December 25, 2011

Truth Builders, A Christmas Story

Sitting here with bronchitis-tightened chest, resting, I gaze through dirt-tinted pane towards my mountain.  View finds attention much closer.  My covered front porch, peeled paint and splintering wood, towards a scene that glows to me more than a sunrise on the clearest of country morns'.

My daddy, who's hair can no longer be referred as salt n' pepper, but distinguished deep silver, with lined face and handsome weathered body.  He knelt and hunched over a wide wooden bench that came with the home for rent an almost three years ago; our first real roots since covenant of eight years.  Next to him, my precious baby, our first-born, who no longer needs mother's help to make sandwiches, shower, dress, even dress and feed her sisters to help me.  They are building.

Not quite three years ago, when home here still felt boxed amongst our possessions, I read to her.  Story of ladybug, "Dot," and infant, called "Zoe."  Story of orphans, and sadness, and heart-holes; of friends, and loyalty, God's goodness, redemption to restoration to hope, and new homes in hearts that long-awaited them.  My eldest cried quiet tears and then sobered, this joyful four year old stared off as if listening to someone, and firmed herself.  "I need a hammer," she said.  Yes, I need a hammer and a tool belt.  I can do it...I can build them homes to live in.  I can go - I will go to China where "Zoe" lived, or Africa, or anywhere, and I will build the orphanages; and people will come to take care of the children until their mommies and daddies know where to look to find them..."  I am still, unable to breathe.  "I can bring them water too.  They'll need water."

Heart saddened with regret that this, three years later is her first constructing, her first hammer.  A heart divided against itself forgot.  Eucharisteo!  Eucharisteo to my God for giving me the dream some months ago that changed everything in me, in my garden.  So, she builds now.

I see her learning to hold steady, tap lightly, then harder; her accomplished grin as she pushes back her hair that remains from her recent gift: thirteen inches to a "kid who needs it more than me for Christmas."  I am so proud of who she is becoming.  The walls of the birdhouse are erect now, she beams with excitement and with it, a tendency to rush.  My once hard daddy smiles most genuinely, gifting gentleness and patience to her that extends upward a generation.  The gift speaks to me new truths about him.  My daddy is a good man.  With each new truth, old is uprooted in my garden, healing and new sight restored.  Holy Spirit dances through the garden of my soul, joy abounding as He plants truth, continuously tilling my earth with His breath.

My daddy is a good man.

"Eucharisteo!  -Thanksgiving.
The root of this greek word is Charis - Grace.  And Chara - Joy.
A triplet of of stars, a constellation in the black.  A threefold cord that holds life, offering a way up into the fullest life.
Grace, thanksgiving, joy.  Eucharisteo."
--Ann Voskamp, "One Thousand Gifts."

Thank you Father God for my daddy and daughter, buildings and new truths.
Merry Christmas indeed.

[For Daddy & Abigail]

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