Shifting shadows in the sun


I was sitting (staring blankly) after an ordeal sending my daughter to the hospital this past week, with the possibility of inpatient treatment for her uncontrolled mental illness. I was drained and slightly catatonic trying to readjust to life in the warmth of my comfortable home. I spent 24 hours seeing the world under fluorescent lights and walking through sterile halls – Sleeping under the survey of watchful cameras and strangers I will never see again. Hopefully. The luster of my hardwood floors repeatedly caught my eye as the tree outside our window cast furtive and fleeting shadows of the leaves playing in the wind. The shadow moving against the light continued to grab my lost attention and drew me to look up toward the sharp light cascading in.

Shadows move in traveling light
Undetected at their leisure
They cast a stagnant pose

But as the shadows shift
in the halted noonday sun
The eyes tease tricks
While the wind plays fast
An unheard tune
for the phantom leaves to dance

their contrasting ruckus
crisscrosses my floor
Returning my gaze to the Light

Mental illness casts a shadow over our family’s everyday life. As it shifts in its unpredictability, I find that the uncertain way it teases and wobbles our equilibrium continually brings me back into a place where I look and strain toward the one place that I can find peace, in Christ alone. And as I outwardly sit in silence, my heart and mind are screaming out to Him. I remembered in my waking moments earlier that morning, before I opened my eyes, I was crying out from the deepest parts of me, “Please. Please make a way.” But these things you won’t see as I sit on the couch, watching the shadows play on my floor. And you won’t see it when I smile at you and hug you “hello.” These are the shadows inside, but I hope somehow, light still shines out of me next time I see you. Today, I laughed out loud willy nilly, so its glimmer must still be there.

After the ordeal ended, and we checked out of the hospital, we made a new plan to try to help her heal. And try to help us heal.  It doesn’t include a hospital, but intensive therapies and medicine changes in my home. With an entire support team intruding upon the eco-system of my house. If it wasn’t before, it’s about to get REAL up in here. More shadows lay ahead, but in that, I keep close to the Light. Straining harder so I don’t miss the mark. I need the light when I am standing in shadows. And shadow is what helps us bring light to a piece of art. This heartache? It must be a work of art. But it doesn’t feel very beautiful from this side of it.


Response to daily prompt Shadow



My Hope – Above the Clouds

I have said before that I write to process my life – circumstances, my family’s needs, our heartbreaks, our victories, our joys, everything that swirls in my blender of a mind. I often don’t really know what I think or believe until I write it down.

So, today I share 2 poems, written almost exactly one year apart and over the same life circumstances. Namely, the health of my son who has epilepsy and Intellectual Disability diagnoses. Traversing the terrain of his world, armed with an extremely vulnerable brain leaves a parent lost and powerless. We spent 7 long years begging and pleading school districts to help us accommodate him and we whittled away thousands and thousands of dollars searching for diagnoses. I spent days and nights on my knees (sometimes literally and other times figuratively) humbly presenting my requests to God. The first diagnosis that came was “epilepsy” and trying to control the seizures was a long, arduous process that was difficult to walk through. Here was my response to years of heartache with no reprieve in August of 2014:

Storms & Silence

Anger beats red and
A Bitter taste chokes my roots
Clawing for some help
My hands are dirty and I am raw
Grime clings beneath nail-beds
And soot stains the heart-lines
Hope has fled with my youth,
Sorrowed and soiled.
I can’t help him.
From where will help come?
I have lost my breath.
From where will his help come?
The fight’s gone from my bones
Worn, with an ache in my knees
From begging far too long.
Worry lurks behind me and a fear that is real
Steals my sleep and chases away peace.

Arms wide open with white knuckled fists
I lean into backbreaking winds.
once they slowed, I fell face down with nothing to resist.
I am hoarse from calling out to You.
I need water, my well is dry.
I watch. Wait.
Prayers carried by the wind
And dashed against rocks I can’t see.

I watch.
Arms wide open with white knuckled fists
I clench my eyes shut and bite down hard.
Straining to hear.
But the silence ensues, piercing me
And Ravaging him
No shelter from storms that seek to destroy
This small life, significant to ME
my prayers, love and patience poured out on its behalf…
is crumbling to ruins before my eyes.
Too many can’ts, numberless don’ts.
Isolating us each morning.
Where are Your promises? Where are your new mercies?

