brave :: oneword 2012

my word scares me. 

it's not brash or strong or resilient.

it's not the one i anticipated, or the one i would have chosen. 

it's not fearless or determined or radiant. 

it's brave. 

i obsess over strength. weakness is something that terrifies me. wouldn't i want to be something gripping, something changing that would shake the world's foundations? 

but this is a shaker, in His way. because this world is made of rock and ice. it's fearless or nothing.  courage has been left roadside, ached to be forgotten. 

because courage isn't fearless. courage is being afraid, and standing. 

and i want to dig roots down deep into the soil at the foot of the Cross and wind this vine around the blood-stained wood. 

because i'm seeking courage, and i'm seeking strong found only in Him. 

courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; 

courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.  

:: winston churchill ::

so 2012 will not be a year of squelched fears, but of eyes met and courage found in the sacred corner. 

it will not be a year of silence, of bound tongues and captive hands, but of freedom and voice in the darkness. 

it will be a year of new. 

a one-worded year of Light, of sacred touch and inhaling glory from lungs to tongue-tip and back again. 

2012, a year of brave.

to live is the rarest thing. most people just exist, that’s all.

// oscar wilde //

final notes :: in review

{via pinterest}

tomorrow is 2012. 

honestly, it's hard for me to believe that another year is so close. i can almost feel the smoothness of the chalkboard, that clean slate that lurks so near. it's refreshing. 

this year has been remarkable. 

and you've blessed me. 

and life has changed for the sacred, for the beautiful. 

i'm humbled to be surrounded by such incredible brothers and sisters as you, once strangers turned beloved friends who have held my hand as this year has tossed and turned. in the beauty, we celebrated. and in the darkness, we held up the candleflames. 

it has been a year of Light in this place. a year of drawing closer. 

and so, here they are. 

:: the ones that blessed you ::

woman 

//

we need more than our silent allotments of stand and sit and worship and listen and nothing more than this. we crave Him. we ache to go deeper. we want to search His will and see His heart and wrestle with Him in hand-to-hand until we find ourselves undone and exposed before Him. because He chose us too. 

grace alone

//

i am walking on Grace alone.

Sometimes, I find myself at a loss for how much poetry I dream and then promptly forget upon my waking.

It is a powerful ache to realize just how much this world of chaos, of tears, of sleep-stolen moments and overbooked days has ripped my art from me.

dreaded souls :: imperfection

//

if He makes all things new, all things good, all things beautiful -- then this i ache to emulate. i want to follow in His footsteps, stepping down the path with the ambition to dwell in His mercies
to make all things beautiful. to take my imperfections and make them into Art.
to make them dreaded. 

ink of wait

//

the three years worth of familial well-meaning words cut like the lies mixed with truth that they are...because really i'm not wasting anything.

why don't i go? i'm not called.

but i have wasted nothing.

this is rebirth, i would say. and it's painful.

three things

//

and so i take my pen and my paper and my too-many thoughts and i sit and i wonder just what might happen if i knew something, anything at all.
i watch the people, feet on pavement and pavement on feet. and i realize what i know.
i know three things, because sarah kay says good things come in threes, and she's right, after all.

:: :: :: 

i cannot thank you enough. the blessings that you have poured over my head like anointing oil in this past year has been more than i can understand.

it's been a walk into sacredness, toward gripping the hem of the Son of the Most High. a walk into adventure, hand in hand with my Abba.

it's been the vigil of death with candles lit and joy coming fresh in the morning. it's been a path with more stones than i expected, and more joys than i could even fully pen.

be blessed in 2012, dearhearts. 

{also, for those of you that have been following my OneWord journey here and here, i have found my word. 

tomorrow, it will breathe. and it will begin. 

so much gratitude for all your prayers and all your blessings.}

inked :: tattooed :: inscribed

{i am left, she is right}
photo by dramaticelegance

today, i crossed another item off my bucket list.

i now bear my first ink. a small kanji on my right wrist whispers two unknown words that beat with my heart.

:: elder sister ::

they match, her ink and mine. as much as two sisters, so different, can have eternal art on their skin, and it be the same. 

hers is thin, almost airy in its strokes. mine is thicker, bolder, with lightly feathered ends. they're different, like we are. 

but there's still one part that is the same. that one word, six letters that makes them the same. 

sister. 

i find profoundness in the marking of one's skin with permanence. it's a sacred act, a mirroring of the marks that my Father bears on His palms. 

the Son is pierced, the Father is tattooed. 

behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands; 
your walls are continually before Me.

inscribe: to write, to carve, to engrave. 

