My eyes drifted to the very back.  There is a part of the fence I can’t see from where I scrub the dishes.

They run wild out there.  Sometimes their energy takes over and they stumble out like puppies tripping over themselves trying to get to the good stuff.

Sometimes I send them out… those times that my own energy just can not keep up.  Those times I want peace with soapy running water.  Just my dishes, me, and the kitchen sink.  Strange, it’s actually one of my favorite spots in the kitchen.  The sink.

This sink has washed dishes of 1000’s of meals.  This sink has rinsed boo-boos clean.  This sink has bathed babies, caught tears, and one too many times was readily available when morning sickness (in truth, all day sickness) couldn’t wait one. more. second.

This sink has been my big screen to the world of my young ones.  The secret garden of their youth.

I have had many conversations at the sink here.  Phone pinned to my shoulder, scrubbing circles over the parts of the pot already clean.  Scrubbing circles, listening to the voice on the other end.  Wanting to scrub away the pain, the hurt, the sorrow, the fear and uncertainty, the doubt, the shame… just all of it… from so many voices I have loved over the years at this sink.

The voices of my parents have become gravelled… grown quieter.  Eight years is a long time when you are in your 80’s.  Eight years is a long time when you are 8.  Eight years is a long time… and a blink.  My eyes wander to my little girl.  She is 8.  Just a baby when we came here.  Eight years is a long time when 8 years is all you know.  And it is just a blink.

The voices of my friends have risen and fallen at this sink… just like the laughter… and the tears.

The cherries… they hang from this window to the backyard.  I put them up there 8 years ago.  I had no idea then.

She gave them to me when I left home for the first time.  The place I grew up.  She gave them to me, gift-wrapped with a bow in the parking lot on a sweltering South Carolina summer night.  That was a long time ago.  I had no idea then… she would be gone 12 years later.

A gift, you know, to have no idea.

This life as a military wife has kept me in this place for a long time.  It’s unusual to stay in one place for this long.  Ten years in one place and eight in this home.  This gift to watch our six little ones grow from flailing to crawling to sprinting legs that fly past mama.

My eyes drifted to the very back.

Just over the hill the yard slopes into woods… just out of sight.

I pulled on the rain boots.  The ones covered with hearts.  I get tired of the boring.  The black boots.  I found boots covered in hearts.  It’s on the rainy days that we sometimes need a few more hearts.

It was actually sunny, but the boots would be just right for the lurking poison ivy.  The stuff that creeps and crawls and licks at our heels.  Only later do we know that it has touched us.  The damage can sometimes show up much later.  Sometimes the things that touch us, the ones that seem so benign at the time… they show the damage much later.  Yes, the boots covered in hearts… they would do the trick.

I had to go back there.  The big old oak tree.  The woods, the peace, the quiet.

There is a trail through the back of our yard.  The trail itself has been long swallowed by brush and trees and time.  The tree line is what remains.  You can see the line of trees stretch beyond sight.  The trail was worn thin in its heyday.  George Washington rode this old road.  From his capitol home to the harbor city. Years and years and we have no idea.  The years… a blink.

It was the wind that day that caught me.  The kind of wind that whispers and names itself wild.  Just the sound of wind as the leaves turned belly up in anticipation of quenched thirst.

Eyes closed, I just stood and felt the wind.

This wild wind, blowing in all directions.  The whisper…

It’s all going to change.

You just can’t capture a moment.  I tried to capture this wind, but on the screen it just stood still.  The beauty is in the motion… and we just can’t capture the motion.  All we can do is move.  Be still… listen… and move.

I found my way to the bench.  A small clearing with traces of marshmallows melted and sticks charred.  I’ve watched from my kitchen sink countless time… I wonder if I forgot to come out here… I wonder if I forgot to move… one too many times.

The sound of squeals woven through the blowing breeze on this day.  This wind of change blowing His holy purpose through our comfortable secret garden.

The plans we make, the routines that keep us flowing in forward motion, the secret gardens where we hide from the world.  This garden where we have been planted for a decade… where we bloomed into something entirely new.  From five to eight of us.  From blindness to sight.  From stillness to motion.  From doubt to devotion.  From fear to faith.

I just don’t know.  I have no idea.  This one moment in time to the next burst of wind.  Unpredictable.

With each gust, this crescendo of hope.  This hope that His holy purposes cast our doubts to the wind.

I have no idea where this will take us.

The one thought in my mind… the whispers growing louder… my sight growing clearer… it’s a promise.  The number he flashes before me over and over.  This number… He has reminded me to pay attention to Him again and again.  He has a way with all of us… if we would just pay attention.

It’s 3:33 pm.

I smile.

I hear You.

I know it’s time to move.  To leave this place where our roots have grown stronger.

It’s time to move into the plan of His choosing.

I know this.  This wind of change is the one worth riding.  This wind that whispers, that beckons, that commands… this wind is the breath of Life.

The breath of life that brings me to leave the secret garden…

and the kitchen sink.

Jeremiah 33:3

Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.