Tag: Jesus

Oh Me Of Little Faith

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 16 Comments

She tells me this is where Faith comes in.

If God had limited patience instead of limiteless patience, I would have worn Him out yesterday.

It was a hand wringing day. And I know better.

I am surrounded by nativity scenes. Hemmed in by mangers. One to my left, one to my right and one behind my doubting Thomas head.

The Trinity symbolized I see now, by my three scenes of His birth. And  I still wring the hands though He wrought a life of pain and sacrifice for me.

And even with the physical reminders of my Savior I still need to be told….and this is where Faith comes in.

She knows my deep struggle. She is what I needed God to bring my way months ago as my struggle as a parent of a child who learns like we all do, uniquely. Who is wired like we all are, by Father God, individually, with strengths and gifts. Who is growing, as we all are on this journey, at his pace marked by his beautifully and wonderfully made intricacies.

But a mother wrings her hands and a heart has been know to skip a beat or double up on beats. And she has come along to hold my hand in the dark nights of the soul.

And there is another too. Who writes a beautiful letter. He is patient and strong and godly. And he tells me things that make me cry, too busy in my doubt and worry to see on my own. Too close and too doubled over in confusion to see or own or know, truly. Words of confidence and hope. Words of affirmation and decisiveness.

The two come along side and bolster my spirits and I know they are life savers wearing flesh and blood and bones to a mother of waning faith.

And at the end of the night, when the black curtain pulls over a day marked with fatigue and anxiety she speaks into my soul. Words I don’t read until His new mercy morning arrives.

And she write these words “He is a great kid…we just all need to help him learn how to access his strengths and use them…it will come with time, patience, and persistence! HAVE FAITH!

And like the perfect storms of life, she is talking and texting and emailing me with a diligence and committment to shoring up my child’s struggles with a tender and firm spirit. And the calm before the storm comes in fact after the storm has passed.

She knows the language which sounds like Greek to my ears of misunderstanding and misinterpretation.  I am learning daily the language of ADHD. And it is Russian and Chinese and Hebrew all rolled into one. I need a translator. I need help.

It comes in the form of co-pilgrims and co-laborers.

I wrote a letter yesterday to my church  which was hard to explain to a questioning child. She looks on me with doubt and lack of understanding. I tell her, if you read my letter you will understand why I feel lead to step back for a season from serving.Because I know in the letter I have said I feel like this is an act of obedience. And there is confusion and fatigue from schism and division and I need a season of quiet and contemplation and prayer and clarity.

A pause in my serving to steady a wobbly spirit.

But I can see I have let her down. She worries that it means we are leaving the church. We are not. I am taking a pause in my service in several different capacities.

And the quiet sets in. And the last thing I want to do is disappoint a child.

But she is questioning and maybe confused. And who can read a sixteen year old girl’s mind.

So I look at the managers that hem me in. There are three. Some days I need one hundred and  three. Days like my yesterday.

I thank Him for His new Mercies, for the rain and for tears.

My husband walked in from Fishermen men’s ministry, last night.

Our friend spoke. He has months to live. He has cancer.

And when you have been in the midst of one so full of faith and full of life you radiate the Glory and the Hope that come beaming from the face of a man at perfect peace. From our friend Pete.

You bring all that home with you from a night in the presence of living, breathing, Hope.

He tells me pieces of  stories that Pete told the men. Some of it I grabbed and some of it my weary hand wringing self let fall to the ground.

A weary soul doesn’t hold tight to Hope.

But you long  to brush up against Hope like this and pray that the remnants and particules like dust fall on you and stay. Fall on a weary dusty soul. Dirty with doubt.

And I pray my daughter can wrap understanding around my walking away for a season of pause. That I didn’t throw in the towel , its only in the wash for a season of renewal. And to gain clarity of mind and heart and spirit. That in obedience to Him He will give me a language of love to explain to her rightly my decision.

Just like the language of understanding I need to learn to speak with my son in his struggles that are uniquely his own.

Its raining outside, the day weeps as I weep.

And I think that today I will play as I did when I was a child. With the manager scene. Didn’t we all. Move the pieces around and marvel. Look on the Mary and Joseph and the animals and the moveable baby Jesus.

I think I’ll move in a little closer to the manager today and the baby who bears the weight of the world and the weight of my sin.

And today, the weight of a mother’s pain as she seeks an increase in faith.

This rainy December day, I know anew, His mercies are new everyday.

And that I can proclaim Alleluia Anyway.

ESM and Stella

Linking with Emily, Jennifer, and Duane today. Joining Joy at joy in this journey dot com for Life Unmasked.

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And I Named My Dreams, I Named Them Big

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 23 Comments

This is Part 1 of a Series in my final blog posts for our month long blogger campaign for Compassion International.

This is one of the most difficult posts I have ever tried to write, but what follows is my heart and my words in a poetic voice, on the sights, sounds, and smells of poverty. Aligning my heart with a child in poverty. This is my voice as a child living in extreme poverty.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for grace.

