Second Hand Joy
I am a lover of old, repurposed, recycled and worn. Drawn to objects which have age and patina. The chips and breaks are badges of honor. Tarnish tells me love was there. Run love through the sieve of time. Until it stands the test of time and time again. Watch the beauty multiply. Compounding adds to the interest. Cracks are doorways for the rays to pass through. Of hope and light. Sealed by perfection, honed to perfection, perfect cannot bear the weight of beauty in the broken.
Faded sepia outlasts the lives of the living. Remaining to tell of love and life. Proud of her browns and white and nearly monochromatic memory.
She met me at the fence line. Wearing a story in her silhouette, curved like an ampersand, bent logogram, a symbol of her life. Joy comes like the morning fog. Lays down and covers the pregnant day. She had excavated joy from my joy. Joy in spades. Joy in triplicates. For mine was there. Then hers arrived. And mine was doubled by her proclamation. At the fence. The currency of love. Exchanged.
My joy is not my own. The mystery of the winter seeds we planted is unfolding. And I bear witness to the miracle of love. Lonely and a bit alone, she watches as our garden grows. And she can write the story of my chickens and how they spend their day. Acting out their antics on the stage for her amusement and viewing from her front row seat.
I was blind. But now I see.
Amazing grace. How does your garden grow.
Through The Screen Door
World tumbling, hunched over peering into the pool of liquid salt
Bruised a bit by the news
Uncrossed her legs
Stood and rose
Rose and walked
No it was more of a march
One step into the dark and she began to dash
Her ambivalent speed
Mirrored her ambivalent hope
But the screen, ripped and torn, worked as a sieve
And the more she pressed her nose into the ragged and rough, pressed not into glass but mesh
The clearer she saw the what was to be seen
Past the fog
The veil of truth through the rough and ragged rust. No Windex could wipe the dirt and bring a shine. Not with the screen.
No cleansing or scrubbing or grit and might. Power and grease from the elbow of her hand could wipe it till it squeaks a perfectly polished squeak.
So she resolved to see through the filter of filth and pain. Past the crosshairs of the wire that warped the view.
And so it was.
She befriended the screen. And grew to love the protection it brought. The shield it was in its role as screen. And she loved the screen and the view from its other side.
No longer did she long for the polish and pristine lens of a clear view through glass.
She saw the door made of screen as a portal of hope.
Hope lead to hope on hope.
And that lead her to see the cross in her hunched and leaning stance
As the cross of hope, seated at the threshold of Mercy.
And she loved the screen and her view from right here. And she put to rest her longing for more.
And grew to love her view through the ragged screen door.
It Turns Out – A Children’s Story For Grown-Ups
It turns out
The shallow end
Is where the mud puddles are
And snakes creep
Each step taking her ankle-deep
In pluff mud and oyster shells
Razor blade sharp
Leaving her both bloodied
A yucky combination
Of grime and blood and more
If she were a hippo
Grand and glorious it might be
Or even a alligator stalking his prey
Instead, she is a soul in need of a Savior
Sinking further and further
Up to her neck in muck
Paralyzed in wet, brown, slick
Like a child stuck in fear
Mud baths are for pigs
Not for grown ups
Alone and afraid
It turns out
The deep end is where life is
In the waters far from shore
Waters cool, crisp like
Green apples, mountain grown
The waters run
And she should too
She was made for deep places
Never found the shallow
Had much to offer her
In life, in faith, in love
Equipped, she is
Created for diving off the end
The high dive made for the Bravest of souls
Into the dark cool, water
She shall dive
Freedom replaces fear, there
Ocean of grace
Wait for her
And it turns out
The edge of the dark
Is the edge of the light
Thin veil of faith
Separates the two
She, quick to forget
Quick to unlearn
Sinking, not swimming
Setting for muck
Instead of a cleansing bath in
Warm Mercy waters, lapping her soul
With salted grace
It turns out
She would need reminding
Again and again
Bold and brave
Seemed out of reach
Hers prone to
Sinking at the first big wave
It turns out
He knew this about
Her all along
And loved her anyway
And saved her anyway
And chose her anyway
And redeemed her anyway
It turns out
This is not the end.
Joining Lisa Jo Baker and a wonderful community of writers for her five minute friday writing prompt. Today’s word is afraid.
The Cowardly Lioness Finds Courage, The End
The beginning and middle are there
But it is the end that matters
It is the end that is a beginning
Starting at the place where the Courage
Was found and the fear fled
Starting over at the point where the spirit of brave
Replaced a spirit of timidity
Beginning anew life of freedom, being born free
Without the bonds of cowardice and fear weighing
Heavy on the backbone and oh the weight and
Oppression in shaking and trembling
But the end is good
And the end is worthy of celebration
And it is as if all the stars shine bright in a celestial celebration
Of new birth
They shimmer and shine
The speak with their twinkling, speaking good news
Of new and brave
Shouting courage for living, courage for flying, courage for soaring
She is born anew
And it is as if the heavens light a candle on the backdrop of ebony velveteen draping
And unveil the new creature
And her name will be
The Lioness who lights up the night sky.
(And thanks for grace for a bit over the five.)