(Here in Florida, I am often asked, “Where are you from?” Then I name the states I have lived in, but Katelyn, our remarkable teenager, reminded me there is so much more to that question.)

I am from nimble hands . . .

• that tickled my skin while pinning the seams on my hand-me-down dresses.
• that transformed our garden carrots, onions and peas into savory servings that sustained us.
• that aged and wrinkled . . . yet painfully continued to shape and carve symbols of love.

I am from broken parts . . .

I am from old cars with broken parts like this 1950's Chevy that limped and chugged us to our first year of college.  You couldn't get the doors to close without a hammer. 

Even in our Sunday best, Sandy and I would clumsily wield a heavy hammer on the door hinges. Once they gave way, we would toss the hammer into the back, slam the doors shut, dust off our clothes, straighten our hats, regain our best lady-like postures, and then we walk up the front steps to enter Our Lady of Victories Church. 

I am from other broken things, like shattered hearts that became unhinged after loss, who slow-walked through life until finally finding closure and healing . . . and from bread, broken in memory of Him. 

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I am from the ordinary. . .

I am from generations of the ordinary, the wretched, the poor, the hopeful, who came ashore with nothing in their hands except for a fierce legacy of hard work, steadfast faith and devotion to family.  That in itself is extraordinary.

I am from girlfriends . . .

I am from strands of untangled friendships braided together in harmony.  Together we smoothed out the knots. 

I am from books . . .

• that open my mind to gardens of thought.
• that map new roads to travel.
• that delight me with the wonders of words.
• that ignite the poetry of life that never cease to inspire.
• that simultaneously echo me back and jettison me forward.
• that generate the power of inquiry.

I am from days at the shore . . .

My shapeshifting ocean, 
Surging and heaving, 
I grew up believing 
She knew me.

Hold on to those days
That float away.
Seagulls flying ore' the sea,
Laugh at the futility.

Blurred they may be
Where sky meets sea.
So I meld into fluid
Divine motion . . 
,  
 . . . the current that quenches the soul.  

I am from scraped knees that could bend, but not break . . .

I am from little knees that could bend each night while holding onto beliefs, that while tested . . .  could not . . . and did not . . . brake.

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And I am from Christmases of glistening tinsel, memories of long shiny threads of light, that once flickered and are now gone but not forgotten.   

GH

Where Are You From?

Blessed is the man who trusts in the LORD, and whose hope is the LORD. For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters . . . and its leaf will be green.
      -----Jeremiah 17:7