So excited to be featured in Phoenix Home & Garden Magazine, Dec 2015 Issue! Click link to see article:

http://www.phgmag.com/digitalEdition/index.html?wv=s%2FPhoenix%2520Home%2520%26%2520Garden%2Ff4be56c204c34b7bbf3cfc5527d37f5a%2FPHG00552%2FTrue%2520SW.html

Styrofoam Bats

Springtime Desert

  Winding past orange-tipped Ocotillos, golden Brittle Bush and Crimson Hedgehogs, I startle a family of quail who scurry across the trail. I gasp, then laugh, continuing my trek along the crown of Sunrise Mountain. A curious sapphire butterfly flutters alongside as my feet find their way over the rocky path... a springtime hike in the foothills of the Sonoran Desert.

   

   Suddenly I am a bystander, watching Christ journey His desert. I ponder those forty days of fasting and prayer amidst the creatures and flora of Judea’s wilderness, marking the beginning of His springtime of suffering. 

   

   We Christians now step into the holiest of times, recalling Jesus’ suffering, death & resurrection. I consider the desert of my own life. I’ve stumbled upon some serious barren spots, hit my share of daunting heights, and met with the relentless heat of the Arizona sun. And yet, I’m reminded of the paradox: beauty and redemption amidst the desolate, grace within the fallow, flowers in the desert.

   Stepping over a lavender blossom poking out from the dust, I recall past murmurs, dismissing this as some dusty, futile emptiness. I smile and inhale the warmth of the sunshine, the sweet fragrance of springtime, the glory of the desert.

Muddied hands wiped clean, I duck out of the studio to drop my youngest at freshmen orientation.  In the passenger seat I spy no longer a little girl, but a young lady smiling back at me, mascara flawlessly applied, blonde tresses smoothly brushed.  Not too many years ago I watched a big yellow bus take her away to kindergarten.  And further back still, I kissed her soft pink cheeks and studied her tiny newborn face from a hospital bed, wondering which sibling she most resembled.  

How did we get to high school? 

Throwing an ordinary lump of clay like I’ve done countless times before, a handful of earth begins its transformation into a unique work of art.  My slippery hands roll gently over each piece; shaping, molding, forming, changing.  Dinner table chatter echoes in my mind... Graduate school & a change in degree... A serious relationship... College graduation... A youngest son’s senior year.  Scripture soon knits its way into my thoughts: “Yet you, Lord, are our Father. We are the clay, You are the potter; we are all the work of Your hand.” 

His tender hands eternally enfold and transform us into His beautiful creations.  The work is never complete.  Privileged have I been, co-creator alongside Him, forming and molding my children through all their stages and years.  

The first day of school arrives at 4:05 A.M.  I am up while the world still sleeps.  I start the coffee and step outside my studio.  Gazing up above me are billions of bright tiny lights twinkling against the still, dark morning: a sky full of tiny lanterns, palpable reminders of God’s everlasting light in my life.  His hands never tire, yet remain gently on each of us, His creations: molding, forming, shaping, changing. 

There’s a crib under my bed.  A small wooden nest that cradled my babies for nearly a decade has found its final resting place where I lay my head each night.  Adorned with teeth marks of four little people, I refuse to let Matt donate this white badge of honor. “It’s no longer taking up space in the garage,” cracked the father to my Blondies.  Then it’s going under our bed.

   Frugal me says it’s in a holding pattern; a sacred structure awaiting future grandchildren.  But that’s not it at all.  

   Those strangers in restaurants were right.  They do grow up fast and the teenage years are not for the faint-of-heart.  Yet here I am, on the eve of my twenty-second Mothers’ Day, lamenting the words of Keith Urban: Life is a balance of holding on and letting go.  What those unknown, veteran parents concealed was the heartache I would feel in the middle of the night, the tears I would see in my children’s father’s eyes, and the prayers I would worry never made it up to heaven.  They left out the part about anguish, grief, emptying and surrender.  They didn’t tell me I would be brought to my knees, with an extra large dose of humility, right back to my young adult years with my own mother.  

   And so here I lie, my dismantled timber relic safely tucked away; surrendering, entrusting, praying for balance.

   A retired electrician eagerly volunteers for the humble mission of adding more outlets in my pottery studio- all for a cup of jo and leftover cake.  He is the first man in my life.  The one who strummed a guitar while my sisters and I twirled in nightgowns singing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”  He is the one who dished up glorious ice cream sundaes on ordinary nights and tucked us in with concocted, silly bedtime stories. 

  Alongside him, I study my Dad’s thick, bristly eyebrows & beads of sweat that dot his wrinkled forehead.  He squints at the array of wires that stare back from the cavern in the wall, whispering questions at the tangled mess.  His cracked, calloused hands fish around the cardboard toolbox as he announces the strategy.  Meticulously separating the colored strands, he outlines the procedure, mindful to incorporate me in the project. I hand him tools, fetch the tape measure, hold a rope of conduit, marvel at this old electrician in his element.  In this sacred moment, time stands still.

  Suddenly I am ten years old again:  A little girl at her father’s side.  We are creating a tree fort, constructing a lemonade stand, converting a run-over wagon into a go-cart.  I am his proud assistant, watching, calculating, absorbing, dreaming.  I am the luckiest girl in the world.  He would mark the first man in my life, paving the way for the one he would give me away to.  

   Chattering to himself on how they don’t make ‘em like they used to, Dad stops to scratch his head.  My mind drifts back.  I imagine Matt- carrying Dad’s torch of humility, patience, gentleness and love. I consider the creating, constructing and converting we’ve undertaken over the past 22 years of marriage & children. I haven’t always recognized his sweetness in my life; his support, his humor, his friendship.  I pause and whisper a prayer of thanks...  I am the luckiest girl in the world. 

Watch my JUST-released demo video: "Creation of a Cruet".  I'm having trouble getting the link here.... click on "About Me" over to the left and find it under "Videos".  Thanks for watching!