The Stairs

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 18 Comments

I love Amber C. Haines’ writing. And she is inviting us to write with her on a concrete word prompt. Today its stairs. You may recall The Necklace. You will want to go read Amber—she has a truly lovely way with words. Her voice is distinctive and full. You won’t want to miss the words she weaves; art. Pure. Simple. Art. Her words. I write in good company when I write in community with Amber.

You could mark a life
by the number you choose. And by the speed
pace, rate,
like a heart rate.
The rate you take
the sairs.

The child me chose
to ride a bicycle down.
Child me
thought
it sounded
like a good
idea
at the time.

Grown me, well
they never grow
tired of telling
the tale.
It has a life
of its own.

What child rides
a bicycle down
a staircase?

The one who is
child full
of life
and child
full of wonder
wondering what
joy lies
in going down
a different
way. Not the
route
all the others
took.

And two’s and three’s
at a time
mark youth
she skips many
unnecessary steps
tedious boredom
in going a
decidedly predictable
way.
Life has much
to offer.
Why waste time
going up slowly
when you can
run down three-by-three.

The first
time he said I love you
there on a flight
of fancy stairs
frozen there
on them
frozen
by the words
Numb in love
The Patient One
held me
captive
in and on the
stairs.
Caught in a word web
of love.
The bridal portrait
tells a story
hanging from a nail
in the well of the
stairs.
She said I do
He did too.
Months later
bride me
portrait
speaks
to words
said in love on
the stairs
before the three
steps to the altar.
After that
its two by two tandem
taking the
stairs
together
for life.
Taking the stairs
A baby
In tow.
More babies
In tow.

They measure the heart rate.
After all. They mark
they measure
they record.

And after a new hip
Older me practices the
drill
in the stairwell
at the hospital
You can’t go
home until
you can climb the
stairs.
I am 52 with a body part
man made, not God-made.
My first prosthetic.
She climbed with a limp
for awhile.
She climbed
with pain
for a season.
She left her limp
behind.

They measure like a
metronome.
They measure speed and rate
Like rings of a tree, telling
age
They tell the narrative
of the life.

Up, down,
slow
fast
alone
well
sick
whole
scared
hopeful
tired
lonely
in love.

The steps on the steps and the stairs hold secrets to a life, lived ascending and decending,

The stairs.

Measuring marking a life, like breath.

Writing the story with every step taken,
a page turns.

the

stairs.

until she’s climbing a stairway

to
heaven.

the

end.

Counting gifts with Ann. Grateful for

*A crisp cool air in the warm deep South, peeks of a change, her name is Autumn

*A walk and a talk with a friend

*Such sweet new friends through the blog

*Such generous and kind friends through twitter

*Restored faith in social media for the good it can be when used rightly

*More and more a passion for writing and more and more grateful for God allowing me to see, use, and steward the gift

*A glimpse into the hope-filled future for a child and his college plans. God is good in revealing daily, that there is a hope, always. Hope for good things. Trusting Him to show us His plan.

*A long heart to heart with a friend. We sat in the dark at church after the last light had been turned off and dove into parenting with our hearts and our words. Grateful for this friend. Grateful for common ground on parenting daughters.

And linking with Ann today at A Holy Experience dot com.

And with Laura

Bliss, Whimsy, and Wonder(Autumn Is A Lady)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 11 Comments

When Autumn rolls around in the deep South
Sometimes you get to crack a window.
Sometimes you get to raise it high
At night in the fall, every now and
Again.
Every once in a blue moon, you cut off the air
And breathe in the fresh,
At night
In the South sometimes.
And if you do
And when you do
You enter a Lewis Carroll world of wonder
And whimsy resides in the night and in the dawn.
In the South after summer when the fall rolls around
Like a big sweaty mess she arrives.
But sometimes she sits still
Long enough to cool off and breathe deep
A touch of crisp
Fall air
Blowing in the window raised high
Or even two up to catch the wonder, catch the breeze
Hear the whimsy in the morning
Like Alice.
Wipes the dew off her brow, we don’t sweat, we Southern women
And Autumn is a lady.
Fanning herself in the cool of the evening, sipping tea
And blowing her fresh air through the curtains,
Billowing, white cotton- grandmother’s.
There is a feathered one there at dark early, dark thirty.
He sounds like a feathered stand up, doing his best to sound
Like a bird.
Truth is stranger than fiction.
Truth is its a bird chirping out bird morse code
In the dark, in the wonder, in the whimsy.
Truth is he sounds more like a psalmist
Announcing the new mercy of the morning
In the cool, in the dark, in the deep South.
Truth is he invites by proclamation.
Come wander in wonder and wade in whimsy
And see what new awaits
In the cool in the fall in the South.
He made, He invites, He extends
A walk into new, a journey
with Him
On the trail of the psalmist bird, dropped
Like breadcrumbs, wooing us
To the wonder of it all.
When Autumn rolls around in the deep
In the South
At His command.
And the small feathered ones
Seem to always know first,
As they call us out
Of the sleepy
Place,
And wake us up to wonder.

