Butterflies, books and blessings

I seem to be turning into butterfly-woman, or at least have developed more of a butterfly mind recently which is easily attracted and distracted by turns.

My new tendency is to flit from book to book, pausing to savour a hint of its flavour before I move on to another.

Books beckon to us. They may call insistently like a whiny child or lure siren-seductively with an irresistible boldness. 

Others whisper soft and insinuate themselves around our hearts. We feel crushed to come to the end of their words.

Those we need to work through cause stopping pauses for reflection as well as working on the suggested activities or questions.

I've been dipping in and out of the 'read, pause, ponder, pray and respond' type over the last few weeks, hence my somewhat distracted manner.

But fruit is appearing as I am being inspired to delve deep into soul territory and to unleash new areas of creativity.

And you, dear reader, can taste a tidbit here as I share a story from my childhood memories.

"Huge yellow teeth grinning inanely within a mouth cavernous and dangerously close to my shaking hands, I proffer the fruit as homage, offering. It is snaffled noisily. 

Breath puffs out in snorts and starts from flared nostrils, making smoky circles in the air. 

I'm entranced by a fine conker-shiny coat, by swish of thick whiplash tail, by nodding of head and stamping of hooves.

Horses were a rarity for me. City living doesn't suit them.

No place we lived in had room for more than a couple of cats, a cage of pet mice, small bowl of goldfish and some budgerigars. And most of them vanished when we moved into a flat with no garden of our own.

Even a field looks far too small to contain this boisterous frame, this much compressed energy. 

Smell of shoe leather assails my nose as saddle is hoisted into place, bit and bridle attached, reins close to catch hold of. We're ready to ride. At least this magnificent beast is. I'm scared and exhilarated by turns.

Heart thumping like a terrified caged bird, I obey instruction, swing shaky legs over saddle and find myself seated on hardness, close to glistening flank and fearsome head. Breathe... breathe... it will be OK.

We begin to move. Tentative at first. A gentle trot, nice and easy. I watch, listen and learn as my experienced companion urges me on. And wonder takes over. Look at me ~ I'm riding a horse! 

We emerge from the field and hit gravel. Tarmac tilts me differently and clip-clop sounds become more pronounced. I cling on as we move forward with increasing momentum. Try to stay calm as we begin to canter a little. 

I sense the weight of horse muscle and power between my legs. And I feel out of control, at the mercy of this great beast, even as I take the reins in a closer grip, sweat trickling down my spine.

Life seems more intense somehow, scenery seen from a higher perspective, senses alert with adrenaline. A child's eye view now skewed by an equine ride.

All too soon the prancing, dancing giddiness of it comes to an end and I slide away from my carrier. 

I bask in admiration for the way he lives, moves and has his being, and how, for a short moment in time, I could be a small part of it all."

It's been a while since I've written about my past, or done so in a positive way. All it took was a creative exercise prompt and the memory here flooded back.

It was prompted by reading 'Spin - Taking Your Creativity to the Nth Degree' by Claire Burge.

Our minds are rich storehouses, replete with randomness which can become ripe and renewed to our senses as God brings things to remembrance.

God was working in my life when I was a child. I have no doubt that even then He began to get me to see experiences through the lens of grace, and to mark my memory with good events that will eventually outweigh the bad as I allow them to surface.

And He's continuing to do just that as He teaches you and I to live mindfully and be aware of His hand in everything.

You may not remember much that was good about your childhood. Neither did I for many years.

However, a snatch of a song, a few poetic words, a smell, a sight, sound or word prompt may be all it takes to release those beautiful butterfly moments when summer seemed endless and experiences were ripe for plucking and savouring.

And as we seek to follow after God's heart, He encourages us to live in the moment with awareness and gratitude for His continual goodness and grace.

In due time, God will bring events to mind as a way of informing the present and aid His work in shaping us for the future.

*NOTE* ~  Friends, please let me know in the comments below if you would like to read more childhood remembrances. I am very  slowly tackling some memoir writing. And because this is a departure from the norm for me here, I really value your opinion. Thank you! :)

Over to you:

How is God helping you to re-frame your childhood through the lens of His grace?

Have you had any positive memories surfacing at unlikely moments?

And are you learning to live more mindfully than you may have done before?

Let me tell you a story

Our lives are wrapped around story. 

We live, breathe, and have our being in God's great narrative.

And it becomes clearer as we co-operate with Him in the unfolding story we are all a part of.

Each tale we tell has a beginning, middle and end.

Each story we are currently living out is ongoing, yet with great potential for change.

Today, I invite you to pull up a chair, grab a coffee and make yourself comfortable as I share some of my story with you.

As one who is nearer the tail end than the beginning, I share by way of third person narration, looking back on myself as I was as a child.

Let's begin...

Once upon a time, a little girl liked nothing better than to curl up with a good book. Spurning slumber, she sat tent-like in the bed-sheets, devouring the current favourite before her by the light of a tiny torch.

Reading in bed meant potentially disturbing her sister and maybe incurring the disapproval of parents. Reading anything much altogether, unless it was schoolwork, or comics bought to buy her silence, was frowned upon. 

