Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: promise


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Love’s bright spot.

It always comes as a surprise — the morning dark. It is delightful though, that I still believe summer will never end. That the morning light will sprinkle me awake and pull me into the promise of ever. And I make those same promises back. I always have.

From the moment I stepped off the last school bus ride of the year. I’d drop what was left of the documentation of another year at Washington Elementary, and I’d pull off my bumper tennis shoes without taking the time to untie, and I’d wiggle my feet in the yet unmown grass, and to each blade of green that snuck through the spaces of winter toes, I would promise to enjoy every moment of sun lit wonder.

And oh, how I filled my pockets with light. Wagons pulled. Balls hit. Bikes ridden. Each one a bright spot to carry me through the winter I would never see coming.

I suppose it’s the same with love. All that light and promise. Even in the darkness, it never goes away. It wiggles through toes and dances in hearts, and keeps its promises. Ever.

I smile at the morning dark. I am not afraid. Everything is still possible. And I am surely loved.

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Spine cracking joy.

The leather spine of my mother’s book, “Divine Promises,” is almost worn bare. Each page, I know by the number typed in the corner, is still there, yet very few are attached. It is as fragile as it is beautiful, (perhaps that is the way of all promise), and it fits into the palm of my hand. Touching it, I can feel hers — her hands that searched for the meaning, longing for the promises to come true, daring them to come true, between her folded palms. 

As I run my thumb up the split, I know the pain she endured. I can name every crack. But somehow the heart held — her heart held. Her heart that clung to the promise. Her heart that allowed her to get beyond the wear, and find the joy, the laughter. And that’s what I feel when I hold it now, this exquisite joy. And it is nothing short of divine. 

We have not been promised “joy without sorrow.” I read this, feel this, daily. But joy, nonetheless. Beautiful, worn, spine cracking joy. It is barely more than the air that I breathe, but just as valuable, and I carry it with me. 

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Just before the necklace.

It’s hard to imagine your grandparents as people in the world. 

I don’t know for certain that he bought it for her, the necklace she’s wearing in her wedding photo, but I imagine that he did. His hands must have already been rough, as he held it. She would have smiled at him. Not a grandmotherly smile. There was no promise of that yet. No promise of land or house. No promise of nine children. Countless grandchildren. Only love. And a necklace. 

A necklace to be clutched. A lifeline to grab on to when falling so quickly. Falling so deeply into the unknown of love. A necklace to be covered in flowered aprons. Then in flour. Then removed to the bedroom dresser. As children grabbed for hair and neck — her love, his love, rested safely in a cottoned box. 

I only saw it in a photograph. A photograph of their wedding day. There was no stylist. Certainly not a wedding planner. No one to even tell my grandfather that the corner of his maybe only dress shirt was curled up a little. But there was hope. A hope of everything to come. Forever stilled in this photo. In the strand of this necklace.

I wore it on my wedding day. Too filled with all that stillness, all that hope.

I could have painted one on her, my newest portrait. But as her look came to life, I knew it wasn’t a look of everything come true, but everything to come. That feeling before the necklace. That feeling as he’s struggling with the clasp. Holding it up before her. Blowing the stray hair from her neck. Placing it around her held breath. All things possible. Mostly love. 

…and the clasp clicks.

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Promise

Promise

It was raining the first time I had a meeting with Brett Waldman at his new office. He had just left his father’s publishing business and was starting his own. A new company. A new life. It seemed appropriate that it was raining. Things needed to be nurtured. This company needed to grow.

We had a good meeting. I read him my newest book — Believe. (I guess that was the appropriate book in all this rain.)

It was really coming down when I was about to leave. Brett pulled out an umbrella from the stand by the door. It matched the decor (of course it did) — that was Brett — every detail. I shook my head, no that’s ok. No, he said. Take it. Keep it. Forever. Brett is not a temporary person. When he gives you something, it is forever, like an umbrella, or his support.

I was outside of my apartment, making sketches of an umbrella in front of the door, in the rain. I would paint that umbrella. I’m sure my neighbors thought I was crazy. But I knew it deserved the permanence of paint and canvas. This was not an umbrella, but a promise. One I still believe in.