When Love Is Hard

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 28 Comments

When misunderstanding shakes rattles rolls off the tongue
And harsh meets abrasive in the middle of the ear canal
Where unintended unfurls rough and callous, words always words
When gruff and course mingle and moan and say the things, broken through the filter,
Broken through love
When she says and they say and we say and she doesn’t say
And it all falls down
With a bruise and a bump and a scar
And love is left on the sidelines
Love is a latchkey child
Left in a shadow waiting to love ,the verb
Left on the bench, injured but the action verb wants to get in the game
And be patient be kind
Just be
Where pride puffs up and the battle is fought and pride puffs up some more
While the battle plays on but the war has just begun
And love love love
Is all you need
And holds tight and he slips through and she holds tight and
He holds tight
And you never give up
They are children
We are all children
Children of the Most High
Then why is it hard
When the me and the we and the I
Fight for the leading role
And its my way or the highway, love
Bends in humility
Love keeps no record of wrongs and the love verb
Is quick to forgive.
To the moon and back
Till death do us part
On this side of eternity
Love hard
Love very hard
I do
I will
Love hard back
Forever
This is my solemn vow
By grace, by gosh, by golly
Love is all you need
Praying hard
Loving Hard
Praying and loving hard.

Linking with Jennifer and Duane and Ann and Emily and with Joy, with joy.


Also linking with Mary Beth and over at Women Living Well

The Necklace

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 24 Comments

It was gold. It was a circular, pliable, bendable, wire.

It still is.

He purchased it on our trip. The one we took the day after we stood before the robed one and said, forever, we do. And there were hundreds there. And really the One who matters the most, the Most High. He was there.

He still is.

Today is always a new mercy morning. This one is our twenty four year mark. Of being linked and bendable and pliable. And tomorrow will be a new mercy morning. And the portal into the quarter century mark on a conjoined life.

It has held much, the wire. It has been to weddings and funerals and celebrations and church. On it has been threaded pearls and coins. An octopus and a turtle have hung from there too.

And there was the coin from the bottom of the sea with the cross, raised you can run your fingers over and touch the trinity, or is  it deep-grooved recessed. Or is it both. Around the neck on the wire, it is heavy and it is large, but it is beautiful. Hammered encircling the coin, on the wire, the others, the dolphin, the seahorse, the sealife, the handwrought others.

And it, like the wire was a gift. From the Patient One who is here. And doing life and loving sweet, tender, deep, and gentle.

And bearing, like the wired gold treasure.

Who dripped sweat from his brow the day we said the vows and still does. Because of all the work. Long days. Long weeks. Laboring in love.

And of all the things we’ve lost, many and much that was lost. But not missed. There is no lacking. There is no want or need. Really.

We never lost the gold circuitous wire.

The one that holds the things. The one that she wears.

The one he gave in love.

And it is strong and weight-bearing. Capable of holding the delicate and the heavy.

A slim gold wire. always marking the early on. Always marking the continuity of the continuous conjoined love.

Wrapping around the neck, in love. Gold. Worthy of a gift to the stable. Given by a wise man.

Bending, not breaking. And holding treasures.

Always. At least we have today.

And the words we said before the Holy One infront of the robed one and the hundreds, they echo sacred, they echo soft. And two gold rings wrapped around, in love.

Twenty four years ago today. The glorious day we have, in love.

This is a post written with Amber and a community of writers on the one word prompt necklace.

Counting gifts, hopefully forever, but at least for today:

Marriage, twenty four years.
A doctor’s visit with a child that will lead to change… it looks promising, it looks good.
A night of celebrating, its all up in the air, its all good.
A night with all three kiddos home… rare and welcome…makes my momma heart soar.
A long talk with my momma after she left the hospital. It was so very long & wonderful.
The sun is shining bright though they’ve called for rain.
Time with the man/child in our bedroom right before we fall asleep. Precious.
Plans are made to be with friends a long way away for a wedding. Joy.
Laughter and open lines of communication with a child.
The kindest comments from the kindest readers any blogger could wish for.
New friends.
Wonderful time on the river. Beautiful friends. Beautiful day. A long boat ride to a yummy burger.

And linking too with Ann for Multitudes on Mondays and Michelle at Michelle DeRusha dot com. And Laura for Playdates. And with Jen at SDG

.