Tag: Living Life

The Art Of Eavesdropping Slash–Honing Your Observation Skills

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments


This is a story.

This is a story of yesterday.

And actually the day before yesterday too.

I drive to another zipcode to grocery shop. I know thats shocking for a one-zip-code dweller.  And I stroll down the isle of the frozen things.  The day before yesterday part of the story goes like this.  My family had a very odd on-the-way-to-church conversation on Sunday.  It was all about crazy coupon shopping.  There is a name or a title or a badge of honor that goes with that skill.  The Patient-One wants me to do this.  This is not the current me.  Might be the me he wants me to be.  Going to another zipcode to shop in a much less expensive grocery store was part of me trying to be more cost aware.

The isles are quiet.  Very quiet and calm.  There was almost an echo.  Monday must not be the day for all the mad coupon mommas.  I digress.  That story stays in the former paragraph.

And  I hear a beautiful story.  I hear a painting and I hear a poem.  I hear art. The eyes of my heart hear a sliver of a life story.  They see the art in the life moment.

The words were tender.  The transaction between two men was small but it was huge.  Beauty in the moment.   Threads of life weaving between two men.  One young.  One old.  Both working on this day.

I slow down.  I am captured by their sweet interaction.  I am moved by the exchange.  This life transaction tendered before my ears and eyes touches place in me.

Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering — Winnie The Pooh


Take a life slice, stab it with your fork, place it on the taste buds at the tippy of your tongue. And savor.  Move it around from the sweet to the savory, those buds that register different flavors.  Suck long and suck hard.  Make them last for a long forever.

Pick up the paint brush of your inner knowing and paint a picture of the life you see.  Record it in a place for keeps.  So you can know you lived. Know you live.  Remember the all.  The glorious and the unglorious.  All the parts and pieces of the mosaic that is yours.  Your one.  Your only.  Your life.

One isle over I see my special friends mother.  I am not a good friend.  I don’t mentor well.  I have not returned her child’s call.  I say I missed Quailla’s call.  She smiles and tells me all good things.  I think.  I believe it to be good.  The fact that there are changes.  I send my love.  And I bury my guilt in the knowing that they seem well. I hear of spring break and a trip and new things.  And we smile.  This time between two mothers.  And we talk about one child.  I celebrate spontaneously in this isle.  I don’t know its name.  But its a good place to celebrate change.

Go grab a pen.  Be your historian of your one life.  Scribble it down and put it in a place for safekeeping. Jot it down all messy and real, its yours.  Give it a grand heros welcome.  Roll out the red carpet for it, for them.  Memory will take good care of all that is preserved.  Guard it all.  Guard it well.

And the bees were next.  Lots and lots of bees.

Look and see all the bees.

I took pictures of bees and more.

They are there for you to see. ( Dr. Seuss may be creeping in. Oh my.  First Pooh then Dr. Seuss. smiling here)

And there were words.  Some were good and sweet and tender.  And some were not.  Some gave encouragement and were life affirming.  But I take the all and I mix it, blend it, taste it, and name it mine.  There were moments that taught and words that cut.  There was a blur of beauty and a swirl of pain.  There were pronouncements of new birth coming from across the way in the house looking out in Hope and new life.

The end.

Not really.  Its not the end of the story.  Its Tuesday. And Tuesday has a story of her own to tell.

We Need A Play Date Pronto

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 8 Comments

How did He know?  How does He always know.  The longing of our hearts.  The intricate wish lists written faint with the flesh tone Crayolas of fear, on the sketch pad of our innermost parts.

Encouragement comes like stumbled upon treasure at fragile times of longing.

When the heart is downcast a bit, and circumstances feel dull and bland like gray day dreary, the one who lifts us up, sends special people to the threshold of our lives to do the heavy lifting.

An encourager with a word or a phrase like cool aloe gel on burning skin, soothing the soul.  Cooling damaged skin.  Healing hurt from the day out under the day sky of life.

Yesterday I sat in a place of need.  Those small stinging word nettles penetrated the heart.  The ache of the empty sat for awhile.

Need sat pregnant.  Waiting.  Expectant. Unspoken desire for the call of a friend. For fellowship.  Knowing that I too could be the one to ask.  But sometimes we want to be extended too.  After tender bruising we want to be nursed back to health by sweet restorative Love.

