Being loved in the small ways

Today we awoke to valentine's day cards times three. They were 'secretly' crafted between swimming and bed time and stashed beside our beds for early morning surprise. We ourselves delivered personalized poems on a cut out white paper heart. The poems said things like 'Roses are red, ice cream is yummy, we love you so much, from your daddy and mummy.'

There was much delight.

Because love is homemade valentines with personalized poems. Love is a gift that is simple (and free) but shows the giver knows your heart.

It is grace extended.

It is being known.

It is choosing patience and gentleness and asking for forgiveness when we don't. It is being forgiven even when we don't think to ask.

It is being inspired to grow and work and really live.

Love is children who make us laugh, live so freely and believe in good so wholeheartedly.

It is partners who make time to give you a nap, go for a run, embrace your soul.

It is parents who pray for you and hold your hand and let you go. It's family who works to stay close though the miles could divide.

It's friends who care about you like you are their own and it's friends who help you come into your own.

It is sharing food and listening well and making space.

Love is patient and love is kind. Love shows up in the small ways.

On being still

I'm not very apt at being still. I come by this through some combination of both nature and nurture. I remember my maternal grandmother who had six children and a farm to help run would move around doing extra jobs during mealtimes, only sitting down herself to hurriedly eat after most everyone else was finished. My mother fights with the same pattern herself when she has a houseful of her grown children visiting. And when she comes to visit me she reminds me not to do the same.

But I've had more space to just be these past weeks than I have had in years. I'm learning this being still and knowing we rarely (never?) practice in our culture. It's not valued in school, or work, or even in play once we are past toddler hood.

At first the discomfort is so strong I'm physically agitated. I feel the urge to play something with the kids, pick up a book, explore, take a picture. Check email I can't check - that urge is still plenty strong four weeks into no ability during the day to do so.

At home it would be read to the kids, fold laundry, feed someone, go somewhere, do some (paid) work, play a game, clean something, check email, do some volunteer work. Finish the next thing on my never ending list.

So I'm practicing forcing myself to leave the book, give the kids the freedom they naturally have to just be and take the photo with my eyes. Sit through the fifteen minutes that come easily and let it grow into a half hour or more. Watch the waves, or the kids or the sun shimmering over the water. Feel nature kiss my face.

And it's true what they say: the longer I do it the more I know that God is.