Today I Say Goodbye

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Today I Say Goodbye

In the hours before, I rehearse the dialogue
My monologue
Of how many tears we will hoard
Or how freely we will release the goodbye’s
What speed and pace and length will the salutation be

I know nothing of any of this
This path that we will walk
Only that it is you
Your countenance
Soul-filled redemptive beauty
Which I will miss

Circling the globe in search of words
To tell the stories of unfurled beauty
Marked by redeeming acts
Stamped with mercy’s seal

Two paths crossed like a jet stream’s tail
Go in peace to love and serve

Today I say goodbye
Today someone else receives the gift of a new hello

Oh, the way of the cross
The mystery of His love

I have practiced good bye a hundred times
Watch me
I still weep
Redemption’s beauty
Has come and gone and will come again
World without end
Amen

Peace of the Lord be always with you
Our soup is getting cold
One check, please
And also with you

Food, Fellowship and Healing – Letters From The Village

mcvl sunset and tree:puddles

mcvl sunset after rain

We sat down and it all began. The flow of life, the pulsing heart beats of woman, of writer, of friend, of fellow Christ-follower. And the synchronization of all the labels and titles and banners we wear meld into perfect harmony. And we are just two souls. Hungry.

We begin a marathon of interchange. And food may be the anchor but there is a long thread which forms a tether between her vessel and mine.

We have stories that are untold. Don’t we all. Life can find you storing up more than you know when you walk out your days at a decidedly quiet pace. Hours of parenting and wiving and mothering and living can fill a soul with much to peel back. Processing is an act of revealing. Sharing a meal can set the stage for sharing a life.

And food is our anchor.

When she brought it sur table it was if a painter unveiled the master’s most recent canvas, her soul work. Or that of the chef. Art as food. Food as art. Our beautiful anchor was photo-worthy. Fried green tomatoes and shrimp from a stone’s throw away, the bounty of the sea, from the very village where she and I meet for more than nourishment for the body. On a bed of greens, the pinks and greens laid out in perfect symmetry surrounded by slices of sun-burst orange slices dancing along the rim of the plate. And diamonds of pineapple slices popping up here and there for sweet delight.

The senses are delighted and the heart follows suit.

And this could be the story of a writer’s lunch. And it was. Or this could be a story of a girl’s lunch half-way between our island home and Charleston, the holy city, the port city, the city of stories and a gourmand’s haven. The heavenly delights of that place. (I met the Patient One there back in the 80’s. You should know this important piece of my story if you read here. Writer’s sigh inserted here.)

mary margaret mcclellanville

But this is a story with chapters of mother’s at lunch breathing words of their children between and over bites of fried green tomatoes. And one with pages of writers chewing on writing and words and the passions that stir line after line on blogs and beyond. Of poetry, story, redemption and grace. 

Of poetic prose. And of dreams cast with nets that reach beyond blogging.

But I know well that the only real story which I can rightly tell is the one which is mine. The one which I live. So  I will not speak for her. She does that well daily in her exquisite voice of redemption and story, blended and baked up with perfectly timed phrases, going heavy on heart.

So I bookmark the chapters that tell of healing. And I highlight the parts which taste like restoration to the delight of my tongue. I savor that we who have come from a storm, a schism and a breaking can come in peace. That we, who found ourselves on opposite sides of a whirlwind in our church community, can break bread over the table of wholeness. No strife. No division.

Simply lovers of Christ, lovers of words and lovers of life, lovers of peace.

Building a friendship and walking around the frayed edges of the broken places. Seeing the common ground and overlooking the differences, whatever they are. 

Tasting and seeing that He is good indeed. In all seasons. That the God of our lives is a lover of relationship. That wholeness and healing are good and fill the soul with nourishment of grace and mercy. 

That the fruits of the Spirit may be the most delectable of all there is to bring to the mouth of the soul for growth in Him.

So she and I hug and part ways and promise to do this more often. We lose track of time and lose track of more than that. All that division. And we focus on the hungry parts of all woman, the need for friendship, relationship. A longing for a listening ear and a shared understanding of the joy and the struggles of this messy living.

And we plan to come around the anchor again. The one that keeps us decidedly in community. See clearly that need to break bread, to feast on fellowship. To heal relationships.

The anchor of love.

wall of windows when love is hard

Joining Jennifer Dukes Lee  and Emily Wierenga today. The community of writers at Imperfect Prose of Thursday’s is writing on the word prompt, food.

Letting Go Of Worry

We had a meeting recently. One of many. Too many to count. And we discussed the problem on the table. The one of worry.

I shared of how it comes in the night sometimes. And  that capturing the thoughts is harder than putting active preschool twin boys to bed on time. They don’t want to settle down and just go to sleep. Worry is a wild toddler running through the aisles of Walmart.

Its like picking up the headphones at the UN to listen in and you pick up the wrong ones. The words keep coming, you wrestle, but cannot take them to the mat. The thoughts filled with worry. You cannot glean understanding and crack the code to the gnawing  nagging gibberish.

Three a.m. is not a good time to translate worry into a cogent plan, wrapping understanding around a problem.

And at the meeting I apologized to them, the Trinity. They were there, are there. Lovingly listening. Listening in love. I pour out my confession of my I know we’ve been through this before.

This letting go of worry.

And there is nothing worse and its not of Him. And yes we often go back to Release It To Me 101.

And how in this world do you solve a problem at three a.m. or any time of day or night without this highly esteemed omnipotent One who is available to love you through the thick fog of worry.

All you long to do is find the cold side of the pillow and snuggle like a pea in the pod of fluffy white down comforter and crisp clean sheets but worry runs roughshod over you like raging bulls.

Letting go of worry means capturing the thoughts and ushering them out of the mind’s door, saying nice try you wile ones, you are out of here.

I have confidence in Him.

You have no place in this life abundant, life transforming, life renewing. Life set free.

So tomorrow night, when the sweet black-blue indigo skies turn jet- black as coal. The night noises will come out to lullaby this girl to sleep with  a chorus of cicadas and crickets, hum of sleepy slumber night

And tomorrow night, the  cool side of the pillow  will hold the sleepy head and worry will be released in a pre-bedtime moment.

She’ll capture and release the foggy cloud of worry and let it go like fireflies in the night.

Good night my Day, you were good to me. Hello my Night, I am glad you are here.

Sleep tight, good night, don’t let the bed bugs bite.

And The Lover of Her Soul ushers her off into the land of wink-n-blink-n-and-nod.

And worry is no more.

This is Day 12. 

Click on the Tab on the homepage entitled 31 Days to journey through this series, the collective.  Or  simply click here. I am joining The Nester for the month of October and Shelly Miller at Redemption’s Beauty today for her series entitled Letting Go.

Joining Beholding Glory dot com on this Friday too.