The Final One – Grace, God,and What’s Next

Today is Day 31. It’s the end. It’s the beginning. The collective is here for the unwrapping.

Chapter One

Thank you for walking out October with me. Or just joining me today. Its Grace that you do.

The words. They have been stirred up and scrambled a bit. These words our tools.

And they have been fragile, tender, chosen with some care. Delicate the words. And each a shade of different.

As prayers, worshipers, delighters, praisers, writers, poets, bloggers, mommies.

It is  our words. They are our tools.

To pray to our God, to worship our God, to raise our children, to sing our songs, and lift our voices.

They lift up, they give voice, and they give Hope.

When I began I started this series walking out a plan to write daily. You can reflect with me on my dailiness. here. (Or lack thereof, or good intent, or best laid plans).

What grace it is to write at all. If writing is your passion. What grace it is to write and meet a friend along the way.

What is this writing journey but a step and a step and another. To touch a soul with a phrase or a word. To write of life and have another lean in soft or lean in hard and say I understand or better, so much better that speaks to me and it is sweet. And it is tender.

Your eyes here with me are a gift. He brings them to the page.

Your heart beats, steps in stride with me, walking it out with me. Gift.

And all these words that have been and words to come, are reflecting, praising, processing, speaking, telling, of this life He gives. And to Him glory.

Of the Grace He gives, and its delightful amazing.

Of the Hope that’s in Him and its radiant.

May He be the audience of one for whom we write the words of our life.

To serve Him, praise Him, seek Him, and abide in Him.

Chapter Two

Once upon a time there was a blogger who found a hope-filled community of writing friends along her way.
And it is good.  And it was very very good. And it is great and safe and a wonderful delightful place.  And there were the  words woven, words shared, words prayed, and words passed like the peace in love, back and forth, from and to. And a life was richer because of the words. Shared.

And stories were written, life was written, and bumps and bruises were written out, and fears released, and hope captured, and God praised.

And she thanked her God for the words , for  breathing through them. For bridges built with them, to others and to her Gift Giver. For Joy found in them. Each one full and rich, like figs picked from the tree,  placed on the lips to delight and consume.

And there was Grace, abundant and amazing. Grace when time was multiplied, time was hard, times were filled with questions and seeking.

And there was Grace, abundant in the extending of words, out. Releasing them. Freeing them. Sending them out, to go and tell.

Out into the bloggy world.

This very imperfect prosety. These very flawed proems.

The voice that trembles, seeks to be and form and speak.

He gives another day to pick it up and form the words. To build community and simply sing a song. To tell of Him and His amazing Grace.

Another Day. A gift.

Its Grace.

And I am writing of those moments, when Grace has appeared, wrapped in Love, dipped in Love, signed in the wet ink of Mercy.

The eyes of the heart record and tell. And thank. And the words keep marching out, prancing out, dancing out, this narrative, this story, of this one wonderful life.

The one He so graciously gives.

Chapter Three

What’s next?

Surprises. Trust. Expectancy. The beautiful. The wonder. The very very ordinary.

And the leaning in and bending the ear to Him, for words and inspiration.

Thank you for reading, journeying and always encouraging.

As a thank you I am giving away a piece of wonderful jewelry from Tracey Anderson Cooper, a friend. Just leave a comment to be entered. It can be a word. (These are examples of her line,.I will choose a piece in stock. It will be lovely, truly.)

{And when you leave a comment or a word, would you consider your own little dream of what would be next, here. Your own little wish of what you would want to read here. If you do. If you shall. An idea, a thought. Its Gift that you would.}

Are you journeying daily, here. Humbled if you would. Be here daily, just me and you and the words. Click here to receive daily emails and join this community of words.

Joining Duane, Emily, Ann, Mary Beth, and Jennifer.

Hunkering Down, Holding On, and Wrapping Up

Today is Day 30. Thank you for being here for this series which ends tomorrow. Tomorrow will be a post of summary and surprise. Will you be here? There will be a bit of wrapping up. If you missed a post and would like to read the collective, it is here. Or click on the 31 Days Series 2012.

There is a bundling up on the horizon. These winds that blow, they howl.

There is a wind wailing, wind blustering.

And they gust and grasp, blistering with biting winds, swirling whirling, gusting blasts of artic, cold and cutting crisp.

The words huddle together and bundle up on the page. Shivering, shaking, trembling, quaking.

Cold, yet clustered in the sea of circumstance. The words still rattle and roll, knowing tomorrow comes, a conclusion, a closing an end in sight.

They perform a triage on the ones trumpeting the rallying cry, trumpeting their cause. And they choose for the day before the day of wrap up, circumstances and storms of life.

As the trees tremble, and as the world quivers and quakes, the storms of circumstance take their place in the series.

The natural life collides in the realm of the spiritual.

And the elements on the outside mirror the elements on the inside, of the life.

So we look to see how deep the roots have clung to the soil of Faith, the soul checks her face in the mirror and looks for signs of deep abiding.

