Finding Joy In Wash, Rinse, Repeat

The repetition of the beautiful can feel more like repetition of the ordinary.

The let dog in let dog out days of in and out of the washer and dryer she adds a load, changes it out, and tries to mix it up.

She sees the ordinary but strains for the extraordinary of the cycles of life. The make the bed and wash a load and empty, re- load the machines that wash the things that are dirty hums its dull hum.

And the check the mail and fluff the pillows and call a friend and go to the store and wipe the counters again drills go on and on and on.

But what if she sees a nuance of change and a strain of the beautiful in the repetition of the everyday.

And what if she began to lace the duties of life and living with prayer and praise and songs.

Taking the sheets of music to the bed as she folds the sheets. And raises the window to hear the birds as they serenade the cycles of living. The daily fringed with songs of grace.

And what if the breathing of the home she holds dear begins to sound like the breathing of the family that will walk in soon in need of nurture, both of the soul and of the body.

So the wiping of the counters begins to look like a prelude to an act of love, of service.

And the mundane looks like a view through a kaleidoscope when she shifts the view, turns it slant to see, really see what’s hidden behind the veil of the daily.

And “viewing life through a lense of grace” breaks out anew from its cocoon of hiding and is reborn.

She sees the grace of life. She sees the joy in wash, rinse, repeat.

She reframes her ordinary with extravagant love and wipes the counter with a cloth of dripping wet grace, in the living, grace in the everyday.

And He does make all things new. In the moments of the everyday everyday.


So she turns it on its head until the blood rushes in and shakes and spins it round and round. And when the day gets turned right side up it’s flush with living, flush with the flow of blood all through the living breathing it.

The life has rushed back in and the life flows strong and bold through the day.

The turning, flipping bring shades of new, shades of the life-blood show, shining through. And it blushes with crimson, tinges of life-red.

The stale looks fresh, the old looks re-born and the mundane places are fired-up with the electric new.

She views life through a lense of grace.

And all the things on life’s pendulum, swing to the beat of a recalibrated heart.

And life fills her home again. And the beat goes on and on and on.

Dancing to the songs of grace.


Joining Jen and Heather today.




When Peace Walks In And Takes A Seat

Peace walked in at five o’clock sharp, sat down in comfy chair, sat fireside. And chatted like the days that never were before. Under a roof, and in a house, this one. All shiny penny new. There was a grown sound in the belly of the boy about to be a man. And he had caught Peace like you catch a cold. It just covers you up and you need boxes of Kleenex and some tender love from a momma. But here you need all eyes open wide to see that Peace has come and it was not caught, it was prayed for and waited on, and there are bits and pieces of the Prodigal all over this like one walks through the woods and picks up beggar lice. Its grace. But we’re not picking any of this off. No a momma thanks and praises and tells others like she did the other day. She told the momma with tears in here eyes, you stand on the edge of the cliff in that waiting. You stand hanging by the thread of hope, all worn and weary and dangling, and you never give up. You hold tight and hold fast and you pray hard and you claim and cling. And when the Peace stays longer than you thought you finally breathe and you exhale and you pinch your own skin and say it is not a dream. It is a walking miracle sitting by the fire and talking all grown-up man. A language so new and beautifully different, as foreign. And if they ever tell you otherwise, those who lose their hope and lost their hope all along the way, you say yes yes it comes, the peace. The journey walkers do walk in one day and drop their peace on a home. And the bag is full to overflowing with letters dipped in grace. Unwrap and open each one slowly. There is beauty there. Always cling hard, you momma warriors to the knowing that the one day peace will come. And maybe even at five o’clock sharp, as promised. But this time the promise kept, and the heart filled with peace and a new fullness of maturity and ripeness for the picking. With the tender fingers of the momma’s heart she picks up the pieces of the peace, holds them to her bosom. As longed for, waited for, peace settles on the home and sits by that crackling dancing fiery flame of warmth. She re-reads each letter sent straight with piercing to the heart. A bullseye to her soul. Savors the words spoken, written on her momma heart. They are good. And they warm more than any flickering orange flame from the brick laid hearth every could or would. Peace walked in at five o’clock sharp. I hope she’ll stay awhile. She warms the once cold places as she settles in and makes herself at home. I close the door and bolt it shut. While making up the guest bed, I pray Peace will stay a good long while.

joining Laura today at Laura Boggess dot com and with Jen at Finding Heaven Today and Heather for Just Write.

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A Letter To My Son

Dear Son, loved and treasured One:

When you go to the movies,tonight, with this sweet sweet young girl, young woman even, remember these things.
Dwell on them, never forget.

It’s hard to wrap a lifetime of learning into a very short letter. But I shall try.

And I’ll stammer and struggle and try to bleed my love for you as a man, in days now, my son, on this white page.

And what I want for you in all your relationships, but most especially with women.

Be gentle, be strong.

