.  Just in case the whole bread-baking thing has eluded you, Mom's recipe is really quite indestructible.  So from our homes to yours, Happy Mother's Day!

Mom's Bread

Combine:

2 pkgs dry yeast

1 tsp sugar

1 cup lukewarm water.

Let stand five-ten minutes until it begins to bubble a bit.

Add:

1 cup of really warm, not boiling, water

5 Tblsp sugar

2 Tsp salt

6 Tblsp melted butter

6 cups all-purpose flour

Once dough is thoroughly mixed, pour out on floured dough board and knead until fairly smooth.  Use dustings of flour to help handle the dough as needed.  Place in a buttered, heat-safe bowl that you have warmed in the oven (not hot). Let dough rise in a warm place and cover with a cloth.  Let it double in size. Punch it down.  Preheat oven to 375 - 400 degrees. Place dough in a greased loaf pan or shape into rolls in muffin tins and let double again.  Bake until top is golden. Roughly 45 minutes for loaves and 25 minutes for rolls.  (Inhale deeply and have the butter ready.)

When spoken through years of days and moments, crests and valleys, "I love you" flows without hesitation.  No break in stride. No lingering of eyes. No pause between sentences, nor change of inflection. We speak the treasured into the ordinary.

Yet these gems of words are so worthy of  intention.  Softened tone, warm cupping of the face, smiling eyes, fingers interlaced... and the world stops.  For a split moment... nothing else exists, but the exchange of one heart for another... held fast in safekeeping.

Cherished are the hearts... so shall be the words.  I love you.

Suz

I am grateful for a community of families with whom to share my heart.  Journey with me at The Homeschool Village as I share about the hope that is Easter?

May your heart draw near to the One who gave you this life... who offers eternal life... by laying down His own.  This One, He calls you child, knows your every desire, every thought, every dream, every fear.  This One... He waits for your gaze upon His face, your hand in His own.

As the sun rises next, I pray you sing.

Susan

This spake he, signifying by what death he should glorify God. And when he had spoken this, he saith unto him, 'Follow me.' John 21:19

Suz

"Pilate therefore said unto him, Art thou a king then? Jesus answered, 'Thou sayest that I am a King. To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth. Every one that is of the truth heareth my voice." John 18:37

Moments come when walking hand in hand, the heart yet desires to draw nearer. Moments come when mere inches seem too great a distance. Moments come when eyes fix upon eyes... whispered words flow directly to the soul... yet the heart longs to be one, to know the mind that even conjured the thought.

I hear His whisper into my heart, His hand upon my own. Yet I long to close the distance.

As Easter approaches, a dear friend confides in me. "I always feel as if I lost out." The entire season slips from our grasp as busyness swirls. How I know. How I know.

So I determine to stop... to draw near through the words of His beloved disciple, he who would be His chosen brother... that I, too, might walk those final steps, experience those last days... and drink of His presence, resting against a strength, a wisdom, a love like none other.

For though He's not yet returned, He is so preciously near.

"A little while, and ye shall not see me and again, a little while, and ye shall see me, because I go to the Father." John 16:16

Suz

But introduction.

 

The meeting of eyes,

A setting of the scene.

But it is with the human touch

That the story of life is told.

And the most tender of hearts

Breathtakingly,

Exquisitely,

Completely

Unfolds.

Suz