Our Family Mikvah

We had a family Mikvah at Family Week, Thursday April 5, 2012.  All the families that wanted to participate, or could, gathering on the eve of Passover. It was an incredibly royal feeling. I let my body fall under the deep and the Living Waters flowed through everything I am, even to my soul. I didn’t want to leave the warmth of the Mikvah behind, but I knew others were waiting for us at the top.

I came up for air and though the waters were very cold, I felt this warmth and peace running throughout my whole being…
It’s nice to cleanse the world off of us from time to time and know that His living waters have washed us throughout. This was our first Mikvah and we shared in such insurmountable joy with a few families, Some we met for the first time during the week, other we have known on facebook but only had the pleasure of meeting them during this week of Family Joy.

I learned an important lesson from the mikvah; to go with the flow and let the water take You. So, here I am today,  a woman, a writer, a wife, a mom and a daughter of the King.

Give Me Your Pain

 

Your fragile heart has been broken
I stand there with thoughts of abhorrence
to the source of your grief, the chemical highs
But the second those tears fall
I want to catch them and put them back in your eyes

I want to hold you tight, to ease the pain
Please don’t cry, it hurts me so much
but cry and let it out
My one weakness

My heart’s pain, and my soul’s torture
Unbearable are your tears to see
They fall from your eyes, they come from your heart
It burns with unforgiving despair

I care for you so much
Your sniveling frame sends flames through my veins
And I want your tears to stop

Bring back your smile, laughter and joy
Let me see and let me hear
Your smile a painting, your laughter is music
This is My greatest bliss

Your happiness, my soul’s salvation
Give me your joy, give Me your pain

But which do I want?
To ease your pain, or to ease mine?
Love and care, or selfish desire?
I persevere through my pain of what
you’re going through
and endure my breaking heart for you

I take you in my arms as though my child
and hug you tight
Your fragile form shaking in my hold
You fit as though poured into a mould

I whisper words of comfort
Everything seems fine, on the outside
But looking into my soul…

As I shelter your embrace, I am crumbling for you inside
As I take my hand to wipe the tears on your face
The liquid burning in my fingers
As I let you cry on me, I am in agony

On the outside I stand strong for you
From the inside, my broken form lies weak

It is a shared pain
It is a double-edged sword

But desire to comfort you,
and to see your smile, to feel your joy
overpowers my weakness
It gives me strength to survive
So let me absorb your despair
Let me suffer so you can be healed

The pain no longer shared
The sword left pierced through my heart
Cry in my arms and let it out
Keep going until you can’t anymore
I can hold on for hours if you want
Draining your sorrow on to me

Don’t worry it’ll be over soon
But for now, give it all to me
Cry, cry, cry

Let me take it all
Let it go, it’s alright
Give me all of your pain.
~ongoing from 2011-2012

 

Where I’m From

I am from far and distant shores of giant oceans, balmy winds, and hot summer nights, from Little Women, Charlotte’s Web, Hans Christen Andersen, and The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe story books and The Blue Angels Aerobatic Team practicing overhead and the sonic booms caused by the Military planes flying past.

I am from the mountains higher up than my head can see from below, winding roads and car sickness filled weekend travels never knowing when or where we would end up.

From strict military housing, spic and span walls and floors, quarter bounce test on the beds after being made and sliding down the hallways on freshly waxed floors knowing full well my mom was loving that we were having a good time.

I am from the tomato fields as far as one can see, watermelon picked fresh and eaten for after dinner dessert and grapes overhead growing complete with snakes sneering from above, the sassafras plants that my mom made us tea from and sugar cane we sucked straight from the stalks.  Rotten tomato fights in the fields across the road.

I am from moma’s banana pudding, fruit cakes being made and stored from October until Christmas, my daddy’s (whom everyone knew as “Blackie”) fish fry with the Statler Bros., The Oak Ridge Boys, and The Imperials all throughout the summers passed. I’m from Revivals that lasted not just three days, or a week, but for two full weeks; and when someone got saved there was a big celebration!

I’m from hand-sewn clothing well into my teens, barbie doll clothes my mother made, marching majorettes from one parade to another, ironing stiff Marine Corps uniforms and the wonderful smell of starch as it touches the hot iron.

I’m from Homer Lee King, Marion Wilson King and William Alan Poole, Phoebe Poole, and Viola A Poole.

I am from a line of women who can do anything when they set their minds to it and men who fought in Wars and fought fires to serve their country and protect their families and family time that was truly QUALITY time!

From the Cherokee nation and gypsies traveling the country and bootleggers making moonshine to help make ends meet.

I am from the Southern Baptist community and remember most Riverside Baptist Church where I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Saviour when I was 14 years old. Where the baptistry was below the preacher’s pulpit and The Lord’s Supper was like a major Christmas sale at Walmart. Where it seemed like every Sunday there was a good enough reason to have ”Dinner on the grounds” and the food was phenomenal!

I am from Beaufort, SC; Greenville, SC; and somewhere in Tennessee where the mountains meet the sky and the Cherokee Indians chant their prayers. I’m from homemade peach ice cream and fried chicken with gravy and biscuits.

From my grandmother’s beaded necklaces and my mother’s button jar; I’m sown from the stitches in time and the flicker of the many flames in my mother and father’s hearts.  I’ve been touched with God’s mighty hand like a piece of clay beneath the potter’s wheel to become,

Where I’m From.

©Nancy King – 2008