Mandate of the Manatee

I can't explain why, but I absolutely love Manatees. With their large, white, squishy bodies, their adorably ugly faces, and the way they live their lives as though they completely understand the Shalom of Christ. The peaceful floating blobs of love and wonder.

I think about Manatees and their fragile, peaceful lives. I think about the scars they carry from the blades of boat motors and how each scar on each manatee makes them unique from every other manatee. I think about how those scars, long healed, will be part of who they are until they die. And still the Manatee swim about in their peaceful manner, seeming to accept the wounds as a part of life, a part of who they are and they aren't bothered by any of it.

Have I become so emotionally attached to my scars that I pretend the pain never happened? Do I let the pain determine who I am and how I'll live with other people? Do I offer advice to others to not dwell on their pain, get past it, get over it.

I want to be like the Manatee, where the Peace of Jesus defines who I am, and the scars that I carry only allow me to know that while I'm like every other human on the planet, I am also unique. Hurt will come and scars will form, but despite them, I pray that I can still rest and float and be at peace. The scars don't define who I am, they only mark the places I've been in the river.

Life Without Peaches

I call her my best friend, which is completely true, but she's so much more than that. Like Milky Way big more than that. She's the honey in my tea, the bean in my green, the fruit of my womb and she's 1,800 miles away, living out the as-near-as-perfect Freshman year of college that either of us ever dreamed possible. Pert Near Perfect. And I miss her. My soul has a hole that aches for her everything. I miss her smell, her laugh, the way she gets silly and sits upside down on the couch. I miss the brilliance of her thoughts and the depths of her insight. I miss the moments when she goes blond and says something totally stupid. I miss walking next to her and beaming with pride that she is so loved by so many and at the same time a mystery so worthy of the X-Files that it scares some off. I miss the way she can go to the refrigerator, pull out 5 random ingredients and make something unique and delicious. I miss her knocking on the bedroom wall at night to tell me to be quiet. I miss listening to her morning routine and the way she'd leave her room in a clutter. I miss nagging at her to clean up the mess she made in the kitchen/living room/dining room/library. I miss wondering when she's coming home from a day at the lake with her friends. I miss wondering if she's had an accident and lying dead in a ditch. Because they're always dead in a ditch if they're late. I miss the kettle whistling for 5 minutes because she forgot she was making tea. I miss road trips and shopping trips and girl lunches and chick flix. I miss having this other girl in the house that is so like me that I don't feel the least bit odd or weird or crazy because there are two of us almost exactly alike and that must mean we're OK.

Those nearly 19 years flew by like the hummingbird, Tweedle Dum, that stops by the feeder. When she was born, they/them told me that it would go by so fast and to appreciate every minute. Yea, right. There was that day when I just knew she was going to be Three and screaming at me F O R E V E R. But they/them were right. Before I blinked she was gone. All grown up. Living her own life and taking over the world.

I am immensely, hugely, ginormously, profoundly proud of her and all I can pray is that we will remain BFs forever. I love you, Face.