Joy From The Dust

November 30, 2014

Memories set aside in stacked up empty boxes in the attic of my too quiet house.  I was certain I would leave them there assuming Mom’s too recent passing, she being the last of them . . . it would be less painful.  But, one or two small baubles might . . . perhaps a little something else . . . oddly enough, the house feels more a home now as the old boxes were filled not with things nor ghosts but of shared joy.  – from Martha L Shaw Thoughts Over Morning Coffee

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Miracle Cure

November 29, 2014

When you paste a smile on your face just so folks may not catch on to how sad you really are, it seems to eventually mess you up, because without realizing when it happened, the seemingly impossible actually does. You will become genuinely happy. – From Martha L Shaw Thoughts Over Morning Coffee

morning coffee


Old Time Traditions Still Bless

November 28, 2014

This was my Daddy’s favorite show, though this Lawrence Welk Christmas Show was before I was born.  This time of year takes me back to good times with people I miss.  With Mom’s passing a few short months ago and Dad’s 10 years ago, I am blessed to have so many good memories . . .


On Praying Expectantly

November 26, 2014

When we pray simply “you know what I need,” from which point of view does our expectation align? If it is His, and given that He knows us better than we know ourselves, how can we claim our prayer was not answered?Martha L Shaw Thoughts Over Morning Coffee

morning coffee


Becoming

November 24, 2014

Soft lips touch my finger.

Teeth grip my knuckle.

Smiling eyes . . .

New tooth coming!

Marked by love.

By Martha L Shaw – © 11-24-2013

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From The Other Side

November 23, 2014

I stand here by the window,

My curtains drawn but sheer

Cover closed blinds.

Here I remain,

Yet wondering,

I reach out and peek between the slats.

By Martha L Shaw – © 11-23-2014


I Am His

November 23, 2014

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The tough wooden cross in my hand was given to me by a man I’d never met before that one day  when by chance or design our paths crossed and we prayed together then he shared testimony with me.  As my wounded spirit soared I shared mine with him as well.  Time and other responsibility flew as we were drawn together and when we parted he gave me a small wooden cross carved by hand from a bit of storm severed cypress and by a man I will never know.

This morning when the crisis of the moment which kept me from sleep last night found a way to steal my joy of the new morning, I retreated to my quiet place and gripped this cross in my tremor ravaged left hand.  I could not think or pray but only rest in my quiet place and grip it.  I came to feel the love and prayers of the one who carved it.  I realized my pain lessened as did my tremors.  Just now as I pondered this knowing it was not any  holistic healing power in the wood nor in the preserving oil, but in the significance it held, I looked at it and saw that nature had damaged the wood in a way that took my spirit higher still.  There are tiny cracks the eye, or mine anyway, needed to look closely to see.  Where do these cracks appear?   Just where Jesus hands and feet would have been if this had been the tree on which He gave His life for me.


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