the art of taking note
Dear Me:
Psalm 36:5 says “God’s love is meteoric, his loyalty astronomic,”
Jude 1:2: “Relax, everything’s going to be all right; rest, everything’s coming together; open your hearts, love is on the way!
1 Corinthians 13:7: Love “Puts up with anything, Trusts God always, Always looks for the best, Never looks back, But keeps going to the end.”
From,
Me ( with all content lovingly from God via The Message)
simple soothes with her less and her love
quietly providing the just enough
she raises up the now and crowns her as glorious
all the eye needs to see is framed by her sweet fingers
all the ear needs to hear is spoken by her soft breathe
all fragrance rests in the still and the calm and lingers for inhale
grace and gratitude flow in her presence
and the present is just as it should be
a restful place for the soul
Head down, eyes down, I walk. And decide that the vast seashore of this glorious beach on this day after super high tides and wind and moon will contain a vast trove of treasures deposited on this very beach.
So I walk and I look. I vary my path, zigzag from high in the dunes to down by the sea. I think as a collector of beach beauty ,what will seem special, what will be treasure, what will look like art from the hand of The Artist, creator God. What beauty lies here to be found and gathered and picked.
No basket, no bucket nothing to gather but my hands I makeshift my coverup into a place to hold my findings.
And at the end of this day, as we leave by boat I force myself to decide which pieces to take with me back to the land. I have a heavy load of beautiful conch shells, all chosen because they were perfect. Their colors, their shapes, their uniqueness, they are beautiful each one.
Two olive shells would go with me to my bowl of shells, collected over time.
But I found the greatest beauty lay in the oyster shell covered in barnacles. Blemish to some, beauty to others. They added their layer of interest to the original shell. And the moon shell, too she’s covered up. She bears the passengers, barnacles, attached to her. Giving her, this moon shell, an added radiance. Added depth of interest.
We return to shore, my flawed treasures in tow.
And later, as we slowly put along the creek in the little Boston Whaler, with day ending and night beginning we soak in more. And I record what makes this village special. What marks her uniqueness as a seaside town, unlike any other.
I look back at what was beautiful. I think back on what seemed beautiful. And while all the white boats and white houses against blue sky were and are, the little rusty Miss Candace caught my eye and I want to know her story.
Like a historian digging into her past with the hope of finding more by digging deep in discovery as the archeologist would, I guess. She has seen much. She may need a fresh coat of paint. She is perfect the way she is.
Her battleship gray and rust stand strong. She wears weather well. She has a life of stories that out last and outshine superficial exteriors. Her patina speaks softly of life and the sea. She wears weathered storms like a beauty mark. She is strength. She is beautiful.
And her neighbor Sarah. Her name means lady of high ranking or high standing. In Hebrew, princess. She wears her name well with dignity and pride, this little warrior of the ocean This shrimp boat whom others depend on to return to the docks with a bountiful harvest after long days and nights of labor.
She is small, but she is strong. I wonder at her past. I wonder of her hard times. And below the water line I know she too carries barnacles, firmly attached. Holding on, catching a ride through life on the sea.
They look steady. They look strong. They look useful. And as we pass through on a little ride through their harbor they seem peaceful. At rest. No pitching and tossing on the sea, in search of shrimp. Purposeful trips to the ocean postponed for a respite.
Story. Their story. Our stories. My story. Don’t they include the rust and the barnacle.
Isn’t the trip to sea which added the ding and the dent, one I want to hear. One that has depth and meaning and lesson. Isn’t it the one that added strength and charachter.
Didn’t the time she went out and almost didn’t return the one that shows she was tested out in that sea, that time when all seemed dark. Wouldn’t I ask her to tell me more of that.
Is the time of full nets and blue skies and calm seas the story I most want to hear from her. Don’t I want to know her overcoming times, her coming through rough sea times.
As I see her calm and at rest, covered up in peace and the still of her harbor, her dock. I share her joy in this time of preparation. She is beautiful at peace. And I am grateful that she will go out again, barnacles and uncertain seas and unknown trials to gather the shrimp which will go on my table. Shrimp that will delight my family, meal after meal.
Her story is of great value.
Your story is of great value.
Our stories, with all that they are, the beauty and the barnacles are there to be told. And cherished. Learned from. Drawn from. Celebrated.
Our journeys to the cross and by way of the cross and in the shadow of the cross.
And all God’s people say “Amen”
“Before God can use a man greatly he must wound him deeply.” Oswald Chambers.
The prayer cottage.
A place to go and sit before the Lord in prayer and supplication. Small and welcoming.
But in this season the prayer cottage for this sinful soul, is one of the heart. My heart.
And this dwelling place needs dusting off.
Spring cleaning is needed in this place.
The get out the rubber gloves, the bucket of cleaning supplies, the harsh abrasive cleaning products and start with the baseboards kind. A fresh coat of white paint and crisp linen curtains, exteriors would make this little prayer cottage look clean and white and prepared for prayer.Externals. Superficial tending to will allow her to appear to be dressed in her Sunday best. Ready for visitors. Those in need of what she offers.
Freshly planted window boxes dripping with color, vibrant and showy take the eye off the truth, place it squarely on the exterior and the shell, the mask. The outer.
But changing externals does just that. It doesn’t get down to the muck and the dirt, the soiled and the sin. When what needs changing is a rewiring, a change in the fundamentals, the foundation. The beating heart that pumps the blood. The place of life. And all of lifes joy and pain.
Just as the Easter finery and freshly polished nails can cover what lies within.
These heart places which need to be released of unforgiveness, anger, bitterness, distrust, disappointment need cleansing. They need to be washed in the blood. A paradox. Cleaned by blood. White by blood. The envy, jealousy, scraped off the walls of the heart and dumped in the trash, put on the curb, and carried off. For good.
These dirty corners here in the dwelling place of the soul, the hearts yuck ,need to come clean. Room inspection is required, the looking under and over and around for all that is ugly and unpleasing to the One who made me.
We huddle over His word and with furrowed brow wrestle with forgiveness, the word. The meaning. God’s description and desire for us in this realm. God’s heart. We process the weight of its importance to Him. We discuss the kind thats all out, no holes barred. The no holding on to any of it. The surgically removing every cell of this cancer. And the gift that comes with walking it out, forgiveness. Put words on what it bears and brings to the abundant life.
Hundreds of years of life huddle over the word, in one room in one house on one night. Many of us contributing a half century or more of life to the count.
And its still there, the weight of forgiveness and unforgiveness. And we still seek His Grace and His Mercy. We still want to receive it and offer it. Offer it, give it–grant it.
I still need to jump off and jump in. I need Hope as a life jacket, and Grace as a buoy marking my way on this sea. And Mercy charting the maps around the rocks and the sandbars. I want nothing in the way of this path to the cross.
“The Cross was the place where God and sinful man merged with a tremendous collision and where the way to life was opened. But all the cost and pain of the collision was absorbed by the heart of God.” — Oswald Chamber, “My Utmost For His Highest”
Lord, blow sweet and gentle winds of forgiveness into the sails of this ship. And take me into the pitch and toss of seas safely to the harbor of your Love and Grace.
Merciful hands of God, Merciful touch of God, Abundant Life-Giver God.
I thank you for your Cross.
elizabeth w. marshall 