Better Than Me

No one knows how to lift my spirits better than me.Just put me behind the wheel and give me an adventure to embark on.

No one knows how to make my heart flutter better than me. Play me something beautiful, progressions with minors and husky voices and words that sing what I feel.

No one takes care of me better than me. Give me my matchbox flat, flavours to mix in a pot that nourish my belly and my soul.

No one calms me better than me. Make the room quiet and leave me to my own devices.

No one knows me better than me and no one loves me better than me because I’m all I’ve got…

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Rain

The miserable grey clouds have cacooned us in their layers of misery and send downpours onto our heads and roofs. The rain seeps into our shoes and dampens our feet. It finds cracks on our roof tops and trickles down the walls forming a puddle on the the carpet -the pitter-patter is a persistant song.

At first the downpour was a welcomed relief from the heat. But now everything is wet. Out feet, our clothes, our car seats that catch drops when we hastily climb in and out. Where is the sun?!

It is up there, hovering just above the thick blanket. It is slowly penetrating the glass sealing from the outside and soon we will see its rays and feel its warmth on our faces. There is hope…

The Lull

The price she pays for peace of mind is silence; a lull during which there are no ripples in the water, it is quiet; not a breath of wind or movement. She’s at a loss during those times. She longs for the bustle of activity, chatter and laughter, arguments or  something! “How do you do it though?!” She has been asked. She doesn’t know how to answer that. But such times are to be enjoyed. She is learning to give her energy to the trivial things; not the detrimental trivia but the reading and cleaning and organising and re-organising as she awaits the next activities. She thinks that is the trick to living in the lull – not to try to survive the lull, but to own the moment as though she chose it.

Faith

She threw her toys out of the cot. She screamed and cried like a spoilt brat. What did all that wait talk mean now when it seemed so impossible? What she saw in her review mirror was evidence of her dillusions. But did He not say, “wait, and I’ll come through for you”? Did He not confirm that the answer is “Yes!”? Now it seems to be more immovable than a mountain and her faith smaller than the smallest mustard seed. Those words whispered in the secret, quiet place seem now to be the mumbles of a mad woman, desperate to have her way. She was so sure they were the words  of the most faithful and steadfast, prayer answering God.Faith is not an easy thing. But Faith works in the realm of the impossible.