And  Grace walked in early and as I press in to my firsts this morning of this new day and week a friend sends a text  that spells out my name, including my Maiden, and then I miss your face with an adjective injected about how she sees my face, one any woman would blush over, and then “We need a play date Pronto. xoxo.”

Called by name.  Called out to do life together.  An invitation to sit across a table and just be. Speaking right into the middle of my hollow need.

We sit spell-bound by a nature-show about a tribe of people who eek out an existence in  icey Antarctic region. Everyday a challenge to hunt and gather enough for survival.

We hang on every word, eyes fixed on the screen as a nylon rope is used by a few friends to tether a man to themselves.  Then they lower him over the side, with care. A cliff side of rock is his hunting ground for gathering eggs.  Nutrient rich eggs to mix up the diet of his people. And the voice adds as he gathers beautiful blue eggs from the hiding places of the rock, that many have died gathering here.  But for fifty eggs for his people, he trusts the men at the top and goes down for the needs of his people.

A beautiful picture of trust and going the distance for others.

Sacrifice for others.  Encouragement for others.  Seeking out the need of others.

In the middle of the messy and the Plan B life, in the midst of the tyranny of the urgent and in gray ordinary days we can jump into the circle of life and grab on and be.

Be the friend.  Be the consoler.  Be the friendly neighbor. Be the phone call of encouragement.

I hear him.  He tells a story that speaks to my heart in his sermon about showing, not telling.  Reaches into my insides and carves out places to implant Truth. And I too can show more and tell less.

And I  can show story here on these back lit screens that we share.  Telling falls flat and showing jumps off.  You don’t come here for mediocre and substandard telling. You come for substance and sink your teeth into meat.  Your heart doesn’t long for the dull and the gray but for life giving and life proclaiming.

So as I grow up and grow more, I long to show more of my story and His story through words.  You bless me and you are patient.

I can show you my gratitude by this.  Today I cancelled an appointment with the doctor freeing up time.  I carry a notecard today that says wynnegraceappears reader.  And today I pray for you.  I don’t know your need, but this card represents you and you have my prayers.

We need a play date pronto.  We need fellowship and friendship pronto, injected into the middle of the ordinary.  Linking hearts and lives and doing life together, not alone.  Wired for community, wired for fellowship.

So I can stop in between helping a child who is locked out of her car and helping a child who needs help with a tuxedo rental and helping a child navigate through after college graduation life and jump into community.

Shall we. Shall we circle up and around.  Shall we gather at the river and drink up life together, not alone.  Encourage each other by actions AND words.

Ecclesiastes 4:12 — By yourself you are unprotected. With a friend you can face the worst. Can you round up a third? A three stranded rope isn’t easily snapped.

And I am calling that friend Pronto and saying “You pick the time and the place and I will be there.”

Because I  am not going over the side of the cliff alone.  I need a strong nylon rope and strong friends.  Ones whom I can trust to love hard and hold fast.  To white knuckle that rope while I scale down the sides of this messy and crazy wonderful life.

And I will take my notecard with me today and pray for you. Enjoy your play date with your life and your day.  Make it fun.  Give Grace.  Find someone to Encourage.  You are needed by someone.

Counting gifts with Ann at A Holy  Experience dot com. Boldly thanking the Gift Giver for each one.

* Encouragers after church yesterday, several who spoke kind nuggets into my heart

*Time to talk with man-child about his after college plans and following after a potential offer of career not job with a company that is known for its love of our Lord

*spring cleaning my porch and enjoying time there alone to read and be windswept

*a text of hope from one far off who struggles

*sweet new neighbors who are answered prayer

*two going to prom on Saturday and listening to plans for community and fellowship in their world

*words softly spoken to me over the bread and wine of encouragement at the altar rail so kind so needed

Let’s Go On A Scavenger Hunt For Joy

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 6 Comments

Written in the front pages of an old journal are the words “We can’t remember what we don’t record.

My friends, I say

 My Heart does not remember what I do not record.

Go write down on the pages of your heart the good in this day.

Jot down joy and marinate in the moments of this single day.

Seek and find particles, pieces, and chunks to hold . Cup them in those fingers with care.

Hold a thought, a sentence, a paragraph for more than a moment.  Scribble it on paper or on heart pages.

Be the diligent record keeper of this one life.Take good notes along the way.

