Postcards, From Home

My husband, upon delivering my coffee in bed this morning, noticed my new, summery PJs. Drawings of mountains, postcards, beaches, bikes, and written messages decorate the sleepwear in pleasant pastels.

"Hey, you've got bikes on your pajamas!" he noted, which seemed significant because we just purchased a bike for me.

After he left the bedroom, my eyes and heart landed on words written on my pajama pants: "Wish you were here."

The sentiment of that longing, this place we are in, fitting. Words scribbled across millions of postcards delivered over the world, now so weighty, so...wishful.

There will be no big trips for me this year, but today I sit in gratitude for what I've been given, here, at home. I do this most mornings, asking God to show me what to remember to give thanks for. What does He want me to not miss? What does he want me to share with others?

Today, in my mind, I step into a souvenir shop at a vacation destination. Eyeing the postcard rack, I seek a picture reflective of the gifts of yesterday, here, while you, my friends and family, are not here. You more than likely are nestled into your own homes, seeking shelter from the virus, searching for what is lovely and meaningful in your surroundings. My eyes rest on a couple of scenes that reflect my time here, on this summer non-vacation. 

Can this be adventure, this time looking longer and with more love at the space I've occupied for decades? Is it worth writing home about? Or in this case, writing from home about?

In my journal I draw both sides of a blank postcard. I fill in one side with a friend's name and address, adding a postage stamp. What would I tell her, about yesterday, in this cramped writing area on the postcard? I describe my time on the back patio last night, the twinkling lights, the fountain running, a music playlist offering a summer vibe. "Wish I could share this with you," I write, then sign my name.  On the photo side of the postcard, I etch out my rendition of the idyllic scene from last night.

Next I write to Paula, my sister who lives in Canada, so very far from me. I draw a bicycle on the front then write on the back, "You won't believe it, but I bought a bike! It is the brightest green you ever saw. The best thing is, there is a motor to assist my pedaling and to help me zoom up hills! How I wish you were here so I could share it with you. We'd have so many laughs!" 

My stationery drawer holds several postcards selected from past vacations, postcards I never sent. Some I even wrote on but never took time to mail. There's one thanking my mom's friend Shirley for baking our wedding cake! We bought it on our honeymoon in Alaska 37 years ago. How surprised Shirley would be to receive that card now!

I wonder tomorrow, when I reflect upon today, what memory I will want to celebrate by sharing it with another. 

Yes, "Adventure awaits," and "Adventure is out there," but is it not also right now, right here, waiting to be had? 

Yes, I say, yes. 

Whatever joy this day offers, whatever memories it etches that beg to be remembered, there will be some experiences that make me think of you. My heart will reach across the miles, with a bit of an ache, wishing you were here.

The Glad Giver

She handed me a cup of water. I was exercising at my gym and forgot my to bring my own water bottle, and due to the new rules to prevent spreading the coronavirus, we clients could no longer touch the water cooler.

"Your job description certainly has expanded during this pandemic," I said to Coach Eleisha as I received the drink she brought me from across the fitness center. Face masked, she nodded her head in agreement. I caught that smile in her eyes when she said, "Yes, but I am happy to serve."

She seemed to mean it.

I went on a three-day cruise with my mom and sisters a couple of decades ago. The ship's crew included workers from around the world. Many we spoke with expressed gratitude for their jobs and the ability to help their families back home by sending money. There was joy in their service, whether they placed a plate of food before us, refilled drinks, performed, or created fun designs out of towels.

I stood in a line at a service desk on the ship, and next to me stood a sign that read, "We are happy to serve you." Never before had I been the recipient of service so gladly given.

They mean it, I realized.

I scan my mind to look for times I've gladly given, offerings not absent of effort or sacrifice but given with cheer.

The time I came upon the last two packages of toilet paper in the grocery store and saw a woman on the hunt for the same. We didn't speak the same language as each other, but I waved her over, handed her the last pack, and we gave each other high-fives. We stood in the checkout line, while she in Spanish expressed glee at being able to find toilet paper. Giggles, smiles, knowing nods. I realized we shouldn't have touched then dug in my purse for some hand sanitizer I gladly gifted to her.

"God loves a cheerful giver." II Cor. 9:7 

God Himself gives cheerfully to us, and how I sense His pleasure when He sees us do the same for each other.

Can you bring to mind times you've received from a cheerful giver? Times you, yourself, have given cheerfully?

When have you sensed joy both in the giving and receiving? Think upon these things, and it will bring a smile to your face. 

And if this reflection blessed you in any way, please know it is my pleasure to offer it to you, like that cup of fresh water offered to me. I am happy to serve.

I mean it.

Welcome

The Black Barn at Maplehurst

I see the temptation in her eyes
To blur over my story
I'm taking too long to tell
To this, my dear friend
Who listens so well

There's this book
And an author
Who was led to a place
She talks about it in the book
She created a monthly care package
I subscribed

The only thing keeping my friend
Engaged in our conversation
Is my passion
The light in my eyes
The tones of delight
I struggle
To describe anything linearly
But I try

There's a real barn
Where retreats and classes happen
Where good things take place
Spiritual things
Creative things
It's a place
Built with a dream
To welcome people
To celebrate life and art and faith

I signed up for the care package
And was invited to the virtual Black Barn
A trial of sorts
Before the online Barn doors opened wide
It's a place of caring intention
A slower, more spacious place

There I receive
There I give
Conversations are created
Works of art celebrated
Benedictions given
Infusing good words, blessings
Into and over me

I've come to care
For those I've met there
In a way that says
"I will carry your burdens with you,"
And, "I will celebrate and pay witness to what you are noticing."

Most live far from me
But have become close
Soul friends
Let's-grow friends
Let's-water-and-tend-to-this-thing-
and-wait-to-see-what-happens friends

Someone called us cultivators
No one has ever referred to me as a cultivator
Not until now
But we were invited to pour into this space
Even as we were being poured into

We are witnessing others enter the barn doors
We are cheering them
Ushering them in
With hopes they too will find something
Very Special here

"Thank you," I say
To my listening friend
"I know I talk about the Black Barn a lot!"
She tells me to talk about it all I want
How she enjoys hearing about it

Look who came through the door today
My patient friend Tammi!
My heart jumps a little
Not true, it jumps way more than a little
My body follows, taking a little leap
I run to greet her

Welcome to the Black Barn
Take a look around
Have a seat
Receive all that is here
For you


Diane Mann 2020

It's Time

Amazed, I am
at the wretchedness
of man—of me
Stunned, I look on
then look away

Amazed, I am
at grace overflowing
to man—to me
Stunned, I look on
then look away

Perhaps the time has come
to, with courage, linger
and look a little longer
at what is.

Diane Mann, 2020