Category: Faith

In Your Own Words — Restoration (A Guest Post On The Blog of Charity Singleton Craig)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

Join me, please as I share my word of the week Restoration as part of a beautiful series hosted by my writer/friend/blogger Charity Singleton Craig.

Every other Thursday, Charity invites writers to writer about their word of the week. Mine,

Restoration — noun

the act or process of returning something to its original condition by repairing it, cleaning it, etc.

the act of brining back something that existed before

the act of returning something that was stolen or taken

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Restoration

(Fly with me over to Charity’s. It is a beautiful place filled with her words and the words of her favorite writers.  And my poem is featured there today. What an honor. Join us...Click the link and you’ll be there by the magic and mystery of the internet)

Things That Never Were

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

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Things That Never Were

If all the words that never were
written down
never were allowed to
leave
the fingertips
and all the souls that were called
to come
never came and sat a bit
lingering on the warm sweet breathes
never hearing the sound
of every silent word
that never left
a heaving heavy laden chest
swollen, wrapped in anxiousness

never stopped to stay awhile
nor sit
and tell the stories of the simple things
in a wooden chair
creaking, slow
while rocking back and forth
side by side out on the wide and open
porch

and all the joy that was due
a pregnant waiting
never giving birth
never delivering

you or you

and all the colors that were mixed and meant
to
stamp out dreary shades of
white and black
melancholy of a two-toned world
never were

and you had never come to me
never with a kiss upon your lips
nor flowers, mixed bouquet
picked from the garden
that was never planted on our land
and  I had never come to you
what a love-less nothing
life would be
untold stories of un-lived lives
that never were

left out of all the dreams
and even out of our imaginings

void

the never were’s

of you and me

amazing grace has written
instead
stories too beautiful to tell
or so it nearly seems

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joining Laura at The Wellspring for Playdates With God

Releasing The White Knuckled Grip

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

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Releasing The White Knuckled Grip

What would you say to a girl and her dreams
Teetering on the edges of time
Laced in every shade of hope
Fringed in simple, ordinary
Longing and love

How would you take her heart in your hand
Cup it and calm it
Fill in the cracks and crevices
Of dry rot
Questioning and doubt
Tuck in the ragged edges of fear

Where would you tell her to lay down her dream
The one that’s unraveling and
Two sizes too big

In love, I whispered this
Hold on loosely, release your hard-nosed, white knuckled grip
Unfurl your hands like a banner of peace
Let it wave and dance in the air where it’s free
Give it room to sway in May’s warm breeze
Let it linger, not languish
But let it out of your sight

On the edges of time
Time,
It will tell her
It always does

Quiet, she waits

Praying and hoping with fingers
Releasing their grip
She found it better like this
For this would not be the end of her dream

Or the death of her hoping
No matter
What they say
Ends and beginning and middles are funny that way

She chooses to hope hard, to dream big
Other and bigger and smaller and more
And less
Lead by the Spirit
Her new dreams will soar
Not because, but in spite
Of her

The sun sets and rises again and again
Set your soul dreams on new ones
Release the grip of the past
Press forth in gentleness, meekness and love

She’s been
Surprised by joy many a time
It may return, its likely it will

She heard me, I know it
For she nodded and smiled
And her spirit seemed freer
Because of release
I know that she heard me
Stubborn and headstrong
I’ve known her since birth

For
She is me and I am her
And we talk to each other
About these big things
Covered, protected
By Spirit and Truth

It Turns Out – A Children’s Story For Grown-Ups

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

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It Turns Out – A Children’s Story For Grown-Ups

It turns out
The shallow end
Is where the mud puddles are
And snakes creep
Each step taking her ankle-deep
In pluff mud and oyster shells
Razor blade sharp
Leaving her both bloodied
And muddied
A yucky combination
Of grime and blood and more
If she were a hippo
Grand and glorious it might be
Or even a alligator stalking his prey
Instead, she is a soul in need of a Savior
Sinking further and further
Up to her neck in muck
Paralyzed in wet, brown, slick
Ick
Like a child stuck in fear
Mud baths are for pigs
Not for grown ups
Alone and afraid

It turns out
The deep end is where life is
Best lived
In the waters far from shore
Waters cool, crisp like
Green apples, mountain grown
Bittersweet,
The waters run
And she should too
She was made for deep places
Never found the shallow
Had much to offer her
In life, in faith, in love

Equipped, she is
Created for diving off the end
The high dive made for the Bravest of souls
Into the dark cool, water
She shall dive
Freedom replaces fear, there
In love
Ocean of grace
Wait for her

And it turns out
The edge of the dark
Is the edge of the light
Thin veil of faith
Separates the two
She, quick to forget
Quick to unlearn
Sinking, not swimming
Setting for muck
Instead of a cleansing bath in
Warm Mercy waters, lapping her soul
With salted grace

It turns out
She would need reminding
Again and again
Child-like faith
Bold and brave
Seemed out of reach
Hers prone to
Sinking at the first big wave

It turns out
He knew this about
Her all along
And loved her anyway
And saved her anyway
And chose her anyway
And redeemed her anyway
It turns out

This is not the end.

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