Be both.

Be a rock, a strong place to lean on. With big ears and an enormous heart. With room to grow and room to love.

Your Dad wooed me from the very beginning with his strength and gentleness, his compassion, his caring.

I never told you, and you wouldn’t care much before now, but early on, very early on, as we sat in a restaurant in New York with friends, he cared in the smallest of ways for me and about me. My memory fades like early morning fog, but I remember my hair in my plate or something similar and he loving pulled it out. He is gentle and attentive that way. He still married me.

Be attentive to the small.

You have watched your father cherish and care for your sister.

Care. Every time.

Do not follow the crowds, the throngs of people following the culture and all its siren song ways. Just rest in who God created you to be and be yourself. Comfortably you.

You, my son, are witty and funny. Enjoy that, but don’t be a peacock, calling attention to yourself. Use your gifts gently.

And you are creative, oh so creative. This is a gift to use for God and His glory.

Look to Him and His beautiful plan. Look in His eyes and ask and seek. Ask, be bold, ask. Then listen.

And listen well, my son.

Your Daddy does that so well now. Watch him listen and bend an ear to me.

And be selfless not selfish. In all you do.

Argue, not. Demand to be right, never. Be a peace-maker. Discuss with a gentle spirit. There is no need or time to fight. A gentle tone will take you far, strong one. Stand firm, yes. Find your balance with your words. Stand on what is right, noble, honest, pure, worthy of praise, and lovely.

You don’t have far to look, my son. Your oldest brother is tender and gentle and strong with his girl.

Follow these men, be yourself, be a gentleman, you were raised in the South, the premium on this is huge. Its our tradition. Carry it on.

Think of your grandfathers. They loved you and love you. And all their ways. Carry on traditions of kindness and gentleness and strength.

And look ’em in the eyes. Always. Everyone. Don’t look away, or look astray or wander off, not in their presence. Be fully present. Your beautiful blue eyes have always been so big, so unimaginatively handsome, these windows to your very soul.

Be right where you are, in the beautiful moment and savor it all. Remember the details as they unfurl.
Your father is my memory. He remembers often for us both. He has seen and he has remembered the details of a life, our life.

Pay close attention, such close attention, to the details, that are your life.

Listen to music, enjoy art, walk on the path outside our house that leads to the shore, often, daily, savor that salty place. Share your love for where we live. It’s glorious, its gift. It’s the ocean and the river, it’s God-beauty all around.

And get into those words God wrote for you, for us. And linger there, you man, you son, you child of God.

Your pecan pies and all your masterpieces, offer them in love.

And know that you were always loved by us, by Him.

Enjoy the movie. And be a gentle-man. Be respectful, so full of respect for others, for women, for all people, always. Shower others with a spirit of respect. And dignity.

Hold your shoulders back, your head up, wear your seatbelt every time.

Loving you this day and always, your very verbose,


P.S. I wrote you once before. Please remember those words too, of love to you. I wrote them in the summer months. These words from down deep in my soul.

Poetry Calls

(photo courtesy of

She twists, she turns, she tumbles and falls.

Like green Gumby rubber-man/ child wide-eyed in wornout toy box,

Nimble, pliable woman,

Is she.

When the wind blows, the cradle may fall,

But mother catches baby, husband, parents,

And all the rest.

In the middle of raising parents or is it raising kids,

She yearns to sit at the feet of the master acrobat,

Learn the art of dexterity,

Living nimble, bending, twisting, turning

Corners of her life, with skill and ease,

Stretching limbs to meet the needs

This world of hers throws at

Her, life, a whirlwind, whirling dervish, world.

She, Mary Martha ambidextrous hybrid, serving and loving

Longing to learn the art of balance.

To live and love and serve in the right measure of, mix of

Both. The proportions just perfect.

Art, not science.

Caring for self, she bends back into the page and writes

A love song to the world, her passion bleeding on the page.

And hears a cry, piercing knife-like in  the night

To walk outside, plates and balls all tossed up in the air.

She longs to fold back on the white noise page and write,

Right where she lives.

Folding laudry, folding bedsheets, folding words.

They mix and mingle, they tug like moon at tides.

The words call,

Come play with us today.

The tempting taunting call of passion on the page,

To write.

The tension tears.

Joy comes gently in the sweet release

Of words.

She bends her ear to hear, what’s right.

And leans her head, blood rushing to the brain.

To write the words, her playful playmates posturing for a position

In her life. Right beside mother, sister, wife and other.

To write the balance out, the story,

That is her life.

Words winning, winding their way down the rows.

Poetry calls come play.

Joining Emily & Jennifer.

And at Thought Provoking Thursdays.

And I’m joining the folks at Tweakspeak Poetry for this month’s word prompt, Surreal. This is my offering on the prompt. (More to come, this is “fun”, sort of). #TSSurreal on Twitter.