Body-slammed By Grace ( And A Poem)

Some weeks just feel more grace-filled than others. Maybe they truly are. Or maybe it is our perspective. Perhaps grace comes in waves. Flowing freely some weeks and dripping slowly drop by drop during some drier seasons. Or maybe it is a matter of the lens we use to view this wild and crazy grace laden life we each are given to live.

This week was full and long and lovely. And I was body-slammed by grace. Felt the weight of its glory bearing down on my soul.  Washing over me like a tidal wave of wonderful palpable moments. Sweet and savory, a sensory overloaded stretch of amazing grace. A covering of a canopy painted in shades of neon and pale, brilliant and faded, but always, mercifully blanketed by it. Exposed. Receptive. Receiving. Surprised. By Grace.

elizabeth's path

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Vingettes of Grace

One
I got lost really turned around in circles lost. In a fog figuratively and in the rain literally. Bound and determined to eventually find the T-mobile store. I know, don’t judge. I needed a new phone. But what God had in mind was for me to be touched by the words I exchanged there with a total stranger. This is a story. This is a poem. This was the heart of human connection at a soulful and spiritual place. It wasn’t deep but it was wide. I brushed up against the cloth of his garment. He embraced me, this tall and dark stranger. He asked me if I was a Christian. This is a story. A very long one. But it left me dazed by grace. And in awe of what was waiting for me in the rat’s maze of my lost wanderings in a city I don’t yet know well.

Robert Lewis Stevenson

Two
I left town for a week or so and I am now on my fifth week away from my family, with my family of birth. I am lonely but not alone. Filled with joy, but torn into pieces. By the separation from pieces of my heart that are a five hour drive from here. This is a ministry but  I am being ministered to. A paradox. A new paradigm of love.  While I am serving in a small way I am healing.  This is my Africa. This is my foodbank. This is my shelter.  I am where I was called to go. I am home but I am not home.  I am body-slammed by the ministry of presence. And I am the receiver of the gift.

Three
I am wearing a new hat these days. I am a book editor and a proofreader and on the team of a book launch. My mother wrote a book. For ten years she invested in this project of the heart. A story that was handed to her in the form of letters over 100 years old. She weaves the tapestry of this story. One of a girl whose parents send her to Virgina while they serve as missionaries in the interior of Brazil in the late 1800’s. It is beautifully told by my mother who doesn’t remember writing the story. Dementia took that part of her journey from her.  Over two hundred pages, Homeward is a historical novel based on the letters of Esther, her great-grandmother who is separated from her family who remains in Brazil while Esther is sent to school and to extended family. This is a story. This is a poem. Here in  an eruption of grace, in the birthing of the book and the dedication of my father to have it published lies a love story. You will read more from me of the unfolding of book and its journey to be published. A grace explosion right before me. I am glad that I stayed. I like this hat. It fits me. Maybe not well.  Amazed, truly, it even fits me at all.

the glider

Four
I had my words go a couple of places this week. Humbled and honored that they have wings.  That they were invited to  fly out of the nest. I stand under the shower-head of rushing grace to think that they, my little fledglings are journeying elsewhere. I would be honored to have you see one of the places my poem “I Was Just Wondering Because I Am Weird That Way” landed. It was written a couple of Sundays ago after I visited a church with my parents. It is the overflow of my heart after a worship service in which grace was manifested, moistening  my wide-eyed windows to the world. Click this link:

130811-24Window

And Tweetspeak Poetry ran a little piece of mine this week under their “Literary Tour” section. If you missed it you can read it here. I enjoyed the experience that lead to writing the piece, and even more so the comments and feedback from readers. Thank you. If you haven’t visited Tweetspeak, maybe now would be a great time to check out the words, the wit, the wonder that awaits at this fun home for poetry. And you can add to my joy.  It would drip grace over me if you have time to read and leave a footprint over there. Thanks friends, in advance.