Let’s go on a scavenger hunt for joy.

Paint the beautiful.  Write the wonderful. Click the lense with a curious eye. Capture the amazing grace.

Press a flower, preserve the worth preserving in a can, a jar, a journal.

Then be joy, and share joy with others in this one day.

And my friends I say deep down thank yous for being Gift and being here.

Make Art from and in your day.

And to Him, The Artist and The Creator God be all the Glory.

And all God’s people say amen, and amen.

When You Simply Can’t Believe What You Just Heard— That Was Then And This is Now

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 5 Comments

Its in moments like these that Momma writers write.  That choke with emotion and rip and tear at the heart with a splendid mix of joy and well, joy.

Because we were just here.  This place of lap sitters and all three fit and we could cozy all up in one green rocker.  This is where we were. We lived in this place for a season.  Of small and growing.  This world of teddies and double strollers, cheerioed floors.

This place of babble and missing teeth and a cookie in the hand solved all the worlds problems, if just for a minute. Of primitive glorious childrens art taped to frig, framed and hung, propped and celebrated.

And now we are someplace else.  We’ve done life for such a long time now, as family.  Our launching pad into life is sending out and its painful joy.  Today we are two colleges a day in the mailbox people.  One for her and one for him.  Or it seems that way and that’s what matters.

And today she is leaving home to drive to a big city and I’m breathless with anxiety about the leaving home at all.  A new zipcode is a new zipcode.  There are bridges to drive over.  The ones she did a school project on in sixth grade.  Now hurrying out the door bag in hand to go over the bridge to a far away land.  The city where I met her father– the Patient One.  Its too fast.  And its too soon.

But punctuating this moment, this blur of time in a tidal wave of what happened to the green rocking chair lap moments, middle son calls out to her, wait.

Door cracked, sunny day cool air rushing in, words between these two, twelve months apart come sweetly up the stairs and waft into my need.

He slows her down.  He hugs her tender and big brother gentle covers her small frame and my bulging heart.  ” Remember, God then Family.”  And I ask him why he said it.  His reply, “Because momma that’s what you always say to us.”

Time, you are a funny thing.  You race.  You slow.  You creep.  You blur fact.  You deliver good.

So recently a friend shared this parental covering and I had recently, so recently covered mine with this.  This admonition to remember whose they are in all they say and do.  And he picked up the parental mantle and chose to wear it at that moment.

Some how I now know that words are heard, words are penetrating, words matter a lot.

These two walk tandem through my world now and sixteen and seventeen cross-over prom and friends and college queries.

She’s off to a city with an international airport just for the night.  Just to explore and experience life, as she should.  My pain and my grieving fade in the background as I shout to her, I am so worried and I don’t like this at all.

I have barely recovered from my momma trauma when he announces he’s headed off to the river with a friend.  These tandem teenage moments  knock me like a second wave knocks down swimmers in the surf as they barely recover from one crushing blow. Doomed by fatigue from wrestling  the undertow and incoming waves.  Their combined force is power and it is might. Staggering to get up and recover, only to be sent face down into the grit of sand and sea. Spinning wildly under the cruel crush of water and wave. Pairs of life moments.  Waves of emotion.

And hours earlier its prom fittings and giggles on the coach.  My lap empty.  But my heart full. Plans for tuxedo fittings and color matching kick youth out of the way.  The now is a bully and she is here.  She kicks baby toy memories out of her way.

Phone calls to set up college visits hang in the air as that refrigerator door taunts my past.  They were just piled up on that Easter day with diapers and missing teeth and white knuckling graham crackers. Time teases.  Memory sweeps in with her blurring of years.  Baby ducklings, swingsets and trampolines take their place in another time and place.  College applications, SATS and campus tours push and shove their way.  Childish toys are retired.  Summer jobs elbow their way to the frontline of life.  And prom.  Two proms.

Long gowns replace smocked dresses. And its all as it should be. My heart will catch up one day to this day.

But for now I know that words were heard.  Words of love, of discipline, of teaching and encouragement.  Cautionary tales were told and penetrated the heart and the head. Words that strengthened and supported and walked us to this point. Words that undergirded and called out to build character and trust and faith. Words that told of Jesus.

All because middle child said, wait, then hugged , then said, don’t forget “God, then Family.” In love, with love, because he was loved.