Did we prepare for the storms of circumstance by resting in Him, abiding in Him, calling on Him, looking to Him?

All before the storms.

Did we fall on Him, lean on Him, learn of Him, read of Him, know of Him, cry out to Him, all before the storm?

And in the midst too. And right smack in the middle too. With a swirl and whirl and roar of the winds of challenge and change, are the roots clinging hard and fast in the soil. Is the soul rich in Him, in the nourishment and black rich soil of His hand. His offering.

Is the heart fixed on Praising in the midst and Praying in the middle, seeing in the circumstance the what is good and worthy of praise. That there was an element of saved from worse and saved from death.

That the giver of life gives sustenance in the storms, and the Light shines if even dim it shines, the Light of Grace. Mercy holds tight and fast to the soul feeling feint and weak.

Prayer whispered, prayer spoken, prayer humbled, quivering shaking from the lips of the wind blown traveller, they are the life-line, they tie the soul in the worst of it, the all of it. It is the language of the broken. It is the language of the healed.

Do the swells of the seas and bitter of the cold sting to a blistering or are we cupped in the hand and safe in the place of sheltering in the midst, in the middle, right in it?

Hunkering down and holding on, tethering to shore and tethering to a body, strong and bold holds us upright. Hunkering down in the warmth of the Christ-body, holding on to the Word and to the very hand of God, reaching down in the middle in the midst.

Wrapping up in Hope and Trust, bundling the soul in the expectancy of the calm after and the calming of His very breath and presence in the midst.

Don’t miss the very strengthening of the rocking soul in the seas of circumstance rolling in and down and on.

Don’t miss the strengthening of those who made it through and make it through and tell of stronger vessels for bracing and staying safe in all the turmoil, twisting and turning and spinning a soul.

There is safety in the harbor of Trust and Obey and it’s not a pollyanna children’s song. And its not a sugary simple served up platitude.

It is the very essence of the traveller in the storm. To huddle in the flock for warmth and safety, to stay where the Shepherd says to stay, to hear and follow the voice that guides and protects.

It is the body, when huddled and cradled and wrapped in Love and Encouragement that preserves its warmth and keeps the vital heat captured, fueling the life, fueling the heart and parts that beat and pulse, winds ahowling, winds awhipping all around.

And bending low while bowing the knee, the head to Him, calms her heart,  calms her spirit in the whirling wailing  blustering storm.

Was a heart prepared, is a heart preparing, does a heart prepare for all there is to come?

Nestled soundly in the arms, the warm embrace, of the Calmer of The Storms. The Lover of My Soul.

Oh to know the warmth in all He is and all He gives in the circumstances of  this life.

The buds are tight, holding expectancy and Hope.

And the blooms will burst on the limbs of tomorrow, in spite of the raging storms.

Hold on weary traveller.

Be strong pilgrim friend, look Heavenward trembling flock in the windswept tundras of this life.

The blooms are ripe and ready. The melting snow reveals the bloom.

The Christ is in this storm.


Joining Eileen and Jen.

Horse, of Course

 

Days 26, 27, 28, 29. This writer’s creative license to catch up on the series. The collective may be found here. Or by clicking the 31 Days 2012 tab at the top of this home page.

Joining Amber and others for her abstract writing on a concrete word. She is here, at
The Run a Muck. Today is HORSE.

It is like a full head on train wreck of the senses.

Down in the deep it lays dormant but when it is given some air, water, fertilizer and freedom it bursts on the scene like a herd of wild horses.

There is power in a word. And we don’t always know how much.

Or we don’t know how much to give it, or allow it. Or release to it.

There is power in words and there is memory there too. You can let it out to graze and give it roaming privileges in the pasture, unharness the power, unleash it.

Let it rip, unbridled.

Loosen the girth. Loosen the grip.

I am young and leaning in the saddle, feeling the first passion of my youth. The challenges there in the ring, on the trail, in the stirrups, over the jumps.

Brushing the back and combing the mane, smelling the hay.

Learning to post and blistering up, bearing the pain on the boney knee, as a dancer on pointe feels it on the toes, and on balls, and in the ballet slipper. The pain of struggle. The passion mixed with pleasure.

The smells mingle in the air and they say that it is  the longest memory or is it the strongest memory. The smells , they linger in the heart.

The smells of childhood and all the senses’ memories, mixed in a toxic remembering of joy and loss. Blended in a batch of story, the narrative of your living. Rooted in early youth. A launching pointing, a jumping off.

The dirt and dust and leather. The blends of animal and barn. The grasses and hays and helmet, black velvet hard a smell like no other with sweat of brow blended in and staying.

We take all the pieces of a life. Don’t we.

And ride off into the grasses greener, grasses leaner and carry them in the saddle with us. The horse that was an elusive dream. The one I never owned. A longing of my childhood. Spending  hours at the barn. Longing for ownership. To name an animal, train it up. Call it mine.

And when my knight in shining armor rode in and swept me up, they came back again, the horses.

