When Boredom has a Place

Everyone is still asleep and I am writing.  Well, staring at the keypad is more like it.

Maybe I should quit blogging.  The end of the road has come when I’m barely off the ground.  I was afraid of this.

I click around, read some things, check the next module in my writing course.  Before long, the sun is peeking and a small body draped in hand-me-down silk finds me on the couch.

“Mommy, can I play the tablet?”

“No honey, we don’t play the tablet in the morning remember?”

A few minutes go by . . .


“Mommy, can I please play the tablet?”

“You asked me before and I answered you.  My answer is the same.  We don’t start our day with tablet games.  Find something else to do.”

She gave it one or two more tries and I answered the same, but was tempted to give in.  I gave her a couple options which she didn’t like, but I left her to figure it out.  It’s tough to let boredom work itself out, but before long she is coloring and cutting and I’m still here with my keypad, . . . kinda bored.

I’m waiting, watching, listening for something . . . and I realize those little feet dragging a little nightie around gave me something.  That searching little voice, needing forced into creativity by sitting in her boredom, was just the inspiration I woke up for today.

Waiting for Something?

Walking between mounds of Azalea last month, I spotted a butterfly fluttering in and out. I poised with my lense in action mode. The butterfly disappeared, came back, and disappeared again. At some point in all of that, I got this shot.


This morning I sat at my desk and thought. I’ve thought for days now and nothing has happened. I’ve looked at my moment with the butterfly and wondered what it means.

I’m not professional, but I think I know one thing about those who are. They know how to wait. As they wait for the inspiration, they are present and active in their work. Waiting ready rewards them with their best.

My camera in sports mode is a great help in waiting for a shot. At a desk with a blinking cursor between nonsensical paragraphs and head banging the desk, no technology shortens the wait. But I’m doing something. I’m showing up day after day, moving my fingers with uncertain outcomes. I’m actively waiting.

I’m not the only one.

I bet you’re waiting for something. Waiting for the day you figure out how to be organized? How to stop getting angry? How to care for your family? How to succeed at a dream you’ve had your whole life? Have you considered you’re not the only one waiting?

There’s an Artist waiting to bless our flitting souls. For us to come out from behind the bush. He’s waiting poised and in action mode . . . for what?

To be gracious to you, have compassion on you, at just the right time. The God of beauty, love, art, actively waits, on you, His masterpiece.

Therefore the Lord longs to be gracious to you,
And therefore He waits on high to have compassion on you.
For the Lord is a God of justice;
How blessed are all those who long for Him.
Isaiah 30:18

Mourning Someone Small

I was tired, but my eyes rolled back and forth under their covers as my thoughts raced.   I was recalling things about a good day. Soon my thoughts and eyes came to a halt, opened wide to the darkness, and holding frozen still, tears seeped out.  My eyelids dropped with the weight as I remembered tomorrow’s anniversary.  My thoughts no longer racing, I quickly found sleep.  I had the next day to feel more.

Eight years ago today we were due with our 2nd baby, but didn’t make it that far.   In October after some concern and then relief after waving to my baby and a beating heart on screen, I held him too soon.

The size of my thumb’s first digit, it couldn’t have been more like the fetal development pictures I had just seen at my appointment.  I froze, knowing what I was holding, not wanting to believe it.  I called after-hours.  There was nothing to be done.  I could keep “it” till morning, come in and have another ultrasound.


That night the toys, still out after 13 month-old Claire was in bed, were silently deafening as they seemed to scream imaginary playing sounds.  There wasn’t another little one coming to play.

The next morning and I handed over what I had held the night before.  All form was lost.  There was no longer any telling what it was until the screen revealed an empty womb.  Why I handed over what I knew and no one else could recognize, I don’t know.  Babies that size don’t get a funeral.  I picked and saved hydrangea from my yard; dried on the branch, dying a deep rose.


This year we had some other losses at our house.  Sabrina adopted “Lady, Fat Steve, and Crazy,” all ladybugs.  Lady was dead before she was found and when Sabrina finally realized it a week later it was an ordeal.  We buried her in the back yard and convinced her to let the “boys” go back to the wild.


Our rabbit then had a litter and two days later, one got away from the nest and cold.  We tried to warm him up and get him to eat, but death overcame and we buried him the next morning.

We stood by the tree out back, inconvenienced by death on a Monday morning.  Hovered over a tiny grave, my little ones wailed over the animal that multiplies most.


Sabrina asked me to pray for the rabbit.  I prayed that the children won’t forget.  In the silence of deaths noticed by no more than a few, I prayed they won’t grow up to accept it as normal, and never stop longing for all things new.  It may be the way things are, but children know we’re not to the end of the book, and I won’t tell them different.