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Time weaves stories. Stories with beginnings so boisterous you simply cannot wait for the middle to get here. Time weaves people, too. Intertwined like the threads of friendship bracelets made on the playground at recess. Little fingers twirling colors as safety pins secure the start. This precious and most beautiful soul you see here has been woven into the lives of so many. Woven by a Maker who loves her immensely. I am honored to be counted a thread in the story of my sweet friend, Brooke.
When I think of Brooke, I think of a strength peaceful & gentle. My mind rests upon her smile. She has the ability to listen with a heart fully intent on making yours stronger. She has a kindness that so many people cannot even begin to muster. When she loves you, she loves you forever.
God crafted a woman rock solid in the foundation of Him. Her storybook tells of a faithful soul in search of realness in people and in the hope of Him. Her book covers chapters on love and on diligence. On heartache and hiccups. On giving and getting on, too. And today, her life awaits the penmanship of a new chapter. This chapter is entitled Stella Grace.
My hands took great delight in writing the fabric prologue to Stella Grace's chapter. Brooke chose crisp, bright colors for Stella Grace's nursery. Colors that transcend vibrance and radiate a happy light. I wanted this quilt to honor this sweet little girl's story of life. The pursuit of her place in this world has had many twists and turns. Not all the pieces seemed to fit at times. The pursuit for her place in Brooke's arms never faltered through it all. With that same sweet smile, Brooke rested in Him. She held onto His hand of hope. And, when that happens, pieces find a way of fitting together. Even better, they create something spontaneously beautiful and magnificently profound. In Him, through Him, Brooke and Russ await the birth of their Stella Grace.
Through a friendship forged on some ferociously good times & unforgettable memories together, we have watched this miracle unfold. Stella Grace is loved. She is loved by an entire slew of sisters who have been in prayer and in praise of her makings. She is loved by a Mama devoutly defined by the hope He provides. She has a Daddy jonesin' to protect her from now until infinity. And, she has a Creator who knows just how to weave. Stories and people make beautiful things. He twirls all us together for a reason. We cannot wait to meet you, Stella Grace Hardy.
.mac :)
God speaks to me in colors. Subtle shades share their secrets; intense inks keenly reach into my soul. I can feel their presence. Moreover, I can hear the stories they tell. Rich with desires deep. Pale lying in wait for the potential permeating glow. Still in solemnity, pastels swirl with ones much like the other melding tranquility and finding center. My insides are better because of their place in my world.
I woke up to 37 early. Well before the sun and my alarm clock. It was a resolute awakening from a slumber on the surface of me. No glitter pops or fancy heels were in my future. No hoopty-hoops and holla-atchus either. I woke with a clarity magnified by a sweet peace on my day of me.
His breathes were so sound and serene amid the wee hours. I took the time to press in against him only to find warmth and my favorite spot for snuggling. Right underneath his ear lobe and a little before his jaw line. My nose knows the spot. Deep in a world of dreams, he was unbeknownst and bothered none by my invasion of him. I was careful to pull the covers close around his broad shoulders only to slide out from the bounds of the place I share with my husband.
Routine knows the way around a 37 year old. They have an established history of friendship together you see. It seems their camaraderie manifested oh about year 33. Nighttime regimens like lip balm of the specific brand, wrinkle cream slathered, reading before bed, checking the weather and coffee pots programmed all fit right nicely with multi-vitamins, reading glasses, bi-weekly grocery trips, favorite fabric softeners and bill paying day. It was no surprise that I maneuvered with ease into my clothing and perfected my dental hygiene all in a bathroom of darkness. Thirty-seven has a way of just knowing the proximity and placement of everything.
I sidled into a cold car and was off at an early pace. On my agenda before full-on day break was a grocery store trip, a 4 gallon Weigel's milk stop along with a gasoline investment and a 3 mile run at that. My morning was still and in motion. My mind worked methodically and with a continuous melody too.
And, behold, there were gifts. For me. Each one wrapped in kindness and given to me by strangers. A lady dressed head-to-toe in a neon green public works uniform at Weigel's held the door for me as I left laden with 4 gallons of milk with just 2 hands for holding. A man lying flat on the floor still in full pursuit of hefty shelf stocking at Wal-Mart took the time to ask me if I needed any help once he spotted my quizzical look of wherethehellisthewheatgerm. With a bright gladness, his tired eyes guided me to the next row over only reach to the back of the top shelf for me and place into my hands the desired product. A multitude of goodmornings and howareyous. Eye contact and smiles found me head on. It's as if God was saying, "I love you, dear one. Welcome into your 37th year on My calendar." With each face I met, I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the simple goodness spread in a world capsizing all too quickly to hate and hurry.
