Whisper A Pink Amen

Wordcandy May

Whisper A Pink Amen

Though it snows in the west and rains in the east, may I dance

Though Spring crawls, baby steps this way, these days, may we sing

With the grey shadowing pinks and the clouds hiding  hope, may we still rejoice

Still, the season hides her beauty timid as a dove, may I trust

Though the memory of past joy overshadows pregnant possibilities, may I know

That light will burn bright hope around the edges of the dark

Through all the seasons, for forever

Glory, glory,  Hallelujah, whisper soft a pink and tender

amen,

a song of certainty.

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Joining Tweetspeak Poetry and Wordcandy.me and 100 sweet bloggers with a wordcandy writing prompt for the lovely month of May. This one from Lyla Lindquist is exquisite. But maybe that’s just me.

Learning To Live As A Child

spencer with butterfly on handI sat in the middle of a field of clover yesterday, cold spring wind chilling my bones while my insides were warmed by discovery.
I sat in the middle of a playground yesterday, not as a mother or grandmother, but as a new friend to small children.

And I walked through the backdoor of childhood and saw the world through the portal of wonder. It was as if I were a little Alice for an hour or two. But you don’t get there in the blink or the nod or the snap you might think.

No it is a slower dance than even I thought it would be.

Re-entering the world of little ones. You walk gently into sacred territory with respect and eyes wide open to wonder.

And it looks like  preparing for a make believe wedding with clover bridesmaids bouquets. And it smells like dirt balls thrown high to the sky. They are snow or dirt or sand. You speak it and they are changed.It feels like ice-cold metal chain. You hold the chain while you push the swing and if its March and Spring is late, the metal is cold as blocks of ice on your trembling flesh.

When I pulled the white down comforter up over my memories of the day and tucked myself into bed I remembered. I remembered what I learned from being a child, the stirring of emotions my backdoor entrance into childhood kept me awake. I longed to hold on to the day that I knew could not be repeated. Not one of them can.
I can still smell the clover, sweet and fresh. I lifted the flower to my noise over and over this day trying to recall if I remembered this fragrance.

But it smelled new to me. As so much of the day felt new. How had I forgotten the smell of clover or had I never recorded it in my youth.

Had I let my self grow so far away from the mystery and wonder of seeing the world as an Alice?

I asked my new friend who is five or so to see if she could find a four leaf clover. And then I waited for her return. Sweet excitement in her face, she brought back a hand filled with new discovery. That a four leaf clover can be a three leaf clover plus one borrowed leaf from another. That life can be viewed and seen in so many different ways. We limit ourselves as adults. I looked down at the three leaf clover plus the ripped piece from another, sacrificed to total four. Amazed by her creativity, I long to see the world with saucer-shaped eyes. To see it slant in all its mysteries.

At her invitation into child’s play, I entered into a game of hide and seek and found so much more than my friend hiding behind a tree trunk. I re-discovered play and release of the bondage of adult sensibilities, if just for a few minutes. Life is full through the eyes of a child. We watched dogs race and return a thrown ball to their human. And we found squirrels’ nests nestled in the bare tree limbs. And in these frozen moments on a cold spring day, I stared at a squirrel scratch an itch behind his ear. And helped my friend see two messy nests. Where have I been looking if not up. How have I missed so much.

And in throwing a baseball back and forth with her three year little brother, I observed meekness, gentleness, and forgiveness when the ball hit hard on her back. I learned in an afternoon in the park what I needed to tuck into my soul for a refresher course. I needed remediation on play.

I needed to count and run and watch a made up disco dance. And say good job. My soul was hungry for looking at art drawn in the sand with a stick. My soul needed  to watch a paper plate soar as a frisbee on a windy day. My imagination lay dormant more than I knew. Until it was cracked open a bit at the hand of a wildly creative girl and her brother.

Discovery came through the eyes of a child, on a cold day, in a park in Charleston. When the world of an adult was frozen, thankfully in time. And a dormant imagination began to  wake up to the new world that waits all around.

I was Alice for a day because of  friendship and a playdate. One boy and one girl helped me see the world through the eyes of a child. And I am learning to live as a child again.

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Joining Jen and Heather.

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Into The Beautiful

The broken shards, the razor sharp edges , cut like jagged glass. And we bleed. We bleed red, we bleed tears, we bleed fear and trembling.