The rumbles come in the night.
In my tummy.
They are funny like its talking.
Like its saying good night but it lasts for a long long time.
Like its saying hey, you forgot something.
Hey you forgot to say good night with warm food.
They talk to me every night.
It’s funny cause they sound like rumbling thunder
My tummy noise.
But it hurts too.
I named him, my tummy and tell him not to worry.
We’ll be fine.
And we’ll eat something and then you’ll stop your rumbling noise.
Its okay.
We’ll be fine.
I tell him not to rumble so loud, he might wake my sister.
And I say sshhhh. You might wake up my mommy too.
We’re nestled in a small small space.
It’s love. It’s home. It’s cramped. It’s mine.

And I tell my tummy to be brave and strong.
Tomorrow we have much to do and much to learn at school.
And I tell him to be brave and strong and at school he’ll rumble less.
Sshhh, we are learning.
Sshhh, we are praying.
Sshhh, we are singing.
Sshhh, we are working.

And in the night the crying comes.
But I tell my eyes, be brave.
I tell my tears, don’t roll.
I tell my heart, be still.
I tell my eyes, don’t cry.
I give my eyes a name and I say don’t be sad, my eyes.
Be strong and brave.
Tomorrow we have much to learn at school.
And I tell my eyes, be dry.
Sshh, don’t cry. You might wake up mommy too.
We’re nestled in a small small space.
It’s love. It’s home. It’s cramped. It’s mine.

And in the night the dreaming comes.
And I tell my dream, dream on.
I tell my mind, keep dreaming.
And I tell my heart keep dreaming, the hope-filled dream.
And I tell my heart dream loud.
Don’t be quiet.
Don’t be silent.
Don’t be shy.
Dream loud, my dreams.
And I named my dreams “Big”.
And tell my dreams I will share you with my sister.
I will share you with my mommy.
I will share you with my classmates at school.
We’re nestled in a small small space.
It’s love. It’s home. It’s cramped. It’s mine.

And in the morning new mercy comes.
And I say oh new mercies how you are welcome here.
And I thank God, for His new mercies every day.
I say Praise you God for your mercies and your love.
I say I will worship you God for your mercy is great.
And I name His mercies, I call them Jesus.
And I tell God I will tell my sister.
And I will tell my mommy of God’s mercy.
And I will tell my classmates of the Savior.
I will tell it loud and happy, strong and brave.
I will tell it full of joy and hope and faith.
We’re nestled in a small small space.
It’s love. It’s home. It’s cramped. It’s mine.
But Jesus lives here too.
And He is love and He is mine.

Remember, God told us to become as little children.

There is a link here to Compassion International if you’d like to learn more about child sponsorship.

Linking with Eileen, Jen, and Heatherand at Seedlings In Stone

And with Emily for Imperfect Prose

Learning Lessons from The Spring

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 14 Comments

Stone and rock call out to a community and we become pilgrims.

We go as individuals, trekking up or skipping down this mountain in the Blue Ridge chain.

It calls your name. Its strong cold marble is strength. It is continuity.

It knows stories. And It knows parts of mine.

On any given summer day, sweet devoted visitors come and sip the water trickling from an underground spring. They come with jugs. They come with pitchers to fill up their vessels with cool earthborn water.

It looks like a New Testament scene, or a snapshot from Africa or Haiti. People traveling with children, family, dogs to drink the water that is more than a drink for a parched mouth. It replenishes the soul with tradition.

If stone could talk, this spring named Wynne Lithia could tell stories of watching children grow.  For my family, those stories started when the spring was built in 1908.

People will tell you their story of the spring, I am sure, if you will just ask.

I met a woman who freely offered a slice of her life, tales which were tethered in memory back to the spring. It was our first meeting, yet the stories flowed off her tongue like the cool spring water from the old metal pipe.

“I brought all my boyfriends here.”

“My husband named our first dog after the spring, Wynne-Lithia, but we just call her Wynnie.”

Why do we long to travel to a place of deep history and story? Where generations have laughed and sipped and gathered water.Why do we slip out after a summer southern supper to make one last visit to sip water and stand by the trickle in the cool of the night? Alone. Or with a child.

What longing we must have for tradition to be pulled by a trickle of water, which for many means hiking up?

For me and generations of my family it’s a rich well of deep longing after place. We, like many in this small community, can go back over the sepia-toned photographs of our people–at Easter, on a summer day, or dressed in their Sunday best–and dream of their stories.

It began listening and witnessing family , children and women in long skirts dragging the mountain dirt path. They stare stone-faced in sepia  into the camera beside their stoic men whose cool stares  mimic the hard marble of the very spring they loved so.

And you can line up generations of photographs which add to the story of the spring. They add narrative from generations before my own, like a mosaic of mountain memory.

The  spring’s rich story is repeated over and over by families in this mountain  community and well beyond. The story of the spring and the need to return.

Water draws us. It always does.

We return home like Prodigals to be received, refreshed, restored — by the familiar, by comfort and consistency of the flow.

