Prairie Lily Arts

Where Hearts Are Planted

He sings... and I laugh with my heart.  Home. He can't help but sing his way there... not to the house or the land or his bed snug... but to the people he loves.  He pushes up on his front paws, watches from the window and sings straight across my heartstrings.

Home.  It's time.  Early morning light streams golden warm across boot leather smooth... and my heart calls home.  Through generations lived out, home catches tears of joy... tears of sorrow... they wash the view clear. They spill together upon this solid ground of family... and nourish life.

Home is where necks are hugged first and words are spoken second. It's where mom's bread rose full and tender in oven's glow. It's where the milkman delivered clear bottles of purest farm cream to the door, and corn stretched tall all around.  It's where Grandma's potatoes sizzled in morning's skillet, and crisp emerald cucumbers soaked up summer flavor in crocks heavy.  Mom's stitches gathered Sunday dress ruffles. Daddy would hoist me to his lap on the tractor. A white plank tree swing grew worn in the middle, arching high above tiger lily blooms nodding orange in slightest breeze. The bed of Daddy's '52 Chevy was the ladder for two little girls stretching on tip-toes to reach peaches plump with promise.  Cattle called low across rolling pasture, and the sweet smell of spring hay filled my lungs with life breath.

Across every numbered mile from these Georgia foothills, an unbroken prairie horizon stretches in sunrise glory and my whole being sighs content.  It's time to be home.

When I was scarcely more than a girl, my daddy, burdened more by heart than by the succession of boxes taped and labeled, loaded everything I owned into a truck bound for half a country away.  With eyes earnest on mine, his caution came gentle... I was going too far from home. 

Simple girl.  I don't know how many times I've said those words.  A proud farmer's daughter. Daddy, a farmer's son.  I've been spun around a city block a time or two.  Awe poured hush in the presence of world leaders who brought peace and knew war.  Adrenaline coursed high, bustling across the floor of the New York stock exchange, where one nod of the head could build or topple lives.  Twirling across cool ballroom marble on balmy ocean nights, dresses swirled in the flowing grace of little girl dreams.  But those little black dresses don't fit as well as Grandpa's flannel shirts.

Home is where our hearts are planted in the fields of family.

Morning light casts long its beauty of clarity.  I see a couple little boys with seeds to plant.  It's time to go home.

Simply, 

Suz

Come As You Are

"Come as you are.  Follow your heart."  Choir voices rise majestic upon orchestra's strings.  With adoration we come.  Joy... humility... awe... this is Christmas.  Grace for every failing... this is Christmas.  A no-matter-what kind of love... a heart laid open, willing to sacrifice everything in exchange for that which endures... this is Christmas.

Oh, to live out the love that is Christmas!

"Who here among us has not been broken?  Who is without guilt or pain?"  Strongest voice resounds with violins and hearts alike.  Who, but Him?  A perfect King born as an infant in a stable to walk, to live, to love among us, the undeserving... the broken. 

Worthy. Unworthy.  These very words have week-long tugged upon my heart, raised my defenses, and tenderly became a whispered prayer.  Words I have stumbled and fumbled over, though I longed to carry them fast with grace... now they rest upon freshest laid cornerstones of my heart.  Nothing of worth is built without greatest effort.

"Come, ye unworthy."  Did He wait?  Did He wait until I was worthy to come?  I would surely perish.  He came precisely because of my brokenness... bearing love and grace flowing over every fault.

Do we wait?  To love and be loved upon an earth that is fragmented by our own failings... do we wait?  Or do we come to the side of one another breathing grace and love... as if life itself... into hearts brought before us as gifts from a Father who knows?  How blessed is this simple girl, with those who do not wait for the perfection I'll never attain... for me to be worthy to receive the gift of another... but love me wholly in this moment... as I am.  What greater gift can we give and receive than this Christmas love?  A come-as-you-are kind of love?  Unfailing.  Unending. 

Come as you are... to love first born in a manger... now the light of hope and joy to us all.  May we love one another with a Christmas love... perfect, even in our imperfection, through grace.

 Lord, may I love with a Christmas love.

 Suz

Oops! Spring Surprise? Or Winter's Assurance?

While I am not sure why my Google feed seems to be publishing old posts, perhaps as winter settles, today was indeed a perfect day to revisit the contrast between winter's still and spring's vibrancy.  For in the quiet of winter, when all seems dormant, newness begins.  It is in the spring that we simply see so tender and lovely what was there all along... splendor waiting to bloom... treasured gift to be opened.  And we realize it has always been. 

Faith.  Faith is seeing the beauty with our hearts before it springs to sight... before it is perfected... before it is full.  Isn't the most miraculous sometimes witnessed in the intricate creation?

And in the waiting, the growing that is winter? As for us, 'tis laughter, snuggling and stories by the fire with plates full of cookies and mugs steaming with cider.  Beneath blankets wrapped warm, dreams are whispered.