The spinning earth throws us into a tailspin, head long into her tail winds. Upright vertical, we  now are nearly horizontal. Stretched by the force of  gale force winds of living.

We walk limp and slant. We walk bent and drag our weary cane, invalids on the life march.

Without Your beauty. Rust and all.

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Frame for me the beautiful every time and everywhere. Share your canvas, ripe and waiting.
And let me paint with You.

Lend  your kaleidoscope eyes to me. To see a sky while still barely breathing. Battered from the power of beautiful. Shaken by creation’s power. Every single time. You repeat and re-repeat your holy masterpieces. And form them into new again.

Point me toward the beautiful so I can see as you.

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Hold me in the beautiful, while frayed edges of my soul seem faint and frail and close to death. Mark the God art everywhere and peel the scales from my blind eyes. Take the old and make it new, once again.  you create and re-create at speeds  which dizzy human flesh,  spinning life  in your  formed beautiful.

I lay awestruck in the path of creation’s beautiful. Its blazing trail of color, texture, shape and form.

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Heal me with Your beautiful. Cradle me in the woven glory of your hands. Shelter me in storms of lovely where brilliant moons and radiant light drip down on life lived here. Walk me toward the beautiful. And lay me down in sheets of white linen crisp and cool. Where I  can slumber in the beautiful with knowing of your holy steady hand.

Rock me roll me into a holy beautiful, where I can dance with You. And wake to waltz in fields of beautiful, growing outside the portal of my world.

Teach me, show me beautiful, when broken cries come look at me. And help me see Your beautiful in the midst of raging deadly seas.

Just wrap me up in rags of sacred lovely. That bind my bleeding wounds. And let me feel your healing hands surround me as I lay there soaking in the salty waters, beautiful on sandy shores of grace.

Wash me in the white hot beautiful, clean, awake and ready to receive all beauty made by you. Remove the blinders on my eyes which block the morning dew and green spring new. That shadow, hide the up and coming shoots of Earth’s new offerings.

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And point me toward your beautiful, in broken, shattered, hurting places.

Teach me how to  find the beautiful. Paint it, write it, sing it out. Loud enough to echo toward the deaf ,yet soft enough to whisper with a sweet I love you.

Just spin me, twirl me, brace me in the broken beautiful so I can weave a masterpiece of beauty. And point always back to you.

With your gentle hands of grace.

Lead me steady straight

And cross me over mercifully,

Into beautiful.

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I’m asking God for one thing, only one thing: To live with him in his house my whole life long. I’ll contemplate his beauty; I’ll study at his feet. – The Message, Psalm 27

 

Joining Emily and the group of writers there that have become friends at Imperfect Prose on Thursdays. Come by and read, visit, quietly or drop your own words into the link up there.  Emily’s is the place for grace.

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The Healing – Letters From The Village

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There is a place
Planted, sacred, holy
Somewhere
In the light, separated
No darkness
There at all
That quietly waits to drip the peace

Where wrinkles smooth,
Hurt heals, tears  dry
Love prevails and grace rains down
Pelting, puddling pools of amazing
Grace

And there is a place
in the middle of life
Where forgiveness is holy
Set apart, the seed of unforgiveness
Separated from the soil
Plucked from a compost, mix of blackened sin
Parched place of holding fast

Struggle, sister, not in vain
To kill the root of hurt and pride
Resist the pull to hold to hurt
Let it go and breathe the breath of hope
New and fresh
The living hope that circles round the tender
Scars

And there settles in the folds
Of human flesh
A simple healing balm
Poured out by all the
But God’s we’ve ever read
Which lead when followed to a sacred place
Though drenched by oceans
Of your grief
The drying has begun in part

And there rests a holy mystery
A rising from the ashes
Mixed with rivulets of tears
A birthing of redemption
Burst forth, life new
Nested in the arms of tender loving
Grace
The mystery of mercy
Shall be a mystery while
We see this side of glory
But through fragile human eyes
If you should ask to glimpse forgiveness
Through heaven’s lens
The mystery dims, it fades
A faith restores wholeness in the healing
Worthy of a alleluia chorus and
Man’s boldest cries of amen.

So sing a song of healing
Whisper soft
Or trumpet loud

But fold in the notes
Of sweet forgiveness
And let the
Redemption song begin.

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joining sweet Laura full of grace at Laura Boggess dot com for her Playdates at The Wellspring and with Jen at findingheaventoday dot blogspot.com

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