Hope you like the look of my new blog. 

Why barefoot? Because it helps me slow down. To walk more carefully and softly with my eyes on the gifts God leaves all over the place.

I’m weary of keeping up with the crowd. So I’m putting my foot down…

Barefoot.

I refuse to live a busy life.

Just as I tell my boys, “No bad words like stupid or butthead.” I’m telling myself this year, “No busy.”

I’ve noticed taking off my shoes helps. Once I’m barefoot, I settle down. Admire the bluebirds on the fence. Almond blossoms on the trees. Search for soft places for the soles of my feet out here in the country.

Yesterday, I found clover in our lawn. The little girl in me longed to plop down and look for four-leafers. But I had baby on my hip and groceries in my arms. Yet, that clover looked so inviting. Right then I made an appointment to take off my shoes and bury my toes in the new clover come sunset.

To savor the remainder of my day.

The remainder of my life.

Search for serenity.

Make wishes.

Dream dreams.

But sunset came and instead, I fed horses. Chickens. Dogs. And grubby boys who often complain when I ask them to wash up before dinner.

But I hadn’t forgotten about going barefoot in the clover. Hadn’t given up on slowing down this year. Taking off my shoes. Making “busy” a bad word and learning to take life more purposefully. More gratefully. More gladly.

Busy: a word I refuse to do this year.

Refuse to be this year.

Refuse to live this year.

I’m slowing down and going barefoot in 2012 and I hope you’ll go with me.

Best of all, these barefoot days will be God days.

A standing on holy ground way of life.

The Lord told Moses to take off his shoes. Got the former Prince of Egypt’s attention with a burning bush, and then brought the real heat: A life on fire for God.

Don’t you want that?

I want that more than anything. To see my Savior at sunset. And sunrise as I did this morning. My bare feet buried in our living room rug as I stood at the window watching the sky go from night to morning. Black to pink. Watching clouds come afire. The horizon flaming gold. And just when the sunrise was about to explode, G2 pulls on my pajama pants.

“Cruz pooped,” he tells me.

“Just a minute,” I say, trying not to smell anything but sunrise. Trying to see God’s glory. Trying to enjoy a holy ground moment…

“He pooped. He stinks,” G2 insists.

“Can I have a break here?” I ask a four-year-old. “Look at that sunrise. Isn’t it magnificent? Don’t you want to dance barefoot on the lawn out there? Find some clover and…”

“He smells,” G2 interrupts. “You have to change my baby brother now!”

Cruz stares up at me just as expectantly. The look on his face proclaiming, “You can’t let me sit here in this poop. I’m smelling up the room. How are we all going to enjoy a sunrise in this stench?”

How indeed.

So I change Cruz and miss the crescendo of the sun show. And feel sorry for  myself…

Come on, Lord. Help me here, I pray as I wrap up the poopie diaper, throw it in the trash… Twenty years of poopie diapers… At least I could savor one sunrise.

So needing a break from being a busy mom today.

Back to the living room window we go. G2 now happy brother’s diaper is changed. Cruz again content on my hip. Coffee in hand. And then the miracle happens. On the other side of the window, the sunrise flames anew. How is this possible?

Watching in wonder as the sky glows again. Golden light spilling across the hills. Shadows fleeing as sunrise sprays the Buttes. God’s encore for me. And G2. And Cruz. God in his goodness stopping time. Starting the sunrise over for us.

What is twenty years of diapers? Twenty days? Twenty hours? Twenty minutes? Is it twenty times to get life right? Twenty chances to stop looking at myself and look to God for strength and peace and barefoot beauty?

So I won’t be going barefoot alone this year. My little men will be with me: G2 and Cruz, the monkeys I can’t keep shoes on anyway.

That’s G2 in the beach photo in the header of my new blog. Isn’t he cute? I took the photo on Asilomar sand in Monterrey when G2 was two-years-old, the summer I got pregnant with Cruz.

It usually takes me about a year to really see straight after birthing a baby. This year I hope to see gently. Intently. Eyes on sunrises and sunsets. Toes in the sand. In the rug. In the clover as I walk in 2012.

To be vulnerable with God. And with you, my blog readers.

Living in honest expectation.

Taking life… barefoot.