She was rushed. I watched as her eyes met her watch at least 3 times in a matter of 2 minutes. In her son's hand was a carousel of bakery made cupcakes. In hers, a box of Capri-Suns. I knew today was just as much his as it was mine. Beyond the wrinkled forehead and stress filled eyes, this Mama's heart knew that today he deserved to celebrate. A mother's love will fight time and push around boundaries for their little one. I knew the check-out line accumulated was not in her budget of minutes.
It was as if I was outside of myself as I watched them from behind me. Her foot tapping. His happy transfixed gaze with pride filled eyes at each hexagon shaped sprinkle scattered atop the tiny cupcakes through the plastic container's view. Her shift to and fro of the Capri-Sun cardboard box's weight. I operated on His time. "Happy Birthday, man!" I said. His smile exploded from his face as if to say, "How did you know?" Her smile was there briefly but faded quickly as she loitered on the noted boisterous basket of groceries I had in a procured state in front of them in line. I reached out to pat him on the shoulder leaving my buggy ahead and abandoned for I, too, was in queue for the next active customer status.
Today was his 8th birthday. He loved Legos. He couldn't wait as this was his last day of school before Spring Break. They were watching a movie that afternoon in school and he was bringing cupcakes and Capri-Suns to celebrate his birthday with his classmates. As his excitement filled my ear's space, I watched for an abbreviated moment as his Mama melted into his magical. Her face forgot about time and for just a tiny bit, she remembered exactly why she was in this line. For him. Yes, for Him.
My heart catapulted out of my chest with joy for this little 8 year old boy and his Mama. A Mama who was reminded of the good she has within, better yet, for the good she is giving out to the hands and feet she gave life to a mere 8 years ago on this day. With a warm spacious energy, I found my hand on her shoulder congratulating her for the 8 year old masterpiece that belonged to her. She thanked me kindly with a glow that only a mother can emit.
With that, I moved ahead to my space in line and in my completely offhanded, energy driven "Meghan Fashion", I began to make the sound that trucks make when backing up.
"BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP."
"In honor of one wonderful Mama and her birthday boy, I give you my space in line." I announced. Relief filled in the wrinkled spaces of her forehead. "Oh, thank you! Are you sure?" immediately were the words expelled from her being. I insisted. The little boy never took his eyes of the hexagon shaped sprinkles. The cashier actually had to use the scanner gun to ring them up as he asked to keep them in his hands.
Off they went.
Their day beginning before the sun.
On my way home, I opted for the sunroof open. It was crisp. Quite the acute form of cold for the second official day of Spring. I won't forget my hair whipping loosely in the wind that flapped downward into my interior console. My sweatsuit felt warm and snuggly against my skin. My fingers were tapping some off beat rhythm I had no recollection of. But, they tapped on just the same. I could smell my moisturizer on my face as it wasn't even a full hour old from being applied. Its smell wrapped over me. It gave me a feeling of completeness I really can't explain.
On a back road in our small rural sorta-new-to-us tiny town, I topped a hill, and He smiled at me. Tears streamlined down my soft cheeks of 37 as I opened yet another gift. My car slowed to a stop. I grabbed my phone and took the above picture as my heart had every right to open this one with each single paper tear.
God speaks to me in colors. Subtle shades share their secrets; intense inks keenly reach into my soul. I can feel their presence. Moreover, I can hear the stories they tell. Rich with desires deep. Pale lying in wait for the potential permeating glow. Still in solemnity, pastels swirl with ones much like the other melding tranquility and finding center. My insides are better because of their place in my world.
Yes, routine may know the way around a 37 year old. But, it seems the older routine and I get, there is another One we are beginning to know our way around. The potential glow of the One who wakes before the sun is one I am proud to call friend. Blessed are the ones able to give and to receive. Thank you, God, for my colors. For Your stories, too. A new year of life I do declare.
.mac
I woke up on this particular morning only to smash-stomp down on two G.I. Joe men who had camped out on my bedside floor. After my mumbling obscenities, all internally housed mind you, I stammered over to the not 1, but 3 laundry baskets full of tousled clean clothes in search for a hoodie sweatshirt. Mornings in our house of "we need to save money on our heat bill" are freakin' cold. Whilst sifting for my favorite gray paint stained hoodie with the broken zipper {the one which I procured back in 1998 from my first year of teaching elementary school's end-of-the-school-year last chance at lost & found items}, I chided myself for not having a better toy management system implemented and running in our home. Yes, much like visions of sugarplums dancing, amid my self rebuking, I envisioned the boys' toy room glossy and pressed into the pages of Pottery Barn Kids' magazine. Yes, each boy had their signature color lounge chairs with their names crisply embroidered. Ceiling to floor wall systems were in place complete with color coordinated buckets labeled in vinyl letters with each supply situated in its appropriate spot. Toys were housed in huge willow & wicker baskets with chalk board name tags just so. And, don't forget the rug and absolute out-of-your-Pinterest-world paint job. For my visual readers, something like this.
