The Healing – Letters From The Village

little church

There is a place
Planted, sacred, holy
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

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

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
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.

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




ame church
mt church 2

Hold Me – Letters From The Village

Patient One McClellanville

Hold Me

Will you dance with me between the places that I go?

Embrace me in my living, hold me as I tilt the world.

Brace me in your warmth, lest I spill my all

Over the sides, while I slant and whirl

And still the spinning

Steady all the wobblels, falters, shakes and

Trembles, oh my heart

You said you would and still you do

A quarter century ago.

The puddling shows me how two are better

I see the low slung hammock reflecting in the sun and now I know

That two are better than one, for us.

The high, the real is strong and there

Its other half shines radiant from below.

Together there is beauty in reflection

Mirrored as they are.

Dance and hold me in my spinning places

Dip and dive and walk me tandem to the place of grace.

Walk me down this road of aging,

While we are still two.

Hold me, by the hand and by the heartt

Brace my soul, cup it safely in your palms,

We do not know what’s yet to come.

I only know I do not want to dance alone.

mcclellanville sunset jeremy


Love, Grace – Letters From The Village


After the rain came, flooding the all around, nearly enough wet to soak a soul and start the preparations for the ark. And after the rain came and all seemed grey and clouds remained and the wet and dank just hung around. And after the rain which spilled like tears and did not give way to a rainbow this day. Nor offer a break in the raging storm.

Grace appeared. She cracked the shell of cloud soaked soul. And slid her gentle fingers through the slits and slats. And Grace broke through and Love did too.

The greatest of these still remains. On the front side back side middle of a mess. Comes glorious Grace on the wings of Love. The greatest of these, the always remaining, always was guarding and watching the heart as it was breaking. Determined to show Mercy despite all  the storms.

I know as I know true Grace always stays. Tucked in the shadows or out in full view. Signing her love notes in front of our eyes. Gentle, bent low to offer her peace. Spreading her soothing balm on the weary. Glazing the gaping wounds with the mercy which heals.

And leaving her sacred and certain mark on a man.

She signs her signature, cursive calligraphy, dignified, true. And you know you’ve been touched by her peace that transcends. And you’re left with a chorus of bold amens.

And  certain are you beyond a shadow of doubt that Grace was here, that Grace did appear.

You rest in the knowing that Love will prevail and win all the wars, each battle, each fight. That Love blankets the weary, the broken and crushed. And Peace like a river washes over your soul.

And somewhere, yes somewhere she leaves her sweet signature. As simple as that. Look for her markings all over the place. As simple, as lovely as two little words. 

Don’t miss it she leaves her mark everywhere. Open your eyes and see it written so plain.

Love, Grace.

The greatest of these will always remain.

mcvl close up lily fence

Joining Sandra Heska King for her Still Saturdays

mcvl third lilly and vine

still saturday button

Dearest Blank Page, White Canvas, Nothing

God's Grace shrimp boat
As I embrace my one word for 2013, ART, I put on the lens of story through the art form of letter writing. And  I  humbly bring my offering in the series “Letters From The Village”. This is the one in which I write to the white space that faces the creative and the writer, before the work is born.

To read all the penned letters in the series, simply click on the tab at the top of the home page entitled “Letters From The Village”. Thank you for walking out this series with me. The overflow of my heart.


provider mcclellanville

I could sit and stare at you, frozen in a place of uninspired repose. And wait. And wrestle and gnaw and rail against the struggles in this place.

And wonder why I come to gaze into the void. The stark unformed sea of empty, bleached white stares at me.

The option to leave empty, me emptier. Choice crouches, hides and waits. Tempted to raise white flag, in defeat

There is no forced march here. I don’t go hungry or want for sustenance if I am turned away from you with hands wide open but filled with nothingness.

Cold. Bare. Bareness winning out.

You intimidate, or try, on days, dry days of drought.

But then and that’s the important part. But then. The passion ignites and meets your white empty, with inspiration fueled by writing’s impassioned delightful flames.

White nothing, step aside, fling open your gates, your doors, your portals for a word or two. The overflow of the heart.

Make way. Make room. Prepare your blank for the artist’s hands. For when the flames are lit and ear has heard a word, a thought has birthed a poem, the brush strokes fill the sea of white with teeming life, with words.

And what goes there has subtle strength and power. To bring encouragement, beauty, whispers of delight. Stories told of life and living, bold dreams dared to break free, overcoming leaps of faith, and battles won on life’s messy stage. Lines of love and life, sweet prayers of hope and amazing grace.

Once you yield your canvas to the hands of writer, poet, the weaving thread on thread begins. And the looming work of writer’s heart pulls threads of thought by thought to form the messy message on a page. Praying all the while for beauty. Leaning in to hear and write with wrist and fingers, hands and heart a piece of written obedience, the delivery of her art.

Conquering the fear of blank. Wrestling with the fear of steady void on page. Because of grace and truly, truly it rides on grace. The words, they dance or sing to souls and hearts carried on the backs, lifted by strong arms of grace.

Releasing all control and bending low to hear anew, the inspiration she longs to capture in her web, to weave on strong and bold, with a knowing that the inspiration will come today. And trusting it will come tomorrow. And knowing all the while the gift is gift. The privilege humbles. The heart trusts the stops and starts but longs for constant steady flow.

Of words.
mary margaret 2 mclellanville

So I will come to you white page, with my palette and my paints. And cast my net into the sea and count you friend, not enemy.

And we’ll make art until the words dry up. And we’ll write poetry and maybe even songs one day. Songs that sing with notes or without. That cause the heart to dance a bit.

You’ll be my friend and sing encouragement to my soul, as white noise comforters me on sleepless night. And you will represent beginning new, potential, promise hope and good.

You redeem a life on page. You hold grace within your pure white boundaries of unending hope.

And I will thank you for your company, the beauty rests in white delight. And calls me to come play and pen. Calls me to write a love song, poem or prose.

But white page, blank canvas my heart writes this love poem to you.

And seals it with p.s. its all because of Grace, sweet amazing Grace, and you.
shrimp boat sunsets HM