Sometimes it is a strong pulsating rush up and down from below the earth. Sometimes it is a trickle, slow and faint. No strenth in the anemic journey out from the ground well from which it flows. But it is there. It is present. It waits. And it woos.

If you are parched and if you are in need ,the water fills you and sends you on your journey.This place in the shade will always provide.

If you are weary, rest waits here.

And I draw lessons from this place, not only water. She teaches what it means to prepare the heart, to always be welcoming and available.

She models how to  sit quietly and expectantly, always prepared to welcome — always prepared to listen.

She shows what it looks like to offer a refuge to family, to a friend to a stranger. Her strength and calm show how a peaceful spirit can offer a balm to a restless soul, how we can offer a quiet place of comfort to a broken world.

She teaches how to give out of what we have, her flow may be strong, her trickle may be slight but she sits at her place on the mountain always prepared to offer what she has.

And she offers what she is and what she has both to strangers and to familiar souls with a generous spirit. The spring gives all that she has, freely and abundantly.

The spring that bears my name gives glimpses into what it looks like to be the hands and feet of Jesus, The Living Water. To  serve a parched and hurting world.  To  love the lonely, the hurting and those in need of an ear to listen to their story. To receive their story.

A trip to the spring reminds me to bend low in my day, to give freely of my time to others, to seek every opportunity  to show hospitality, to release the gifts that God has given me back to Him. She was built in 1908 and is still strong and steady.

I know only that I have today, to serve Him. And today is a good day to begin, anew.

“If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Rivers of living water will brim and spill out of the depths of anyone who believes in me this way, just as the Scipture says.” John 7:37

“…but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” John 4:14

I am linking with these kind folks today. Jennifer and Duane.

Seeing More Clearly Through A Lense of Grace and Mercy

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

Blinded by the light.  Its difficult to see.  Feeling unsafe behind the wheel.  Hoping to be home and safe soon.  I am vulnerable and I am challenged. The eye doctor dilates my eyes and every ray of sun causes a wince, bringing hand to eye for cover and protection. I am not seeing well.  I am not seeing clearly.  I want to go home. I know this is temporary.  I am certain my vision will improve.  I’ve been told it will take two hours.  But in this time I am reminded of what it feels like to see unclearly, to see the world in a blur, missing detail.  Things are askew.  Things are murky, cloudy and off a beat a bit. There are so many times when I do not see the what’s right there. Someone has unspoken pain and I do not see the what’s behind the surface. Someone is struggling with a life circumstance and I do not see clearly the effect it has on words and actions. There is a hidden fact or emotion which I do not see, cannot see, or even will not see. Things are hidden away.  Buried down deep. Out of sight. Out of plain view.  Things that require sweet Mercy and Grace to see with tenderness and understanding.  Like my dilated eyes preventing clarity, the blur of the eyes of the heart can slant and cripple,distort  the ability to see with Kingdom Eyes.   “You can’t go on ‘seeing through’ things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it. To ‘see through’ all things is the same as not to see”. — C.S. Lewis, “The Abolition of Man”. But when I put on the lense of Grace and my heart looks out through a lense of Mercy, I begin to see with understanding and love.  The facts or circumstances causing the blurry are less important.  The pieces of the puzzle missing matter less now.  My eyes are more aligned with the heart of God.  Mercifully I see.  The blur of pain causing a skewed understanding fades when I look in love.  His love.  Handicapped on my own.  Unable to see clearly without Him.  Needing the corrective lense on life of the spirit of God, needing a shift in my fleshy perspective, needing a glimpse of His people through the eyes of Jesus.“The litmus test of our love for God is our love of neighbor.” — Brennan Manning.

I want to see clearly, lovingly, tenderly, mercifully.  And I want to see past and through the circumstances- both my own and those of others.  I want to see the hard to see places and yet see nothing, embracing and loving the hard and the unlovable.  Loving in an all out way where all becomes invisible in love but that which matters.  They are my family, my friends, my neighbors. I want to love Gracefully and Mercifully in the blur of life, the blur of pain, the blur of hurt, and the blur of circumstances.

Eyes of Mercy and Eyes of Grace shift perspective, shift view, and opinion and judgement.  A lense of Grace and a lense of Love allow compassion and tenderness to focus the eyes of the heart lovingly, kindly, and oh so sweetly to see Beauty each and every time.  To see the shadow of the Cross and the bright clear love reigning down from Heaven.

My vision is still off.  I feel the sting of the blurr of my vision being manipulated by the doctor.  And I know how fragile the eyes are, especially the eyes of my heart.  I know how quickly I am prone to look out not in love, but in judgement, in criticism, in hyper-sensitivity and without empathy.

So I lean hard on Him as a blind woman leans on a cane.  Crippled am I, handicapped am I without any strength on my own.  With the vision of a sinner, blind to others, stumbling into others, running hard into pain and causing it myself, I need the Shephard’s staff.

Mercifully He offers.  Mercifully He leads.

Amazing Grace.  A view of life like no other, through the lense of Grace.