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A Poem

I joined Tweetspeak Poetry this week for their poetry prompt “Bottled and Canned”. The creative folks over there threw this one out.  Clever., huh? What a fun way to be stretched creatively.  Here is my poem:

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Canned Hands

We played with the long green veins
In church
Ran our fingers down and up
While he preached the sermon
Children, restless
Intrigued by the vessels big and raised
Called them worms
Back in the days
Of her youth and ours
Now she reaches out for me
I count on them to be there
Wish I could bottle it up
or can it, place it on the top shelf
That warm feeling
We knit fingers, grasp and clasp
I want to save those ten digits, flesh and bone
Preserve the love found in them
Can the goodness
Preserve her love
Better than any bottled potions that the Ride Aid sells
A mother
And her aging love, suspended in time
Held

Wheelbarrow Of Words

orchid and sun through door slats

You single wheeled cart
She places her art inside of you
A through Z tumble out hard
Carrying all that wells up inside of her

You handle with care the words
She places there, for now
Sacred container of
Words, filled to the brim, spilling over the rim

Z through A jumbled pieces, imperfect
No home in  prose
You hold
Everything that needs a holy  home

You carry pieces of a soul
Spun with tenderness with fragile yarn
Depositing gentle at the feet

Of those
Meant to receive a gift of poetry
Not prose

Line by line the art pulls the thread
Which started in the left ventricle of her heart
Held now frozen on a page
WIthin the walls
Of this word  sanctuary called

Poetry

Penned imperfection, carried with care within a
Wheelbarrow of words
As with all that ‘s meant to fly away
She’ll  pin the Monarch wings and set them free

You may now
Dump out all her poetry
Metaphor  which carries dirt
Your services  no longer needed here

For if she is created in His image
As it says
Co-creator with her God on High
She’ll park the wheelbarrow in the shed
For now

And humbly place the winged words
On the currents of the wind
And wave goodbye to what
Was born inside of her

Grace and peace to you as you travel far or near
My heart, my art, my  poetry

Joining Laura at Playdates At The Wellspring

A Few Things I Learned In July

Now this is really fun to write. I do hope it is fun to read. You have been warned that extreme randomness fills the lines of this post. I do  love joining Emily P. Freeman over at Chatting At The Sky, her beautiful blog home. I especially enjoy the series “What I Learned…..”. You may want to visit the others who have linked up  at Emily’s with what they learned this month. Some things are serious and educational, others are humorous and reveal a little  of life’s craziness and/or the writer’s personal nuances. You may even learn something new about this writer.

I will say, I may take creative license and include some things I have learned NOT in July but in general and about which I  feel  utterly compelled to share. You can try to figure out which item falls into that category. You may want to get out now. You have been warned. 🙂

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1. I learned not to judge a writer by her writing. Well by that I mean this. I had a lovely meet up with two bloggers this week. Up until this point I only knew them by their blogs and social media. Amazingly they have two legs and two arms each and in this case they are both funny as all get out. I almost said something else but I didn’t. Self editing helps. I met Kendal Privette and Amy L. Sullivan for coffee at the quintessential coffee house, The Dripolator. These two women are the realest deal and both have hearts spun from pure gold. They drove out of their way to meet me. I am grateful. Thank you Kendal for the poetry book. I cherish it.

2. If you are leaving church,  pulling out into traffic from said church’s parking lot OR if you have a sign of the fish on your car, be nice. I am just saying. That may raise the bar on your driving etiquette but people, this is the time to raise the bar on yourself.  It is a good time to defer, slow down, pay it forward and just kill  ’em with kindness. There will be plenty of sweet tea at the after church buffet when you get there.

3. Editing is hard work. Well, proof-reading is hard work. My father and I are editing my mother’s book (twenty chapters long). Let’s just say it is not as easy as it looks. The next time you read a book and you find a typo, try not to be all, “Wow how did this book ever get printed and distributed, I mean with typos and stuff.”  We are proof-reading behind several people, at least one of which was paid to find the errors. To forgive is divine.  And I am convinced the eye reads what it thinks should be there,  we  often miss our own typos even after proof-reading five times or so. And thanks for grace here. I have had my few…..hundred myself.