Groveling in my pity of "I have no time, and that money should go towards our wonderful & quite hefty liberal arts private college loans instead", my eye caught a glimpse something atop my nightstand that most certainly did not belong. Unbeknownst to me, I slept with a grenade 2 feet from my head. I have no doubt it was Casey's doings. He's into like shape grouping. We worked on cylinders this particular week. Guilty soldier.
Yes, my day was moving at a swift and remarkably happy pace thus far. Ahem. I fought back visions of a clean home sterile and void of all ridiculous noise making contraptions, Nerf guns, Hot Wheels cars, Legos under foot, and Army men too. It wasn't until I was soundly through my 2nd full cup of coffee that my mindset was back to the quasi-stable camp of "They're 6 & 7 years old. Deal with it, Meghan."
Every morning before we begin our school day, I have prayer time with each boy individually. I keep a written journal of their verbal requests for prayer. Once logged, I wrap my arms around them, and pray over them with the words from their heart.
The grenade 2 feet away from my head & all night long was a joy bomb just waiting to explode. Rupturing goodness and eternity from this day forward. Casey McGill asked Jesus Christ to live in his heart during our prayer time this morning. Through our family devotions, prayer time together and involvement in church, the Lord had been working on this little guy. Casey felt it. He understood the sacrifice Jesus made, the reasons why and the commitment. I had the pleasure of leading my emotionally charged little lefty to the Lord.
My internally packed oldest, the quiet observer and resolute one, had Jesus on his heart well before his little brother. His path to salvation had been walked for longer. Footprints had been repeated back & forth and back & forth again in his mind. Eli needed time. He needed the space to soak Jesus in. His comprehension was secure in Jesus' love & sacrifice, but his heart needed to catch up with the cause. Two days after his younger brother's act of obedience, Eli Garrett accepted Jesus' invitation for forever. I had the privilege to lead my son to a life in Heaven and a commitment to forever walk in His ways.
We celebrated as a family. Hugs & high fives. Long talks about the responsibility and joy that now resides in their place on this Earth. Kenny even made sure to contact our pastor for guidance on moving forward with our sons' commitment to Christ. Kenny and I rejoice and have committed to the work in strengthening and supporting their walk as His forever. We know in the 6 & 7 years of their life on this Earth little adversity has been thrown their way. We understand their walk as His child will be constantly tested. But, we know their decision on these respective days are nothing short of a joy bomb. Heaven gained our boys.
As a mother, it is guaranteed you will have asylum type moments of CAP LOCKED $%&*# when the job before you is garbled and the look book of child rearing is taunting and unattainable too. No Pottery Barn Kids' organization wall unit can house the live out of the love you have been blessed to give life to. I love how God so frequently reminds me of this with G.I. Joes underfoot. I love how He moves in & out of our conscience and into our material world. He ties & binds it all. He reminds us that the journey is not meant for neat & clean. It's meant for more. Of yourself. Of others. Of Him. And, He knows just when to the pull the pin on the joy bomb of our hearts for His forever.
.mac :)
February 2013 will be held forever in my heart cupped hands. God moved. In me. In my family. In my boys. He took these 28 days to shine. It was a light so harvesty golden that I couldn't help but glean His glory. It was a light so simple & subtle that my eyes had to peer intently with a convicted precision to find it at times too. And, finally, it was light like a flashlight unveiling the creaky floored attic of my insides. Shining solely on the cobwebbed corners of my state. With waft-like waves flailing, my hands had no choice but to physically knock down the evidence of complacency and neglect. God moved.
My book for February was unofficially chosen by Kenny. He came to me sometime in January with the idea that we read this book together. We've never read the same book at the same time. He had just recently finished In a Pit With a Lion on Snowy Day and wanted more of what Mark Batterson had to say. I liked the idea of reading the same content at the same time, so I jumped on board. I jumped on board is an understatement.
I want to speak to you in truth now. I say you, but I know all too well it's just as much spoken as a resounding reminder for me regarding the cultivation of spirit and just exactly how God-awesome that is when you feel it. Naysayers, beware. This is for you too. I speak it boldly and with a whole hearted conviction for all of us. The weary. The misplaced. The misconstrued. The skeptic.
I began reading this book when my heart seemed fastened in a dark and clouded place. Dark like my expressions filed under "h" for honest here. Clouded like no solutions in sight. This uninvited guest known as "WTH is happening to me" was present when my red puffy eyes first met the printed text of Mark Batterson.
God infused. Timely. Targeted for growth. Nail on the head. I heeded these words. All of them. I listened & leaned. I began unraveling the many inconsistencies of me.
And, it felt so good. Like fresh colored play dough clean and smooth in my hands, I began shaping. Forming new objects of myself. Shredding away the extraneous scraps that no longer needed attachment. Re-thinking the design. Experimenting with the supple smush of second chance. That's called grace.
