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To Open Doors and Late Night Talks

/ A. Ward, LPC / 1 Comment

When my feet find their way unbidden to your front door, it thrills me to my tired toes to see the welcome mat already out and the porch light on. Cheery blooms wave their hello and you always have time for a chat. I just love that. Part of me often wonders if you were expecting me, for you rarely seem surprised. Even driving home from college on impulse, you knew when I was coming.

The cool oasis of fern and flower you’ve created under the oak tree that somehow survived being mowed over repeatedly as a sapling, is now a haven on a hot summer day. Fresh iced tea in the glasses- yours always tastes the best. The smell of earth and foliage as you water and evening comes, bread crumbs tossed out for the birds, and grandchildren hanging from every limb of yet another stubborn tree.

Neighborhood children still knock on your door in the hopes that someone can come out to play. “Who’s that one?” I asked pointing up in the tree one afternoon. “I don’t know,” you smiled, content in the knowledge that your long empty nest is still a safe place to land. “I’m sure he’s a friend of somebody’s.”

For as long as I can remember there has always been room for one more at your table: whether for a friend we drug home without warning in our teens, or bonus sisters from across an ocean and our ever expanding family, or even now, for world weary grownup children who stop by unannounced when these in-the-middle-years get the best of us and we need a moment’s respite.

You in your chairs, pets stretched across laps, your warm greeting blending with the smell of supper on the stove are among the most comforting things in my memory. In winter a cheerful fire in the fireplace warming my back until it’s hot to the touch. In summer, lazy swims and long talks under the moon, watermelon by the pool.

Washing my hands I catch my reflection in the mirror- the same one that’s seen my image since I was four. I’m older now, but the plush carpet beneath my bare feet and the pictures on the walls whisper the same comfort they always have. After dinner conversations roll easy off the tongue- the day’s worries and job and kids, dreams and heartbreaks and old neighborhood news.

Hugs goodbye- the most familiar ones I know- as I head for the door. “Goodnight. Thank you for dinner. Have a great week. Drive safe. I love you.” Each word heartfelt and steeped in belonging. This sense of home goes deep into my bones and warms me as I step into the cool night air and make the drive to the home I’ve built for my own children- may they always feel it’s call.

An unplanned evening made extraordinary by the ordinariness of it all. This place you’ve made a home- the love, the time, the daily welcoming in- is a gift I’m still unwrapping. It is a blessing to my life and to my children and their children and to too many others to count.

Thank you.

The Friends That Stay

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

 At a recent conference I honed my craft and spent precious time with friends both old and new. Some I hadn’t seen in twenty years, but in the breath of “Hello,” time collapsed. It is one of life’s great blessings to have friends like that. You know the ones? The ones where it doesn’t matter that twenty years have come and gone, and picking up right where we left off is as natural as the laugh lines that now crease our faces.

We spoke of everything and nothing. Children born, life lived, friends we missed, victories won, and lessons learned. 

We laughed til we cried, talking into the wee hours of the morning as we rushed to fill the gap of years in the span of days, yet lingered over conversations poured out like wine that time might move more slowly. 

There is a sacredness here. In the celebrated and mundane. In sharing a meal and breaking bread- whether at the trendy hotel bistro between sessions or around a campfire in the Canadian Wilds when all we had was time. It shows up when we commit ourselves to community, to living up close and in the real. Somewhere in the sweating and the swearing and the striving and the praying and working towards a common goal, a gift emerges. 

Come as you are, let down your hair, pull up a chair, and stay awhile, only friendship is being served. Through reminiscence, new adventures, clinical and philosophical discussions, loud card games, and late night talks, we unfold our lives in turn. There is no hiding here. And no need for it either. They earned the right to speak truth into my life long ago, and that doesn’t fade with time. 

“We collect people,” one of them said, speaking of her own life, and where it’s taken her. This humble statement whispered, both simple and profound, catches me off guard. Collecting people, I can’t help but think, what’s more beautiful than that? As we go through this life don’t we all, if we’re wise, find a few souls to pull close and pour into? And in so emptying ourselves, are filled in return, a blessing pressed down, running over.

Fear-Stained Heart

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

I have lived in fear of this day for over a decade. First in the abstract- a distant bridge to be crossed some day. When we’re older, wiser, more prepared. And then- in these last few months- as an end date. A day of unknown trepidation to which we were marching with ever gaining momentum. Could this really be the fix we’re looking for? That seemed too big a thing to hope. A promise too far away, and the cost too much to pay.


Was it worth the risk? How could we choose optional brain surgery? But was it really an option anymore? His seizures were getting worse, technology better, and we’d run the gamut of medications. Dare I trust my person- this wonderful husband of mine- to the lauded hands of the handsome young surgeon?
But then, it wasn’t just his hands at all. As the prayers and well wishes poured in, the wise words of a nurse and friend seeped into my fear-stained heart. “Good news is that the Lord has a steady hand.” Deep breath. We’re going to do this.


And the one who formed the oceans knows my name. Who spoke the stars into existence steadies the hands of the healer, and heals the parts of us no surgeon’s hands can touch. “Lean in and trust, close your eyes and fall, I’ve got you,” His voice seemed to whisper. My knuckles clenched. I swallowed hard. Tossed and turned in the sleepless nights as fear turned to resolve. Ride the wave. Trust in Him. Stay the course.


The body of Christ rose up and around me. My tribe showed up and answered the call. Held my hand a 5am, cooked meals, and watched my children. Cried big tears with me, helped me laugh out loud, and made me feel sane, even when I broke apart. They sat the watch, held their breath, celebrated the victories, fed me, cared for me, and prayed over me with love. Peace descended. Fear deserted. Hope overcame, and I knew I was not alone.


And the surgery? It went great. He sleeps peacefully in his bed tonight. Vitals are good, wit and humor intact. His grip on my hand is strong, his steady breathing balm for my soul. “He’s still him,” I confided to a friend as I hugged him tight. His eyes glittered with quiet understanding as they looked back into mine. I’d whispered my fears to him days ago, and we’d both cried. Friends filled the room, laughter trickled down the hall, and the road to recovery began. With my heart a little braver, my faith a little deeper, my love a little stronger. And my gratitude- as wide as the sky.


As for physical healing? We shall see. But oh, how I believe! For He healed something sacred in me.