Are you seeing with your heart today... while delicate beauty waits but yours... to be treasured... nurtured in the quiet?

Tenderly,

Suz

Giving Thanks for the Greatest of These

Fall’s last warmth streams light through gems dancing golden... once summer’s ordinary.  I am awed.

Isn’t that true of God’s every blessing? He shapes. He offers. He pours the radiance of His grace upon our most meager of offerings and comes forth the rare, the powerful, the long-to-be treasured.  We laugh joy in our praise.  We bow humble in quiet thanksgiving.

So many blessings.  How do we begin to acknowledge fully?  How do we number them?  For I know so many... so many.  But the greatest of these is love.

This girl knows the sacred blessing of love abundant and pure.  Ink-scribed words rest tender in my hands.  Raw-soul prayers bridge hearts where miles divide.  Hand-stitched quilts wrap warm as mother-daughter life-dream whispers span midnight sky. 

Basic Kneads: Happy Mother's Day

 
It was the day after Christmas and the kitchen counters were still lined with tiered plates and footed candy bowls offering sweet confections, towering over platters spread with cookies.  My little man stood eyeing the dishes. 

"Mama, what I'm really craving is your bread."

Sustenance.  Basic.  Familiar.  Nourishing.

For a flash of a moment I was surprised.  And then I smiled, knowingly.  Warm memories rose in my senses as if the aroma of my mom's bread baking golden could be savored wafting through the kitchen.  This singular aroma stirs tender thoughts of holidays, my mom, home.

So here comes my own little man quietly, wistfully seeking the basics.  Amid the flurry of life, sometimes we just need the most simple of needs met.  Isn't that what motherhood is really about?  Nurturing our families through meeting their most basic, yet essential, needs?

When You Say "I Love You"... Stop

 
I love you. The words tumble easily to those who hold our hearts.  As the car door closes, as the phone call ends, as quilts draw up about shoulders and lights switch off...  "I love you" spills naturally.

When spoken through years of days and moments, crests and valleys, "I love you" flows without hesitation.  No break in stride. No lingering of eyes. No pause between sentences, nor change of inflection. We speak the treasured into the ordinary.

Yet these gems of words are so worthy of  intention.  Softened tone, warm cupping of the face, smiling eyes, fingers interlaced... and the world stops.  For a split moment... nothing else exists, but the exchange of one heart for another... held fast in safekeeping.

Cherished are the hearts... so shall be the words.  I love you.

Suz

The Passion of Christ: Who Would You Be?

 
The first pink glimmers of sunrise through the trees found me lingering in the the last words Jesus shared with his disciples.  I wondered, as I have so many times before, who I would be among those involved in these hours of suffering.  Who would I prove myself to be in the passion of the One who loved so completely?

I am grateful for a community of families with whom to share my heart.  Journey with me at The Homeschool Village as I share about the hope that is Easter?

May your heart draw near to the One who gave you this life... who offers eternal life... by laying down His own.  This One, He calls you child, knows your every desire, every thought, every dream, every fear.  This One... He waits for your gaze upon His face, your hand in His own.

As the sun rises next, I pray you sing.

Susan

This spake he, signifying by what death he should glorify God. And when he had spoken this, he saith unto him, 'Follow me.' John 21:19

It's Friday

In the dark, quiet hours I draw still.  I linger over the words of John... Matthew, Mark, Luke.  Tears spill in streams.  Surely the sound of heartbreak can be heard in the silence.  Oh, that I could be Simon of Cyrene this day... to do something... something to bear the load of my own weight upon the back of the One who never failed.... the One who loved... this much.  It's Friday.  And my heart aches to breaking.

Suz

"Pilate therefore said unto him, Art thou a king then? Jesus answered, 'Thou sayest that I am a King. To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth. Every one that is of the truth heareth my voice." John 18:37

 

Drawing Near to His Heart

 

Moments come when walking hand in hand, the heart yet desires to draw nearer. Moments come when mere inches seem too great a distance. Moments come when eyes fix upon eyes... whispered words flow directly to the soul... yet the heart longs to be one, to know the mind that even conjured the thought.

I hear His whisper into my heart, His hand upon my own. Yet I long to close the distance.

As Easter approaches, a dear friend confides in me. "I always feel as if I lost out." The entire season slips from our grasp as busyness swirls. How I know. How I know.

So I determine to stop... to draw near through the words of His beloved disciple, he who would be His chosen brother... that I, too, might walk those final steps, experience those last days... and drink of His presence, resting against a strength, a wisdom, a love like none other.

For though He's not yet returned, He is so preciously near.

"A little while, and ye shall not see me and again, a little while, and ye shall see me, because I go to the Father." John 16:16

Suz

Spring Unspoken

 
The spoken word,

But introduction.

 

The meeting of eyes,

A setting of the scene.

 

But it is with the human touch

That the story of life is told.

 

And the most tender of hearts

Breathtakingly,

Exquisitely,

Completely

Unfolds.

Suz