In Which The Quiet is Loud – Letters From The Village

a fave of the rain leaves and flowers

She sat in the quiet and collected herself, or was she collected by it. Swallowed up by reflection. And the rain pummeled the tin for hours on end and if she didn’t know better she thought it might never end.

But she peered ahead and she knew from reports, that hours from now it would all be dry. And the sky would find peace and quiet again from the raging rains of biblical proportions. But until then the quiet is so loud while the clouds open up and release their crocodile tears.

She held her own back because it would sound redundant and too cliche to let them roll down the cheek while they fall from the sky. This is heaven’s day to rain down. Hers will wait.

Nestled in the quiet, the disappointment and the dreams she released seem to act out and cry for attention like a parlor clown. Needy and demanding. 

It occurred to her the other day that each day feels borrowed, like a library book which will need to be released back. That ever since she stepped into that place, on the generously other side of the half-century mark,  there is no time like the present for all of it. The days become numbered, fragile and fewer.  Marking them important, marking them royalty, holiday, worthy of celebration. Just for being. Each is exceptional, worthy. It was always that way, only now it truly is. She decrees it as law, for her life.

So she resolves to speak love more, forgive more swiftly and loudly, to create more art for the one single solitary sole that may be  in the path of it, and to laugh.

Like the raindrops lodged in the screen so tight, she holds on to her saline tears and waits for release. Because today there is joy in the drenching wet grey world, and there is hope, though hiding out somewhere. Perhaps in the white and weary sky. 

Because the weather wants to mirror her mood, or is she simply reflecting external conditions.

And she knows at the end of the winter there will be a spring and at the end of the sadness there will be joy. She knows well from the past and the present tells too. There are visible signs in the vine, it will bloom.

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mcvl close up lily fence

On the to do list there,  written in stone, the mundane, though joy-giving things are outlined to be done. There is folding and washing, sweeping and such. There is walking and splashing with dogs in the rain. There is shaking the remnants of last nights bad dream. And peeking round corners for surprises from Him. There are phone calls and letters to a girl in Peru, and making the trip home from school seem special indeed. Homemade soup is always comforting on days filled with rain. And by evening they all will come home once again. 

There are poems to be written and prayers to be prayed.

And she knows from reports that the rain will soon end and the quiet loud will become quiet again.Recede with the waters that look like a flood.

It wouldn’t be pollyanna at all if she said, the sun waits to shine at the end of this day.

(author’s note: this was the end of the post until the phone rang. This is my revised ending.)

And a phone can ring in the middle of a life and speak  words that a mother could just die from, the shared grief shatters the soul like the rain on the tin.

We lost a young friend the age of my son just hours ago. And so fragile and breakable is indeed life and our hearts.

Lord, mend and heal and quiet the loud cries of your people. Now we do join the tears of the heavens with our very own.into every life a little rain

Joining Jen and Heather and Emily Wierenga.

Love, Grace – Letters From The Village

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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

A Tree Can Show The Way, If We Look Her Way

With division, warring strife
So real and raw through all the world
Penetrating open cracks, the wounds
I want to graft as trees
A heart for sweet surrender,
A spirit found in peaceful living.
Oh Lord, let me go around
In love
Like barked beauty rooted fastened strong.
And leave room for harmony
Like the mighty ones
Whose roots
Hold fast, but trunks and limbs
Bow down in love.
And a tree can teach me this
Love and show me how to bend
Not break
If I only look her way.
Grafting peace
Cutting deep
Bending low in love.
Wrapping as the Cross
All the way around
The struggle and the pain
In a sweet embrace.

Joining Ann counting quiet gifts here, but on my writer’s facebook page moment by moment, this glorious Thanksgiving week.

And with Laura.

Frost

There is a frosty blanket on those days in the South, when cotton was king and division cut hearts of men and women. A lifetime ago. No, many lifetimes and generations ago. It’s her past. And a beautiful crop has a million stories to tell, if she could talk. She’d tell of the pickers and their pain. She makes warm the world with all her woven comfort. We sleep with her, wear her. She has a history. She has a future. Plump and white and pregnant with possibility, she lays in wait for machines to gather her for market. White and winsome, covering the South and all the world. A paradox of war and pain and warmth and frosty chilled relations. She, caught between the strife of people, owning, working in her fields. Way down South on her land. The frost is gone, the chill is warmed. She breathes peace now, in her fields and looks like heaven, a sea of clouds.

And he is frosting on my life. I, plain vanilla cake and he, rich cream frosting spreads a blanket on my soul and on my very life. Last night I dreamt of Paris for our 25th, the next one, he of Italy. This life made sweeter, richer in the aging. And in the dreaming. We may sit in zipcode here and never leave but in our dreams. But love is whipped up nonetheless. No less sweeter in the staying. I am covered by his care, spread on me, a covering. And I hold his heavy on the back of my baked being. The complement of two, was planned in Garden Eden. And today its richer still. So much lovelier when two walk tandem out into the world.

He changes seasons when He speaks. He says and it is so. First frost speaks of what’s to come, the earth holds change, like brittle illusion on the field. It looks like snow. Yet when morning is broken it is gone. The frost melts away with the breaking of day. Like all illusion. It never lasts.

Joining Laura and Amber C. Haines at The Run a Muck for her concrete word prompts. There is a wonderful commuity of writers there, exploring abstract themes around the tangible things of this life.

And I am linking with Michelle.