From Dandilions to Queen Anne’s Lace – A Mother’s Letter To Her Daughter

July 2, 2012 / kd sullivan / 20 Comments

Just yesterday you were my dandi-lioness
Bright and sunshiny yellow…albeit slightly annoying –
cropping up when I least expected it
ruining my flawless world of endless green grass.

And then came the days
when you didn’t feel good about yourself
and you weren’t full of sunshine anymore but
dull and grey.

But I know a secret.
Because you scattered seeds of sunshine,
even in your “ugly” stage,
and now the seeds you spawned sprinkle my lawn
with happy faces, all changed by you.

You’ve grown into a woman now
and you are more like Queen Anne’s Lace;
British, exquisite and delicately beautiful.
True, you don’t have your own light anymore,
but instead your very lacyness provides the pattern
for His light to shine through and around you.

And it’s all about Him
and it’s less about you
and you still scatter seeds
only in a different field
in a different place
in a different way.

You may no longer be growing in my green groves
but in the cracks of cement sidewalks
where signs of life are far and few between.
But you are strong and fearless
even though you are called, “Weed!”

Not moved by “their” words
you reach toward heaven
etching the night sky with lacy patterns,
your beauty only recognizable
when Light filters through.

Let Light be.
Be in Light.

When Fear Postpones the Birth of Dreams – Guest Post by Shelly Miller – Painting Prose

March 7, 2012March 7, 2012 / kd sullivan / 44 Comments

What more can I say other than that I adore Shelly’s writing? I am thrilled beyond words to hear her mention the four-letter b word, “book”, and can not wait until she shares her thoughts with the world. Her prose is full of images both visual and experiential. In this piece, I see daffodils waving in the wind, and I feel the heartache of letting a child mature…and as usual, she stirs my emotions with her poetry in prose. Please accept my invitation to visit her beautiful blog…Redemption’s Beauty.

Daffodils stand at attention in perfect rows, their yellow faces saluting the sun. Branches sway windy, waving pink fairy dust as I breathe the beauty of what blurs past my windshield. New life pops confetti on bare branches and today, I let go of my daughter’s hand. Watch her dance the last stanzas of childhood in this circle of life we share.
She turns sixteen today. A day she begins to collect her own packet of seeds to scatter. (Mark 4)
Because aren’t we all farmers of what he gives?
Yesterday I squeezed her dimpled knuckles. Today, wearing wet hair and tall boots, she drives away in her white Volvo with cardboard owl swinging from the mirror, pop music vibrating.
Later, in the quiet empty, I wipe off the syrup pitcher, put her dirty dishes in the sink, notice the pile of cards holding checks from friends stacked neatly beside her place at the bar. Pieces of hope paper stacked for the promise of a mission trip to Jamaica.
Sixteen years ago, H caught me standing in the closet sobbing silent tears over my pregnant stomach. Fear puddled out in knowing what my mind could not comprehend. That this life inside would change me, change us forever. I didn’t know how to master cultivating a successful life.
Who can master a life He gives with a story already written?
A book of invisible pages revealed to the muse in whispers by the author, at the turn of each day.

Last night, I crawl into bed next to my husband, sigh deep and he asks me what I am thinking.
I share my brick on the chest feeling over the birth of this book-writing journey. How words stumble when someone asks me why I haven’t started the book yet. Because I don’t know how to conquer this petrifying perfectionism that needs to know the outcome before I start something new.
Sixteen years later, I am pregnant once again, gasping for breath and knowing I won’t know the outcome about this either. The fear of failure postpones birth.
When He gave me my own packet of seeds all those years ago, they came with simple instructions. Just plant, water and weed. The outcome, well that is His job.
I cannot see all of the beautiful blooms yet on the life that is my daughter; what color they will be, how tall they will grow, how long they will remain on the vine. I cannot linger over the engraved letters on the spine of the book penned in my name, know how many hands will hold it, or how it will transform a life.
But I will continue to do my part: plant, water and weed.
I will wait on Him for the outcome.

But those that were sown on the good soil are the ones who hear the word and accept it and bear fruit, thirtyfold and sixtyfold and a hundredfold. Mark 4:20 ESV
Are you stuck because of fear of the failure? Has it kept you from birthing a dream?

Please take the time to comment and let Shelly know how much this piece blessed you!

If this is your first time here, let me explain what we are all about. We are a community started by Emily Wierenga. It was called Imperfect Prose. She is on a bit of a vacation as she has some extra responsibilities at the moment.

If you are new, please check out Emily’s blog. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and you need to be acquainted with the woman who made all of this happen!

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