Tag: 31 Days -A Series Of Words

Letting Go Of Worry

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 6 Comments

We had a meeting recently. One of many. Too many to count. And we discussed the problem on the table. The one of worry.

I shared of how it comes in the night sometimes. And  that capturing the thoughts is harder than putting active preschool twin boys to bed on time. They don’t want to settle down and just go to sleep. Worry is a wild toddler running through the aisles of Walmart.

Its like picking up the headphones at the UN to listen in and you pick up the wrong ones. The words keep coming, you wrestle, but cannot take them to the mat. The thoughts filled with worry. You cannot glean understanding and crack the code to the gnawing  nagging gibberish.

Three a.m. is not a good time to translate worry into a cogent plan, wrapping understanding around a problem.

And at the meeting I apologized to them, the Trinity. They were there, are there. Lovingly listening. Listening in love. I pour out my confession of my I know we’ve been through this before.

This letting go of worry.

And there is nothing worse and its not of Him. And yes we often go back to Release It To Me 101.

And how in this world do you solve a problem at three a.m. or any time of day or night without this highly esteemed omnipotent One who is available to love you through the thick fog of worry.

All you long to do is find the cold side of the pillow and snuggle like a pea in the pod of fluffy white down comforter and crisp clean sheets but worry runs roughshod over you like raging bulls.

Letting go of worry means capturing the thoughts and ushering them out of the mind’s door, saying nice try you wile ones, you are out of here.

I have confidence in Him.

You have no place in this life abundant, life transforming, life renewing. Life set free.

So tomorrow night, when the sweet black-blue indigo skies turn jet- black as coal. The night noises will come out to lullaby this girl to sleep with  a chorus of cicadas and crickets, hum of sleepy slumber night

And tomorrow night, the  cool side of the pillow  will hold the sleepy head and worry will be released in a pre-bedtime moment.

She’ll capture and release the foggy cloud of worry and let it go like fireflies in the night.

Good night my Day, you were good to me. Hello my Night, I am glad you are here.

Sleep tight, good night, don’t let the bed bugs bite.

And The Lover of Her Soul ushers her off into the land of wink-n-blink-n-and-nod.

And worry is no more.

This is Day 12. 

Click on the Tab on the homepage entitled 31 Days to journey through this series, the collective.  Or  simply click here. I am joining The Nester for the month of October and Shelly Miller at Redemption’s Beauty today for her series entitled Letting Go.

Joining Beholding Glory dot com on this Friday too.

The Simple

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

When Hurt and Pain and Death play hopscotch on your very life road,

The heart circles all pumping blood flow back to the vital. To the very critical need.

The life blood, crimson seeks to triage the need and it deems it is the need to see the simple.

Simply see the joy in the simplest. Of gifts, of life.

To circle back and gather round, all the heart beats round the life givers. Life enhancers.

A word, The Word, bread, The bread. Feasting on the written, feasting on the life bread. Feasting on His gifts.

A  Feast is pumpkin bread grilled cheese, say grace around the simple. Feasting senses on the just enough. Not more. Satisfied by simple.

All bells and whistles, accoutrement and clutter cast off for the bare boned simple.

Allowing simple to sing her song of lovely, sing her song of living. She leads us to her simple stream, a trickle flow enough.

Return of beet red male bird at the feeder, he who fights with self on glass. He beautiful. He a one man performance teetering eating seed. Act One, a simple show on window.

Art, the paint. Art, the song. Art, the page. Art, the wiper of the dusty dirty off the soiled  soul places. Art, the interchange of actors in the play of living.

Art, life’s extravagant simple embellishment. Art, worship. Art, creative man gifts back to Creator God. Simply seeing art in all.

And love in all its four greek meaning forms, the greatest though of these simply love.

He serves in small trips to the market, long trips eight hours round trip to provide for us.She speaks simple I love you. He calls, he smiles, he thanks.