4. One of the best places to dine out of doors is in my summertime back yard. Run don’t walk to The Grove Park Inn in Asheville. Well don’t run, just call and make  a reservation if you are anywhere near Western North Carolina. And don’t quote me. I just happen to have had a wonderful experience there. Who knows, maybe you will too. The sunset over the valley and the Asheville skyline are beautimous.

5. Walking through life with an aging  mother is filled with intrigue and wonder. I learned this in July and I am learning it in August and hopefully will continue to learn from it for the rest of my life. I will definately be writing more about that and Dementia here.

summer veggies

6. I am obsessed with Instagram and with taking pictures of food, seeing it increasingly as  art. Instagram is like an art gallery of the lives and art of folks I seem to be following– mostly family, friends, bloggers and magazines whose work I love. I am there at @graceappears on Instagram. It seems like a quiet place to be in  a very loud world. And yes, I realize that I contribute to the noise. Should I be following you.

7. Poets are some of the funniest people I know. At least the folks at Tweetspeak Poetry are. I recently participated in their “Take A Poet To Work Day.” Man that really caught on, like all around the globe. We started with flat puppets like flat Stanley. Whoever that is. And the rest is too hard to explain so I recommend you head over there and read the recap. It was a day of wit and whimsy and child’s play. Which takes me to my next point.

8. I am enjoying this summer almost more than I did when I was a child. And I am learning to play again. Though I am not quite there, I am making progress with becoming reacquainted with channeling the inner child. (see Instagram for examples of summer fun.)

summer picture JULY

9. When I make a salad, I am at my easel with paints and brushes and a blank canvas. One of my new favorite “paintings” is a peach salad. Here is the recipe. Fresh greens (I used red leaf which is not always a favorite but it was perfect here.) Fresh Peaches ( I like the peel on) sliced thinly and then cut bigger than bite size. I know I am weird that way. Blue cheese or gorgonzola crumbes. And candied walnut pieces.(I found them in the produce section. And then a vinegar and oil dressing. I added rotisserie chicken. Yummers. A meal.

10. I am thinking of and dreaming of two things. (Well more than that but…..you know what I mean.)  I am going to begin to look for a publisher for a poetry book and I am dreaming of collaborating with another writer or musician on some song lyrics. Let me know if you know anything about either of these so that I don’t spin around in circles endlessly dreaming and scheming. Who knows, maybe by August’s list of “A Few Things I Learned in August” I will be able to report what I now know about dreaming of writing and publishing a poetry book.
trio in nature

11. I am amazed at the quality of my camera phone. #oldschool not an #iphone.  And I am still using and totally  obsessed with Pikmoney. (pikmonkey dot com) I don’t always photo edit, but when I do it is with Pikmonkey. Instagram has it’s own fun filters. But you already knew that.

See you in August. Wait. No. I hope I will see you around here before then. Poetry is popping up all over and almost daily. Sort of like the mushrooms. It is like the summer of mushrooms with all the rain, they are taking over. I digress.

The Glider and The One In Which We Grieve While Living

the glider

The Glider

Calls her out
Into the night

Anchors the seating
For souls
To search

Stars with wings
The lightening bugs
Of all the things we recall
Are insects in a Mason Jar
Holes punched through to last the night

Conversation
In the crosshairs
We open Pooh and cry at the news
Of loss, our Mia

We go back
And forth
Counting on a change
Then see it was made
After all

The wall art reminds
We live forward
But understand in looking back
Truth proclaimed in pottery
Words lined up and down
In the cross

No idle living
On the porch
If metal spoke
It would tell
Of healing there
Black metal harbinger of hope