Even as her mother sat at table, ash falling carelessly, book in front of her and fag in hand, ignoring her children; it was never seen as desirable behaviour to adopt.

Wasn't childhood meant to be lived out of doors? Out of sight and out of mind of the adults. What a waste of time to bury yourself in books. Best to get out and play.

Yet it meant so much. Escape. Diversion. Distraction. The world around already crowding in too close for comfort. Adult life breathing hot, whispering, secrets and lies that sent a shiver of dread down her spine and distaste souring her thoughts.

Writing was another release as she poured out her heart in poetry and prose. Here, she could be who she wanted to be, lose herself afresh in make-believe.

All too soon, life's demands caught up with her and she found herself seeking other avenues of distraction, walking unsafe pathways, down dead-ends, pleasure seeking that brought no joy, still bending herself to the will of others.

One day, when drawn deeper still down dark tunnels of despair and destruction, she encountered a man bearing a lamp. The Light-bearer approached gently. He held out a hand of warmth and welcome.

He spoke words of reassurance and offered covering - His robe of righteousness and mantle of grace in exchange for the dirty rags she was wearing.

A new sensation grew in her heart as trust began to bloom again, filling and flooding her with hope. Someone was taking notice. Someone cared.

She was grateful for the new robe and loved to bury her face in its downy softness. After a while though, she forgot she was wearing it. Her old weeds of worry, worthlessness, shame, disgrace, guilt and pain wound their sinuous way around her once more and clung tenaciously.

Hope died. Her light dimmed and she lived for many years in Shadow-lands as one naked and ashamed.

Darkness shrouded her days as they passed in a blur. She gave every appearance of being alive while dying slowly on the inside.

Yet the Light-bearer's lamp flickered briefly, reminding her that He was still present, despite seeming so far away she thought He'd left her side.

She hid. Herself, her talents, her hope  and dreams all buried deep. Her creative ability to express herself hidden away so far she forgot she had ever had it.

Until...

A Voice called her name. Faint and indistinct at first, then growing stronger. 

And she heard the Light-bearer come near, sensed the fragrance of His presence changing the very air she breathed, filling her lungs with a sweet perfume to cancel out the stale odours she'd been inhaling for so long.

He spoke:"Let them fall. Those old clothes don't fit who you are anymore as a child of the King. All those years when you felt lost, out of place, sad and alone, I was with you. All that time when you wished you had a different life, different family, I had already bought you into Mine and given you new life. Now, take My hand and walk with Me into the future I have planned".

Her throat constricted. She gasped and cried. And as she put her small hand in His she felt alive once more. More alive than she had felt for years.

Perhaps she could resume reading His book and find comfort and reassurance there? 

Maybe she could begin to create, to write again? Let words pour forth as water. Or was it a discarded dream, never to return?

As if reading her mind, He bent low, took her chin in His hand with utmost tenderness, and said, "My beloved. You will write. You will pour out your heart once more. You will tell of your journey through the dark places and the Light waiting to guide you home. And in the telling you will help lead others back here too."




Then He wrote this upon her mind and heart:


"I love you. I always have and I always will. You are safe with Me" and He signed it, 'Jesus'.

**Note:It's been a period of great challenge physically and emotionally in my life recently that has brought up painful issues from the past. I didn't think I could join in with this week's #Letter to link-up which has the prompt:'Letter to my younger self' (over at Melanie's place this time) until God gifted me with a different way of writing it.

It has been an encouraging affirmation to me of God's overwhelming love and care. And my hope and prayer is that it will have blessed you too as you read it.

If you only take one thing from this post, please remember - Jesus loves you very much. He really does.

When stories are woven by grace

Welcome to another foray into Five Minute Friday where we write freely and words are captured with no over-thinking, over-editing or worry about perfection. 

It is a great creative exercise, scary and strangely liberating all at the same time, and really challenges you as a writer.

Today's prompt is:'Story'

START..

Weaving a story

Image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.Net

Words must flow. A story begs to be heard. Ears are ready to receive even as heart quakes and hand shakes in the telling.

Pour forth your words as water. Only in the unstopping can we be free.

Life needs to be shared as gift for another wounded soul to see and receive.

Our offering becomes the opening of a door to their freedom.

Let loose the words, pain and shame of a story you didn't choose to be part of. 

And in the undoing, unravelling, relief will come.

We are the ones chosen to be glory revealers.

Our lives the tale of God's greater narrative on the earth.

A story of hope, healing, forgiveness, renewal and redemption.

With lives made new.

Slowly, tenderly, God draws all the messy, tangled threads together with warp and weft of His choosing.

Weaving the pattern He desires to make.

Where we see knots He sees new opportunities.

Making a thing of beauty.

A showcase of His grace.

And as we yield to the Author and perfector of our faith our chains fall loose. 

We can stand free.

A life washed clean, anointed and equipped by Love.

A story of restoration waiting to be shared.

Our stories woven into the fabric of eternity.


STOP

Linking here with Lisa-Jo Baker at Five Minute Friday. You are very welcome to join in as we aim to share and encourage one another by our words.


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