All wrapped up in beautiful family love. Love, simple poetry.

And simple takes the chalk out of the hand of that hopscotch threesome on the life-road,

Writes instead we love here, love lives here, cursive on the black asphalt.

So all who drive, see simply, love.

See simple living, savoring of the gifts. Breathing deep the fullness, hope-filled breathes.

Simple  signs her name on the last line of the day, it is beautiful, isimply beautiful.

An alleluia chorus on an amen day.

This is Day 11. I am joining 31 Dayers at The Nester’s place for this series. 

And I am linking with Michelle.

 

Delicate Balance – Days 6 & 7

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

Who has not lived that doesn’t know that dance, the one of in and out, a bob and a weave of a clumsy waltz. Like a prize fighter penned in the corner. The bob and weave in the ring of life. A punch, one two, of difficulty, pain.
Who is not part of this commonman, every man, every woman club, begun by Eve and Adam. Thank you very much.
Who does not struggle to make sense out of the hard and the rough, to soften them down and smooth them out with words and love.
Who has not found a limb or two, maybe all four tangled in a web, sticky, ensnaring our hearts our lives, in confusion and hurt.

And who has not cried out, flailing hands towards the heavens and yelled like a child in the throws of a tantrum at God and asked why?

Is there one who has not sought restoration and reconciliation from broken life, like shards of glass, shattered into pieces sharp, pieces which cut through, bleeding life drips droplets puddle.

It is all that He wants to mend the cut, and cup the chin, and wipe the tear.

It is what He longs to do for child of Eve and Adam too. To mend, restore, the balance so delicate. The delicate pieces and places, He knows.

And in the wailing and crying there is Hope. And when the relationship slips to a place where balance is lost, like life’s level and equilibrum hang in the loss of balance.

Think on these things. Rest in His arms. And look to the Restorer to re-order, rebuild and realign.

The Carpenter, Builder, The Restorer of Hope, Rebuilder of Lives,

The Delicate Restorer of Balance, He mends the lives of the broken.

What Amazing Grace, what Amazing Grace indeed.

Writing in community today with Deidra and The Nester for the continuing series of 31 Days of Wonderful Words.

This is Day 6 and Day 7 of the 31 Day Series which we are a part of at The Nester’s. There a community of bloggers is writing for 31 days in October. If you would like to back journey on this blog and read previous posts in the series please do. Previous posts have included Ordinary, Savor, Hope, The Poetic, and Dancing.

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The Poetic – Day 4 (Part 2)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments


A Plea For The Case Of Poetry

She steps into a world of books, there may be millions there.

Passes under the bold B and the bold N.

The smell of coffee hangs heavy in the air. Pungent dark soil acid rich. Trademark of the brand.

And then her heart begins to race, or rather did it slow. At the sight of the section marked, not prose.

So small, as if a slight. So hidden, as if from shame. So narrow, as if to be a step away from invisible.

It, the section marked Poetry.

And there she learned what others knew, that there would always be just these few.

The precious jewels, ones penned by Oliver, Colllins, Frost and such.

That shelves and rows, long deep and wide would not be needed to house the ones that bind the words of Poet.

Oh there were many in the store. Plenty for the masses.

But the heart goes looking for the ones that don’t take 367 pages to tell the story.

With plots that twist and turn and round the bend, a trail of 95 charachters, all ripe and developed richly.

There is death and drama, suspense and gore, the author delights, you’ve been strung along.

With storylines and subplot and subsubplots thick with trails and tales, long and winding, longwinded, long

suffering. The epic. With perfect punctuation.

Prose, the never ending we are almost there, the author woos you in.

The end is not as you had dreamed, no joy in a poet’s brief and pithy telling.

But now she goes the way of those and wanders off verbosely.

And like the poet in the corner simply lost in thought,

she lost her way to build her case for more bookcases

at the neighborhood Barnes and Noble.

 

 

Joining joyfully with Emily for Imperfect Prose