A forty dollar yard sale
Piece
Be with you
Found and tossed
Find a seat
Gather
Afresh
Huddle anew

The glider
Guides
Groups
Out under the waxing
Moon

She waxes poetic

Remembering her friend
The one who died too soon

Cancer
Claimed another

Come glide with me
The days are numbered
The phone has rung
And doctors tell of cancer
And the fighting man
Who loves to rock and hold a glass
Always more than half way full
Of hope, spins it good and glorious

Sit and rock
Roll back the rock of death
It lost its sting
And tell me all

We’ll knit one pearl two
And make the days

Count
Don’t drop a stitch
In time
The stitches one by one
Will make a perfect
Covering
Come

And glide
You must not move
Mother may I

Gather on your
Glider
Under our moon
With you

Death has lost its sting
Forty dollars
Buys a lot of living

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482px-A_a_milne

In Which We Grieve While Living

Death both stops you in your tracks and thrusts you onward. Propels you forward, harder, faster, fighting mad that it came at all. Births a new desire to grasp the days like a starving man, deprived of food and all that is good. To savor, taste and see that it is good, so good. The all He makes and made. We  ride the waves of grief, nestle in the glory goodness that it wakes us up to see.

Life is revealed in death. We float in seas of salty remembering. Hold on to each other harder, stronger, longer and buoy a grievous soul in love. Linking arms and planning how to rip the wrapping off the day. Crazy to unwrap the gift.

Awake anew to the mystery of the world. The unknowing of the numbered days. Shot out of a canon,  we declare we will press on in living with our grief and sacred remembering of the lives that end. Ended. Continue on in heavenly glory. Bless and pray and thank and grieve. But live. In a holy place of remembering.

We  weep at life without our loves. People, those who have marked our lives, the lives of a child, importantly. Who have invested, sacrificed and loved us well. Smiled when aching, loved when hurting, played while pushing back their own sorrows. They teach us love while living life. Show us mercy upon mercy. Currents of grace whirl round their brilliant countenances.

And we are changed forever and ever, amen.

And it is then we pull out Pooh. Because it is an anchor with its words on living and mysteries, child-like exploration into unknown forests and chasing after demons disguised as hephalumps. We gather the musty pages which smell of childhood and life. That smell of laughter. And yellow smells wise and knowing. Turn the mustard colored pages where a child has added to  with scribbles of their own. Crayons colored green and red have left their waxy mark of random scribbly scrabbly child’s play.

In my home, Pooh anchors with belly laughs. And memories of the best times. Of silly sayings and pages which read a hundred and leventy leven times ninety sound new and as fresh as a the morning’s first drips from a French Press. The world wakes us up. Turns in circles and cycles seem comforting. As life is supposed to be.

Cycles of life, cycles of death, cycles of grief. And Pooh.

My mother read it to my grandmother in her eighty’s. In the home. And in Latin. And they laughed tears, tracking down aging cheeks in salty rivulets.

And on the morning of more news of death, we pull out Milne and let him take us back to happy youth. Where rabbits and owls and kangaroos talk and donkeys struggle with depression and angsty life views. Where a small pig can be a best friend. Where loss and grief loose a little of their sting in the imaginations of an Englishman, a poet a writer a giver of hope.  Years upon years after his birth and death.

His words, a healing gift.

So we press on a little  more gaily into our day. Looking for honey in the sour sorrow of loss. My mother reads Pooh aloud and the pain diminishes a small amount. Our family gathers around grief.

And around story. Childhood joys. We will pray tonight. And lift up the grieving ones to God. We will bow and lift and whisper and cry.

But for now its words of poetry and children’s lit. At times like this, it is always  words. Of prayer.

And a bear.

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photo of A.A. Milne – Wikipedia.org

photo of glide – Elizabeth W. Marshall, poetry and prose through a lens of grace

Joining Jennifer at Jennifer Dukes Lee dot com

In community with Emily at Emily Wierenga dot com