The second poem I wrote a few months after receiving the second diagnosis of Intellectual Disability (formerly known as mental retardation). While the people in our lives grieved, I found solace in having everything I already knew – validated. Finally. And with that validation came the help of school districts and more specialists. The best part? I could give myself a break, and lower my expectations of him and require the world around him to do the same. It gave us all more room to breathe. It saved our family and here was my response to the help after long years of searching and waiting in desperation for a breakthrough (August 2015):

above the clouds

In all this, I found that God is still the same. Even when it seems as though He does not hear and we are alone, we are not. And if I am angry, He can handle it if I pour it out to him. I cannot strive in Hope for a better future or relief or changed circumstances. Those kinds of hopeful prayers will be dashed. Instead, I must make God Himself my hope. He is with me, He is with my son. He is for me, He is for my son. God is enough and He does sustain, if I keep my head up and looking above the clouds…even while they block the sun.

The music in my bones

seasons of frustration
take their toll within a
shell-shocked phantom limb
i can’t win and neither can i lose
just running circles round
things i’d rather choose
so tired of wondering
can’t wait to stop the waiting

sometimes, these prayers bounce right back
and the logic makes no sense
has my heart really missed the mark
did I color the wrong lens?
desert sand cracks my skin
and hangs my soul to dry
living water trickles slow
but great floods fill the sky

some things most dear to me
slipped through my fingers long ago
old mistakes are traded for
the music in my bones
oh, I let the song in my soul fly
but an ache traps the melody,
it vanishes in smoke




In response to the Daily Post Prompt “Music

In the last several years, I have had to put many of my personal interests and talents on hold as my time is given over to caring for 3 children with special needs. But the flip side is that I am a classically trained vocalist and I can easily catch a brief but genuine escape when I sing, losing myself to the melody. And when the song ends, its back to the daily grind and some of the ache of today returns. So sometimes, I just try to keep singing through the day – If it is socially acceptable. And sometimes when it isn’t.

Set in stone – MY stairway

It took 36 hours, 4 flights, a week in a city I had never heard of just months ago, and a long bus-ride into the countryside, heading toward a small village in Southern India to find my stairway. And it had been carved out of stone into the hillside around 1,000 years ago. For me. For any local worshipper, or any wandering pilgrim. On this bus-ride, outside the chaos of the jungle-city of Bangalore, I finally had time to reflect how far I had come. Not just the miles, but my own personal journey.

The countryside was rolling by my window seat as our bus carried us (we were a pack of university students studying Social Justice) outside of Bangalore to Hassan. It finally occurred to me that I had made it to India…and had survived the first week. No, more than that — I had conquered my fears and was soaking up all that Bangalore was becoming to me. I knocked the door right off its hinges and came charging through. For the first time, I was truly proud of myself. But in many ways, I was also terrified of what it all meant: going back to college, traveling to India, and leaving my little girl, Layla behind. I was not afraid of doing any of those things but I was terrified of going against the grain or having my mothering skills and personal judgment questioned. “Don’t you know that there is poverty in India?” and “Your poor husband, how is he going to take care of Layla all by himself?” or, my personal favorite: “What a nice vacation from Layla!” Despite all of that nonsense, I found freedom within myself on my journey to India.

And now to MY stairway.

The students I had traveled with filed out of our bus and we were instructed to remove our shoes and wash our feet.IMG_3931 After we unloaded our belongings, armed with our cameras and clean feet, we approached the rock staircase carefully carved into the side of the daunting land-rise before us. And we climbed and climbed and climbed. Local worshippers passed us, we stood aside as 4 men carried an old woman down the steep stairway after she had done with her rituals atop in the stone-carved temple above. I turned around and looked at the ancient mosque atop the hillside opposite our perch. I was in awe. My mind and my soul were silenced as my feet plodded left-right, up the hill.

I reached the top, inhaled the haunting elixir on the quiet breeze of old moldy stones, incense, and a little marijuana. I was free. I realized I had left all the fear and uncertainty down at the bottom and I knew I had conquered it all – travel preparations, the stairs, breaking the mould, living the life I was meant to. From there, my journey had begun. I would not live as I was expected to by the world, the culture, the family, the community around me. No, I would live with my husband the life we were called to. I would take these lessons I had learned on my way to this place, and everywhere after with me. I would write them on the hearts of my children. I would live a life that is separate and undefiled by the world around me – something holy and fully committed. My family would serve the underprivileged women and children in our community the best way we could. Providing safety and support.

And I am trying to, 10 years later, imperfectly and with a 1,000 miles of other stairways into other unknown realms. I often feel like a foreigner in my own community. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because I am still there in the Southern Indian countryside, still learning here at home in my community, finding my lessons, conquering stairways into places my neighbors tend not to go. And if I am not, then I have forgotten what India became to me and I have lost my way.

An Infinite Curve

Near Hassan  in Southern India atop a 1,000 year old temple. In this moment 10 years ago, I set an intention for my life: grateful I am still in its arc.

ride an infinite curve

grace acquired in treacherous storms

chiseled fragments fly

  on sweet swirling breezes

that bend but never break

my repose in fast stillness