Bread in the oven,
dog’s asleep nearby.
The parrot’s talking in the livingroom
in her cage by the sunny window.
The house is quiet,
the family’s safe,
the weather mild.
Tomorrow’s worries have no place here.
By Martha L Shaw – © 5-23-2015
A chocolate bar
split in half and shared with you
tastes so much better
By Martha L Shaw – © 5-21-2015
My late mother, having suffered both with poor finances and poor health, lived with me for quite some time. One of the most notable aspects of grief, for me, was times of joy while alone . . . no longer having her to share it with.
I thought of this as I did my morning devotionals about singing in joy to the Lord. Praise and joy NEED to be travel partners which was made more difficult in an earthly way when I lost Mom and for a time lived alone.
How obvious yet awakening this connection is! My joy is made complete in sharing! How true this is and what better way to experience this than in praising the giver of all joy! Praise Him with me!
“Ew” someone said,
but it was not me.
For I had learned
the greatest love
doesn’t smell like flowers!
By Martha L Shaw – © 5-21-2015 Words and Image
What does love really look like? I’ve seen it in a man who has sweat dripping from his face, his hair and a wrinkled tee shirt, all because he mowed and raked my lawn on a hot SC summer day last year. I have seen it in the empty wallet of someone who spent their last buying a gift to lift my grieving spirits. I’ve seen it in the grubby sneakers of an overworked priest who gave up some of his little free-time on his day off to visit me when I was in crisis. I could go on and will in a longer feature coming soon, but I noticed that these eyes of mine must surely be blind for missing the most poignant images of love and not one item in this post speaks of sex or body shape or . . . reality is so much better than what is pictured on magazine covers! LOOK FOR IT!
The man I love has caloused hands
from working so hard.
His shoes are filthy
because he’s always on his feet.
His smells sour . . .
the factory has no fans.
He doesn’t buy me roses
and drives a rusty car,
but he got that stranger something to eat.
I couldn’t go to boarding school,
but he pushed me on the swing
and told me stories when I could not sleep.
I want to be just like my Daddy.
By Martha L Shaw – © 5-19-2015