Tag: The South

You Could Always Just Say Thank You

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall

thank you peachSometime during the growing up years, in the South,  where I was raised and am raising mine ,we learned something about the transactions of words. And the early lessons get buried  the deepest if the soil is rich and the heart is receptive and the love is fertile. We feel shy and unworthy in our youth when words of encouragement or of the complimentary variety are showered on our heads. But we were told. Just say thank you. And isn’t even that difficult sometimes. It means we hear, we receive, we acknowledge that we caught the bouquet of gracious words.  We  now hold them, bear them, own. them. Grasping them even in our fragile souls. Thank you is the acknowledgement we at least hear and receive.

But we know it is much deeper and more complicated than that. It is a holy and sacred transaction.

And then there is the saying them ourselves. Two words. Unfurled from our tongues, released from our lips. Remembering to. Meaning to. Wanting to. Sending them out to others. Often. Authentically.

Yesterday we met some lively young women. And it was our privilege to pile them on our boat. We headed out to the secluded beaches of this Lowcountry coastline and basked in the glory that was the beauty of one summer day. The Patient one was at the helm and like all good captains he cared well for his charges. They delighted in every small detail of the day. Every shell they found, every glance at the horizon, nothing was lost on their porous souls. The day poured into them and they reflected back the joy in their countenance. Smiles of  delight from those a generation below us are contagious. And we remember to sing a song of wonder too.  At the end of the day, they turned, one in particular, and said thank you to their captain. For the day, for the adventure, for the journey. And that gray haired man,he lit up.  And he beamed a  boyish grin. One that gratitude and gratefulness can birth.

One of my favorite poets is John Blase of “The Beautiful Due” blog. A recent poem of his written forFather’s Dayspeaks to saying Thank You. In his straight forward and profound style of poetry, I found his words tucked  brilliantly into the gentle  lines of this poem. He  amplifies  the power of saying this to men. No  doubt it is important  to shower genuine, authentic gratitude on those who pour into our lives. But maybe I need to re-think the frequency of these words leaving my lips to my husband, among others.

This morning I turned to him and said quite simply, thank you for all you do to take care of us. It changed me. It changed him. Gratitude always changes us. The air in the room softened. The mood lightened. That Monday mood where everything wants to feel oppressive and needy and urgent, if we allow it. It felt kinder and gentler.

Thank you says we are blessed. Thank you says I love you. Thank you says your efforts are not in vein. They are appreciated. And they are beautiful.

We prayed on this Monday. And we thanked God.

And I am reminded how much I take for granted. How many times I have missed the lessons of my childhood. You could always just say thank you. 

We sat on the porch last night. Our souls rocking to the lapping of the Intercoastal Waterway, under the super moon, hair and skin kissed by  salted sea. We are molded by the gifts. And the discussion turns to how much manners matter to people. Small cultural nuances, like respect and gratitude, standing at the proper time for young men, saying thank you, helping others. We have heard these lessons all our lives. And the South won’t let up, in some small pockets. In our homes we are bearing down on good manners. Because respect and gratitude and a servant’s heart fall into the laps of appreciative adults. And sow good things.

God, please remind me to hear these lessons too. The ones we are trying to teach. Of saying with my lips what I feel in my heart. Of pouring out to others,  helping and serving. Of getting outside of myself and seeing and hearing a need in another. Of responding in love. Of living a life which reflects how grateful I am to be YOURS. To know you

And because I want you to know, Lord hear my thank you this summer Monday in the middle of June. Remind me to speak a vertical thank you always and to extend a horizontal thank you often. In love, in sincerity. Wanting nothing in return. A transaction of a pure heart. A grateful heart. A heart that knows you.

I want to always say thank you.  Not out of rote duty or empty cultural mores, not flowing from cliched patterns of speech or lessons of my youth.

I want to grow a thank you spirit in my home and in my very soul.

And then watch the changes that will occur in me and in the lives around me. Vertical, horizontal words of grateful praise.

Make my life a hymn of praise, in all the moments that are gratefully mine.

Joining Laura at The Wellspring and Michelle at Michelle de Rusha dot com and Jen for SDG

Real

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall

rock and roll

Roll me like a chicken leg
in a buttermilk battered bowl
of dusty dry white flour
waiting for the grease.
Just pepper it with honesty, sprinkle it with truth.

For I am weary of the lies
Weak and faint from less than real
Tired and worn-out from the half-truths
The Velveteens wear beautiful
The beautiful is real.

Throw me in the hot-grease
that southern Crisco oil
the fire of smokey goodness, that smells and tastes like true.
Just pepper me with honesty, and sprinkle me with Truth.

Jesus and The Barefooted Man

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 6 Comments

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Jesus and The Barefooted Man

In the sixties she sat on red-velvet and stared at dead mink eyes
Staring back at her while she listened to the sermon
Teased hair, hats and some white gloves, confetti sprinkled among the faithful
The South, the  Methodists,
The pearls, sprinkled on a few
Folks listening or planning lunch at the Country Club later
Prime rib or fried chicken, thousand island or blue cheese, sweet tea or sweet tea

And now she wonders about the man with no shoes

He told me the day he went to the Episcopal church without me
I cocked my head and tried to get a visual on the thought
We walked to church a few Sundays later, together down a tree- lined street dripping with moss
On more than a few, old oaks
Passed him, smiling big, he not us
You’re going the wrong way aren’t you?
Headed away from church
He not us
Yeah, going to teach Sunday school
Cheshire cat grin on the barefooted man

And that was the man with no shoes
Seen through the eyes of of the lady who wears the pearls, sometimes
And we sat and rocked and smacked some jaws and asked some questions
Later with folks on the porch
Because this is our sometime home
Who was that man in the barefeet
We asked

And there were opinions and there were things said
And it is still the South
And that is good not bad, but true
Really, we all have a story
And this was an old Episcopal church, after all

Suits and ties, after all

The more I thought
And wondered and took myself down to the deep soul places
I had to dream and cry out to myself
Come Lord Jesus and teach us
Now, how to love all the barefooted souls
Who  sit among the mink and pearls

Show us how to love like you
And smile like we are all barefoot
Walking in the wrong direction

Heck, I think every man Jesus touched
Back in the dusty sandal days was barefooted
Walking

I want to walk beside
And wash and love

All the feet
And know the name of the barefooted man

I loathe labels
But I do love a Cheshire cat grin on a barefooted- man running after Jesus
In the “wrong” direction.

Frost

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 16 Comments

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.