Poignancy personified itself. In my thinking. In my believing. In my direction. In my faith. To the weary, the misplaced, the misconstrued and the skeptical naysayers, I experienced a God interested in making me His on a more personal level and for a greater purpose. He came through with a resounding, "I need you. I need your heart, your energy and your gifts for things far more important than being pungently saturated in your puny imperfections of this world."
This book was a catalysis. Kenny's simultaneous-book-read request was too. The church we have consistently been visiting for the past 18 months chimed right in as well. Coincidence? No. Powerful in the presence of the poor in spirit is exactly more like it. His timing is almighty and undeniable. Naysayers beware. Grace knows no bounds. Hand over your heavy. Ask and He will absolutely defy your doubts. My February is proof.
Currently, I am reading this book as a follow up. Kenny is taking the challenge right along side me. I am overwhelmingly humbled and fervently grateful for Kenny's place in all of this. I needed scooping up. This isn't the first time. This man comes through like clockwork.
My prayer life is changing. These prayers are specific. They are abundant and resolute. If you are on my list, I am giving you over to Him in high detail every.single.day.
I can't wait to pray. Did you hear me? I CAN'T WAIT TO PRAY! It is my most favorite time of the day. I fill up pages in my journal. I talk out loud. I cross off and re-write. I accessorize my dreams with Him.
I am seeking His face and His will like never before. God knows me. All of me. And, just in case He doesn't, I am making it a point to tell Him more than I ever have. In wait for big answers in my story book of requests to Him, I feel clear headed and hopeful. But most of all, reliant. I am learning more and more this walk is not meant for easy. It's meant forever. Moving with an eternal motive and saturation of His glory in this skin, that's what life is.
Naysayers, beware. I speak boldly and with a whole hearted conviction for all of us. The weary. The misplaced. The misconstrued. The skeptic. Grace knows no bounds. Hand over your heavy. Ask and He will absolutely defy your doubts. My February is proof.
.mac :)
I wore these shoes on New Year's Eve. They were a BOGO indulge I gave to myself back in October. Remember, these shoes? Well, they were my "BO" and the above were my "GO". I love how substantial yet dainty they are with their ballet pink palette and tiny textured swiss dots. With them on, I am about 6'1". These pumps are comfy and sassy. And, from my New Year's Eve test drive, they seem to be great dancers too. I felt beautiful wearing these.
The above were my Christmas gift from Kenny. These are my 3rd pair of this exact running shoe. I heart them big time. I run about 15 miles a week in these babies. To be honest, it takes everything in me not to wear them all the time because they are that comfortable. These kicks are like my house shoes. My slippers. My sappy shoes as Kenny's Mamaw would say. And, you know what? I feel just as beautiful wearing these as I did wearing the above dainties. There is strength inside a lady. Strength to suck it up, carry on, make it happen and smile through on those days that suck. Women have a wonderful sense of making things seamless in a world full of stitches. There is strength inside us so magnificent that it can't help but radiate the beauty of you.
{in peep toe pumps or kick ass running shoes}
God gave you beauty.
It's your job to go out and let the world see Him shine.
.mac :)
I love God's little signs for me. Not putting words into His mouth, but it's like He's saying, "I feel you, dawg." It's that place of ugly & uncertain we all battle from time to time. I'm there. Squatting down with my M-16 and monochromatic army green fatigues loaded and ready to pop a round off at the devil masqued in the full-on form of insecurity and second guessing.
Only this battle is more gruesome than the last. It's more intense; it's more painful. The slithery serpent twists his powerful molted body around mine only to suffocate me in a truer sense. Real & heavy. Compacted with pressure, I continue on. But, my gun is so heavy to carry. Not to mention, the green monochromatic look only depresses me more. I sink inside myself only to dig a deeper trench for protection.
God says, "I'm here." I look around. "Yeah, I know you are." I murmur. But, my mind is more intent on grieving the sickness I am saturated in. The sickness of self doubt. With all of my gut, I dig my heels deep into the dark dirt as if my firm stance will intimidate the enemy to flee from my being. He squeezes tighter. Around my chest. In my diaphragm. Slithering around to the core of my back. I stretch and breath quick short breaths in panic to keep my life sustained.
Satan takes hold of just whoever he can. His military background is highly decorated and precisely keen in tactic. He cares not of what you have or what you don't. Of your social status. Your income. Your church affiliation. Your gender or your genes. He seeks you. Knows just when to strike. And, above all, knows your battle plan too.
"I feel you, dawg. I'm here."
Consumed by the heartache and sickly shallow breaths, my muscles are tautly tense with an index finger steady on the trigger. Tears streamline violently down my face as I squint through my scope to find my target of me. Of me. My battleground is creeping; closer & confined my boundaries are becoming more realized. Unclear and clouded, I internally scream for no more. Not one more single second. I pick up rocks to throw and sling half handfuls of dry clay at my insides in a desperate attempt to make it all go away.
