Author: KrisCamealy

wash me clean

She slipped in quietly, turning on one lamp near my bedside. She moved about her work without saying much, in a ritualistic sort of way–her arms strong, and face tender. She smiled at me when I opened my eyes, “I’m here to clean you up a bit darlin’.” Words as sweet as the Savannah taffy spun down by the river. In the dim hospital room, I glanced up at the clock–a bath at 4am? Of course, in hospitals, things happen when they happen, with little regard to what time of day or night. Baths are given according to charts...

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on re-learning how to pray

Sitting there in the darkened room while the book study DVD rolled on the screen to my right, I experienced the most jarring realization. We’ve been doing it all wrong.  Since my children were babies, we’ve practiced the folding of hands for prayers–tucking fingers together and over and under each other until they were tight enough to hold water. With hands tightly closed we’ve murmured and wrestled through mealtime prayers and bedtime prayers, through mid-morning school room prayers and middle-of-the-night fearful prayers. All of these petitions with our hands closed. How did I not see this before? Why is...

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you are a creative

Henri Matisse once said, “Creativity takes courage.” Courage runs in short supply with me. I am much less brave outwardly, than I am in my own head. But like anything else, creativity can be practiced. It’s like a muscle we have that when unused, turns slack. At first, the slow stretching is painful–perhaps messy. In the quiet moments of loosening our self-imposed discipline, freeing up our hearts to beat a bit faster, old wounds sometimes crop up. The swirling of a certain color on the page can remind us of a loved one, now gone. The smells of bread...

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reflections on beauty and lessons learned too late

Every year for Christmas, she’d give us roughly the same thing. My sister and I would sneer and groan at the oversize art books on “how to draw faces” like the ones you’d see in a Michelangelo painting. One time, my giant book came tucked inside a black portfolio–the real kind like actual artists carry their work in. I liked it well enough, but I remember doodling horribly in those face books. My markers acted as a stand in for make-up and I marked those beautiful faces up good. One year, she sent a box of pastels. Another time,...

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the path to freedom

I sit in quiet and wait. Though I’ve been nagging God for answers and insight, He remains silent on a particular issue I keep bringing before Him. I’m puzzling over the questions I’m asking–are they the right ones?  Is my focus in the wrong place? Maybe. And some days, yes. But whether I like it or not , I am on a journey of His choosing–or at least, by His allowance.  I’m in the desert with everything that implies. It’s lonely. It’s quiet. My feet hurt and my heart sits like a stone wedged between my lungs. I’m certain there is...

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finding your place in the story

Gathering the basket loaded with damp clothes and towels, I step out onto the patio.  I stepped out barefoot knowing the risks, as stray twigs and abandoned bubble wands press into the soles of my feet. The path ahead is sketchier than the first few steps as I must first cross the mulch, then pick my way carefully through piles the dog has left behind. My toes seek out the paving stones that bridge the mulch, still, I manage to find an errant wood chip or two with the soft spot of my arch. Wincing, I notice it, but I go on. It’s...

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God steps over the fence

He’s in tears over his propensity to worry. He’s crying over his chicken fingers and I know this is more than the fact that he is admittedly over-tired. These tears come from a deeper place. A fearful place I know too well. He builds fences around himself by way of rules and regulations, numbering steps that must be taken in order to execute the necessary details of life; fences that he thinks protect him, but in reality, shut God out. He doesn’t get grace but I get him so well, because it wasn’t until last year, that grace cut me...

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