And later too, in a mid-stream season of intersecting with the hooved loves of my life.

And even just a few nights ago, they came racing back, trotting back in.

A blaze of happy memory. The wild ponies on the coast of my youth. The stories. A thread between the life of an old salty captain who crossed my path and smiled his toothless grin as he shared with me a co-mingling of memory. Captain Froggy, the Shrimp Boat Captain and I. And the horses.

(Captain Froggy and his guitar)

The wild ponies of the banks were a piece of me and a piece of him.

And these threads that run through a life, they can keep running if you watch carefully.

This thread of memory, the horse, of course.

The earliest memory of passion for getting on the back and being free, happy, brave and scared all together. Of breathing smells and waving manes. Of feeling strong and feeling the hearts beating in tandem, human and horse. Horse and human. Rocking in the leather, galloping through at break neck speed, taking a jump.

The rocking in the saddle, like a baby in the sea of uterine waves. Rocking. Like the baby in the cradle lulled to sleep by the slow pitch to and fro.

The holding on, steering the bit, to the left to the right in the ring and beyond. Guiding in love. And it was always the eyes. The deep piercing orbs that pierce the heart and poke into the soul.

A word can wield a lot of power.

And we take all the parts and pieces and they are living metaphors. Or are they life itself. Following the thread, woven and weaved. Seeing the messy and the missed, the beauty and the treasure. In the all.

And the horse is not through with me yet.

Joining Laura for Play Dates at The Wellspring

On Writing

Today is Day 26. The collective is here

What is there about writing, recording thought, expression and dreams? Dropping your heart on the page, like The Bomb over Japan.

It feels like that sometimes. A writer knows that earth-shattering feeling when all gets dropped. Like raw egg on black hot asphalt, the words of the soul land and spill, drip, spread out.

And live or breathe or shrivel and die.

The words on the pages of the journal, the book, the back-lit page, the spiral-bound rule lined holders of the heart.

That pulls the writer in like a Hoover, cap off, intense sucking reeved up for maximum draw of dirt and dust.

That pulls and sucks the unsuspecting writer in, unable to rest or sleep until the deed is done.

Until the words land safely on the page. With seeming importance given them, as though they were the Mars Rover landing on red planet surface.

The investment large and looming. The safe arrival, of critical import.

The words, in need of a policy from Lloyds of London, assuring they are placed and put, carefully so carefully in their proper place.

Gingerly, tenderly placed for optimum understanding. Like a gemologist shines the jewels, the writer hones the words.

And will not rest and cannot rest until the blood is poured, crimson red on page.

What is there in wrangling of the words. How placing them in the desired place, the writer cuts and pastes, slices, dices, arranges the puzzle pieces, carefully to make the pieces fit. Finds her peace and makes her peace, wrestled words lay flat out on the mat.

Squinting the eye and nodding the head, tilting and turning and reading the phrases, turning them over in the mind’s eye. Adjusting the lens and re-reading the phrasing.

Searching for meaning, looking for clues. Seeking something. Framing the words, wrapping them up. Giving the gift of the heart. The soul.

Leaving nothing, giving it all. A story, a poem, a narrative. Art.

The one which makes the picture. Makes the point.

The one that states the case or paints the dream, in words, all black and white.

Preparing the words for Fancy Dress Ball, tuxedoed black tied words. Dressed and ready, ready for a gala telling, celebrants of all life’s worthy hurly burly wonders. The words shout, trumpeters of praise.

Dressed up, sent out, dust brushed off, rolled lint brush dances up and down, catching all imperfections, of the words, your soul. They arrive decked out beauties on the page.

What is there in the picking up the pen and writing down the day, the life, that feels for all the world like giving birth. Like dropping hope, pregnant possibility on pages virgin white.

What makes the writer want to make her point, write her art, translate emotion make it fit in a line and on a page?

Pure and white, brittle, fragile. Words.

Isn’t paint a safer way to tell and show? Brush strokes color vibrant swoosh and swish. They make a sumptuous painting suitable for framing, galleries and museums are built to house the work of painters. Guilt gold frames grabbing glory, proving worthy artist’s work.

Why does spilling on the page, words, the one dimensional wonders that they are, bring joy and indescribable release?

All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.

–F. Scott Fitzgerald

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed

.

–Ernest Hemmingway

It is the need to use the voice. A hunger to taste it formed. To see if birthed. To feel it fly. To smell it baking, all senses swimming, juices stirring.

It is desire to tell of life, the way that only she can tell.

A contented release, as blowing out candles on the cake. A calm comes after holding in, the breath puffed cheeks, skin turned blue in the holding tank.

The air escapes, and new comes in, the intake and release.

A rhythmic ebb and flow of living and recording.

A form of rebirth.

Life is new, life is recorded.

The chapters told and stored.

And the words flow like life-blood through the writer’s veins. The pulse, the beat, the vibrant crimson river.

The writer’s life of words.

In the beginning was The Word.

And in the living is the word.