He cares not of your blessings or your barren.
He takes hold of whoever he can.
The trigger's tug is intense in my hand. I anticipate the kickback of the pain intended for defense's sake. I pull and release. Knowing all too well, the damage has already been done. Nothing. Not a single bullet sends out my rage. My gun is not loaded.
"I feel you, dawg. I'm here. I'm right beside you. I'm wearing white."
And, just like that, His gun dismisses umpteen million rounds. They're grace loaded and full of certainty. Not a single miss. Plowed down is my anguish and my doubt. Dead in the water, my inadequacies perish. Toppled one atop the other on a bloody battleground of me. Of me.
Right beside me wearing white.
My prayers unload the remaining rounds for His glory. In a mucky mess of battle, I cry obtuse tears of freedom for the plans He has for me. For me. And, my gun drops as my heart spills out all of me. "I feel you, dawg" He repeats over and again. "I'm here." With rich conviction, I feel my pain ease. Physically, it releases. A husband, off to the far right, in the same army green fatigues I wear, holds me all through the night and again the next day. His gun is empty as well. But, he helps to refill the rounds of the soldier in white beside us. As do best friends decked in that same monochromatic attire with words and reminders.
He cares not of your blessings or your barren.
He takes hold of whoever he can.
I'm thankful for an empty gun and a troop of army green fatigues beside me. For the highly skilled marksman known as the soldier in white who has me. And, for the beautiful power He has in triumphing over evil with just the same exact mindset. He cares not of what you have or what you don't. Of your social status. Your income. Your church affiliation. Your gender or your genes. He seeks you. For goodness and for gain and for growth. For life eternal.
I love God's little signs for me.
I feel you too, dawg. And I am so thankful that I can.
With all my love & gratitude,
Meghan Alicia
my hands have been immersed in over 15 yards of baby pink satin, minky dot and damask for almost a week -- creating a custom bumper pad in this fabric elevated my temperature so much from the manual labor, i actually stripped down to my sports bra to finish stuffing it -- i just recently purchased a pair of shoes for $.50 from Goodwill that gave me the nickname "Meg-lo" from a texting/picture relay with a sweet friend -- casey is over-the-moon magical about his count down to Christmas calendar -- he takes the felt magnetic backed images on and off and loves to tell me which ones are his favorite -- we didn't homeschool not one single stitch last week -- eli read 6 chapter books from one of his favorite series in just 5 days -- our Christmas tree's lower section just bit the dust -- 3/4th's lit is where we're at -- i have an addiction to a $6.97 nose happy -- the Downy Scent Booster pellets make me want to do laundry -- folding & putting away is another story -- in the past 2 weeks, i have shipped over 30 packages from k.Mac --- usps.com is my friend -- bubble wrap is too -- i bought an oatmeal seersucker suit set at Goodwill this past Saturday for $2.00 -- i can hardly wait for spring to wear it -- i went immediately outside and captured an image of the boys the very moment i heard of the Sandy Hook tragedy on 12.14 -- i stopped and prayed and cried.
Yesterday, after church, I spent the afternoon working on a baby nursery I am finishing up for a client of mine. My hair was down and it I wanted it up. Without a hair clip nearby, I grabbed a clothespin from a basket I keep in my sewing studio. My hair is very long. I wound its ends and quickly twisted it up only to secure it to the top of my head with the simple clothespin's clasp. I then went onto continue sewing, go for a 3 mile run, visit my in-law's to help with Christmas decorations and have dinner, fold laundry and stuff Christmas cards.
My hair did not once topple down from the clasp of the clothespin. This physical reminder was so poignantly placed for my spirit to see. I simply trusted in its capability. I never once pigeon holed its job description.
God is that clothespin for all of us. He foresees and carries. He runs interference and re-directs. He gives rest and He restores peace. His place in our lives is needed now more than ever. I find myself in contant conversation with Him. In the little & the big, He contains my humanity and supersedes my weaknesses when I trust and surrender my joy to just who He is. My clothespin. My collection of life week in & week out that carves out the picture of the Earthly me. Fritzed-out Christmas lights on the 17th of December, my tall reader boy, "Meg-lo", bubble wrap, sports bra stuffing, felt Christmas pictures shared with my 5 year old & all. He gives us these real time reminders to collect and keep with our own clothespins on the string of this life. And, His promise is these collected memories x infinity if we just trust in His presence and undying love.
12.14.12 is a reminder to us all. Collect and store up these precious everydays. Secure them on your twine string. Clothespin them to your heart. And, above all never pigeon hole His magnificently holy job description.
Thanks be to God,
.mac
When it comes to creating, some things are unscheduled and yet very foreseen to me. I don't know how to really explain it. There's just this ignorant bliss of being present as art unfolds. And, this creation of something unforeseen by others into being is yet another testament to God's brilliance in each of us.
God's brilliance. Yes. Overstatement, Meghan? Nope. Brilliance. Are you really going to write a post about God with fabric? Yes, I am. God is how I best explain my gifts and talents. I am a self taught seamstress in my 6th year of business. I design/draw on paper taking MY one dimensional swiftly into a 3 dimensional world. I do not use patterns. I do not use exact measurements per say even. By and large, my creative efforts happen because of Him. Him and a lot of practice, you see.
My mother-in-law has asked me several times:
"Meghan, how do you see these fabrics together? How are you so confident in your selections and designs? They always turn out beautifully. I just don't know how you 'just know' what will look nicely together."
I know.
I get a feeling. It's a strange one to put into words, but it's worth doing so. Upon each piece I create, I begin with offering up my best to the design. I spend some time thinking about the client and the intent of their custom services requested by me. And, then I dive in. I don't second guess myself. It's almost as if I'm on autopilot. My hands are His filter and my labor, His love. I lose myself in the conviction of the piece filling my hands. My mantra throughout the creative process is simply "give your best".
I have a long time client that requested I personalize a blank duck cloth apron for her. She just asked that I " make it hers". Apron embellishing is not on my regular design schedule nor will you find it on my website of services for that matter. This sweet client has a husband, son and daughter. She loves nature and color and individuality.
Creating this custom work for her is the perfect example of His brilliance. I had no plan. I had no color scheme penciled down. I just created.
It is important for me to make big over a simple apron embellishment. The presence of my writing in this space serves so many purposes. I want my letters-turned-words to be a place where my boys can eventually go to be reminded of their childhood. This place is where I keep memories. I also hope this space is helpful for people to learn more about me not only as a designer, but as a human should they choose k.Mac for couture services. I use this space for just me too. To be better. To be honest. To grow. And, most importantly, I use the space to remind and to be reminded of God's light and goodness. His hope and his brilliance in each of us. There are far too many of us out there second guessing God's strength and glory by belittling who we are as His creations.
God's brilliance. Yes. Overstatement, Meghan? Nope. Brilliance.
Are you really going to write a post about God with fabric?
I just did.
We all have brilliance within. He put it there.
Find your {foreseen} and let the world see,
.mac :)
Nightswimming is one of the handfuls of songs that can bring me to my knees no matter when I hear it. Its melody is pure and piercing. Grounding with conviction even. Upon first chord played, I am transfixed into a world that is safe and yet forgotten. Sad and yet healed. To me, it's a song about salvation. Listen and see what you think.
I grew up with in a house filled with music. We had no cable TV. In fact, my first viewing of MTV was in college. We lived on records. Big and black and shiny with grooves and cool paper donut-like sleeves. I loved that a record's paper was thin and crisp. I can remember the preciseness in sound as it was removed for playing. The player was always right beside the couch and across from Mom's chair. Tom T. Hall, Gordon Lightfoot, Emmy Lou Harris and Jim Croce were a few favorites. My brother and I would go all superhype when Christmas rolled around too. Burle Ives and The Chipmunks Christmas records were front and center. Sundays were sheet washing days and, most often, you could find bluegrass or gospel on the spinner. Dad usually made breakfast big that day. Tiny sausages were a favorite. I can remember the way Mom's body moved as she popped the clean sheets into the air as they wafted down for a clean bed assembly. Spring and Fall were best because you can bet the windows were up with a breeze dancing through.
And, that's just it. Music brings us all a memory. Lyrics serve a purpose of connection, recollection and resolve. In what was, what could have been and what is. The art of song finds a way of sealing our hearts with the now of yesterday so to speak.
My family wasn't a church family. I always wished we were. I don't know if it was my obsession with "what others did" or with "I wanna dress up in cute clothes", but either way my motive for the why of church was not what anyone would call appropriate. My Mom and Dad were private about God. It wasn't like I didn't see God in them with my little girl eyes. Looking back, Mom and Dad were the book of James. Their hands were always helping those in need. Countless memories come to mind of groceries and clothes my Mom bought for those less fortunate in her classroom. She would visit them too. My Dad was always and still is ready to lend a hand for improvement's sake. Our little community is still graced with the work of his hands all for the evidence of God's goodness and grace.
Yes, I guess it's best my church was left to the black and shiny of Jim Croce, sheet popping and tiny Sunday sausages. For His plan of conviction was timed and perfect for me. I wrote about it here. His plans always are: timed & perfect. That's so hard for us flawed humans to remember.
And, my two? Well, up in that photograph you see, they're night swimming. On this particular summer night, I watched them. I sat in a chair just a few feet away, and cast my eyes on two of God's children. And, just as if that first chord was played, my own night swimming brought me to my knees. Their plan is written. It's not in the dress up fancy clothes they wear on Sunday mornings. And, it won't be in the "what other people do". It is in His timing.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago,
Turned around backwards so the windshield shows.
Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse.
Still, it's so much clearer.
I forgot my shirt at the water's edge.
The moon is low tonight.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
I'm not sure all these people understand.
It's not like years ago,
The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water.
They cannot see me naked.
These things, they go away,
Replaced by everyday.
Nightswimming, remembering that night.
September's coming soon.
I'm pining for the moon.
And what if there were two
Side by side in orbit
Around the fairest sun?
That bright, tight forever drum
Could not describe nightswimming.
You, I thought I knew you.
You I cannot judge.
You, I thought you knew me,
This one laughing quietly underneath my breath.
Nightswimming.
The photograph reflects,
Every streetlight a reminder.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night, deserves a quiet night.
So, in my own way, I will play them records. Kenny and I will fill their souls with music. We will hold hands and pray around the table and before bed. We will speak of God's goodness and His hope for our lives. Sunday tiny sausages will come before church. We will press upon their hearts the book of James too. The crisp sounds of paper record sleeves will be the mistakes and the memories good we give them. God's presence and timing will orchestrate their salvation. It always does. As there comes a time, when we all come to that point "when the fear of getting caught of recklessness and water"ends. And, a quiet night is deserved.
The photograph reflects,
Every streetlight a reminder.
.mac
{Loris, SC: July 2012}
Like a ball of yarn, complexly twisted within, my quest for a more rhythmical self requires me to consider the network. I am to remind myself that my ball is but one long piece of yarn wrapped & contorted to create this single spherical form. As human as they come, I need this reminder. The perpetual recollection that I am not just me. I am who I am for others. My actions and my demeanor affect, furthermore, shape two very important people.
And, if I am not careful, I will send out signals of sin & sour when my climb of rhythm is astutely ascending to the apex of just where I want to be. For the backs of my legs' up hill strain is pain in pursuit of my balanced vision. Hence, my discomfort oftentimes expels out into ugly & curt.
Motherhood is God's yarn ball. He takes you. He reconfigures your composition both physically & emotionally. You are forever changed for His forward gains. Your single piece of yarn grows and miraculously manifests itself into something more substantial. Something more complex. Something that transcends.
Motherhood is just that. Complex. Complex & beautiful. You find yourself on the inside knowing just where the yarn's origin is. You know, that single piece of start. Yet, you are so confined to the outer spherical form you resist going inside at times to locate its initial presence.
{Aunt Tee-Tee and Uncle Tone-Tone's driveway}
And, when you do climb inside that ball of yarn to search out your beginning, your rummaging can potentially alter the greater composition of sphere. On this day, I remind myself that I am there. I am the beginning of this something greater. My single piece of start lives within. It is in myself and in two very important people. I can find it whenever I want to. But only with grace and the cognizance of my place in the legacy that I am leaving in the 2 little hearts God gifted me to give life to.
.mac
It's called leading. Exceeding past one's sense of self only to be catapulted into something profoundly greater. He does this. Innately a part of his composition, through sidelines and game fields, God moves within him. Teaching him. Correcting him when so compelled. Guiding him for His glory and for so many other's greater good. He is a man of hard work and loyalty. He is protective of hope; intensely aware of his place as its facilitator: hands on shoulders, eye contact, smiles and helmet smacks, pats and go gettums.
It's called sacrifice. A pay stub equivalent to less than a part time job's salary at McDonald's does not balance out the countless hours of study, preparation and planning. Late Friday night laundry cycles, endless phone calls and texts fielded from players and parents alike, Thursday night game field painting after practices mixed with a heaping myriad of afternoons/evenings mowing game and practice fields are but a glimpse into his pay stub pennies. Time away from his family is the endless debt he works hard to repay in the winter months known as December, January & February. For his March to November is our borrowed time from the pigskin.
It's called growth. His dedication to building men both fiercely loyal and soundly equipped with tools for life is unwavering. Faith, courage, fight and commitment aren't just buzz words; they are his way of life. Taking the time for self reflection and moving forward with those hard steps of perseverance, his role as coach, most importantly Christ's child, grows roots in soil richer and deeper every year.
It's called a labor of love. God transcends His magnificent light of grace through this man. His walk on this earth is not one of perfection, but one securely held by His undeniable will in his life. Crowds will contradict him; fans may disagree with him, parents may bash him and players may quit him, but God's plan will bleed out in the work that this man puts in. He will have it no other way. To be in His hands and working for His glory is gain. It is the nucleus of the man I know as husband. I want nothing more than to honor him on this Labor Day.
Go Patriots!
Coach Cobble's wife
{June 6, 2012--leaving for our 10 year anniversary trip to Biltmore.}
It was June 8, 2002. I wore a long cathedral length veil and a real poofy dress. He was so very dapper in his silver tie and suit. I can remember walking with my Dad down the aisle. My smile was so big I thought my teeth were going to climb out of my mouth. I remember wanting to pick up the poof part and run real quick to get beside him. His gaze upon me was secure and sweet. I'll never forget.
The celebration was one for the record books. One where dancing and good times were at the top of the list. But what I want to remember right here and right now is the ride home as Mr. and Mrs. Kenny Cobble. He stopped at a car wash to de-garb our "just married"ness before we left on a 7 day honeymoon. I watched my brand new husband in full tuxedo clean his truck from top to bottom while I sat in the cab in my poofy dress with bird seed in my hair, a shiny new ring on my finger and a 3 dozen rose bouquet in my lap. As glistening water droplets cascaded down the windshield, I would wave and he would smile & wink through the soap suds. I remember sitting there rehearsing over and again in my head, "I am Mrs. Kenny Cobble. My name is Meghan Cobble."
And, I am still.
I love this man. He is kind and genuine. Hard working and hopeful. His place next to me continues to grow roots strong and deep. This verse was read at our wedding. I knew little of its width or depth then. Time and togetherness teaches you. It reminds you of your faults and pushes you forward with your strengths. Living out and learning from mistakes as well as rejoicing in the good has taught me so much more about the kind of love God desires from us all.
He wants us to share it. Spread it. Let go of it and trust in its return. As husband and wife, we continue to write our love story. The story of our togetherness is getting better with each chapter we pen. I am thankful for our laughter and love of music. For finding our way to communicate. For the buttons we chose not to push and for the commitment to be the best we can be together. Ten years and 2 sons later, I still want to pick up my poof part and run real quick to get beside him. And, his gaze on me is still secure and sweet.
{Impromptu family photo. Boys had baseball with Papaw on the brain. Not silly pictures!}
Love never fails,
Mrs. Kenny Cobble :)
Under a bed hidden and stuffed. Wrestled and lodged behind drawer casings crumpled. Snookered and sideways like the car keys amid empty gum wrappers and old grocery lists.
{cluttered}
My March has made more of me; it has demanded me to define. And, like a passenger just de-boarding my midnight flight, I hurry up only to wait. Antsy and eager for the merry-go-round of identical black suitcases to commence just to find the luggage tag that designates the mark of me.
The mark of me.
{worth}
The word is moving and subtle. It commands the center of my soul even at first glance. I often wonder how each of us finds our way nearer to this 5 letter way of life.
March was my month to stare worth directly in the eyes. Our pupils, jet black & common, locked briefly and then time & again I was forced to avert from his stable stare as my salty tears were thick and made for a clouded view.
Human life is one big chance.
It's God's shiny quarters dropping one-by-one into your parking meter. What will you do with the elapsed time the round George Washingtons allot you? What will your out do with what is on your in? I dream of balance and poise, of center and evens. I relish the rush of potential energy anxious and able.
Able.
{worth}
And, I watch fervently for my luggage tag; the mark of me.
March asked me to define. It expected me to stretch to my tippiest of toes in search of {worth}.
{mine}
Under a bed hidden and stuffed. Wrestled and lodged behind drawer casings crumpled. Snookered and sideways like the car keys amid empty gum wrappers and old grocery lists.
{cluttered}
I reached up; I looked out; I prayed within. I wanted my answers concrete and majestic.
My worth hides not in the concealer used to cover and the locks I choose to lighten. Its presence is not my status or my style.
And, as He dropped another few into my meter this month, I felt His urgency. It seemed to grow in magnitude and strength the further March progressed. Insecure, I scrambled and wanted so badly to stop this stare down with worth. I wanted to disengage and rebuke the hard lines and lessons of just who I am.
And, force fixed, I peered once again at the baggage carousel waiting to spot my luggage tag.
The mark of me.
Crowded-like all the way to the very edges of my soul, He was. My search was so very revealing and honestly intense. Overwhelmed with emotion, angst and an unnatural serenity from above, I lept. Into His arms, I lept with all the indecisiveness and uncertainty of me. My flaws and faults, my guesses and games, I gave in. His urgency had found something.
Under a bed hidden and stuffed. Wrestled and lodged behind drawer casings crumpled. Snookered and sideways like the car keys amid empty gum wrappers and old grocery lists.
{cluttered}
My worth damaged and torn.
My value is in what He provides me. It is me giving over my weak and watching Him work.
My March has made more of me; it has demanded me to define. And, like a passenger just de-boarding my midnight flight, I hurry up only to wait. Antsy and eager for the merry-go-round of identical black suitcases to commence just to find the luggage tag that designates the mark of me.
My mark is not perfect. It falls short and finds fault. But my worth is everything for the glory of God. May He have many quarters left for my meter.
My ensemble:
- tank (GAP) 1/2 off Goodwill $.25
- pants (Patagonia) 1/2 off Goodwill $1.25
TOTAL ENSEMBLE INVESTMENT: $1.50
My mission: {worth}
My status: * * * (3 out of 5 stars) This one is tough for me.
My memories: I am enough.
.mac
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