{via pinterest}

there is permanence in this, this thing of marking love on the skin. of speaking volumes to a world that might not understand these strange words we speak of "born again" and "redeemed" and "sanctified."

but they understand ink, and blood, and eternity. 

never erased. 

always there. 

and so i wear ink. it's not my last, not by far. it's beautiful and powerful and so sacred. i'm overwhelmed and undone, almost feeling unworthy by the beauty, the reminder. 

because i'm inscribed on my skin, and i'm inscribed on His palms. 

eternity. engraved.

last hope's gaze

i am secret.
i am silent.
i am sometimes forgotten, even by myself.

because i'm too eager to slice a vein and pour my heart out to another, leaving myself parched with life flowing away and yet, i find myself still wondering why i'm so weary.

{via pinterest}

i think it's because i feel selfish when i take, when i turn my eyes inward instead of gazing outward at those around me. because there are broken ones, a thousand of them, and i'm just one.

but i'm still one. and i need to not forget that so easily.

and by One, i am never forgotten. 

why is that we are so able to stretch out fragile arms to those around us, and forget about that person who wears our skin and breathes our air? that one of a kind suit of flesh and blood tangled around soul and spirit and sanctified? 

i think it's okay to be woman. it's okay to taste the sting of death and come out the other side alive. it's okay to not be strong all the time. it's okay to rely on another's arms to bear you up because your legs have turned to shaking, and your heart has turned to thudding. 

you don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope.

// suzanne collins :: the hunger games //

sometimes, that last hope seems impossible to even find anymore. 

but it's there, i promise you.

and when you see it, you never forget His face. 

safe and sound

have you ever reached into the fire for gold with dross pouring over your fingers
as it burns away flesh and earth and leave behind sacred?

have you ever dared to take a flower petal in your fingers to study the lines

the ones that spell life and sun and Light and little things?

{via pinterest}

these are the things we forget to remember. that Light erases darkness and flower veins spell mystery, that value is found where money is missing and silent touch is often more important than too many words? 

don't you dare look out your window, darling

everything's on fire

 the war outside our door keeps raging on

 hold onto this lullaby

 even when the music's gone

// safe and sound :: the civil wars //

it's about seeking Him where He may be found, in all sacred corners that are most often forgotten. because if He wrote in the dust, why can't i?

 it's about holding on to music when everything burns, and all that's left is you and Him and the lion's song, ringing clear in the night, crying

see, I am doing a new thing.

all things are made new, dearheart. 

i'm spinning in these dustmotes, cape in hand and candle in the other. 

i'm closing my eyes and leaping into crystal pools. it's His country i seek. i'm safe and sound, drowning in His glory. 

illusive

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i feel illusive.
like wind on pavement or dust in darkness.

it's there, and i know it's there. it's fact.
but i feel like it's invisible, like secrets

it's my word for 2012.

down to four days and still only silence. i've sat with Bible open and candles lit and tea cup steaming with fragrance, and i've listened. but this lack of noise, this time of peace, has only led to my heart being filled and peace on white feathers roosting in my soul.

but it's been precious.

because want can sometimes translate to need in that language that only souls speak.  it's one of those mystery, known but unknown. the way Light shines the brightest when there is none and the way words that don't leave the lips can sometimes be the most beautiful.

you are not bound to loss and silence.
for you are not bound to the circles of this world.
all things must pass away,
all life is doomed to fade…
 :: and yet you are not without hope ::

// breath of life :: howard shore //

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so i'm still wordless. and i'm not rushing it anymore. i'm going to sit and breathe in the tea steam. i'm going to inhale this invisible Glory called grace and dance in the swirl of dustmotes in a sunbeam.

because it will come, just as He promised me it would in that night when He whispered

we will choose, you and I, dearheart. 

i'm rooted in that hill where death was trampled and the Word prevailed and veils tore from sacred top to bottom.

it's a beautiful sort of turbulance, the kind found when storms are settling and everyone feels it deep inside. the wind is hard, but slowing. the rain is tossing, but sweet.

and so i seek. and i wait. because when the word comes, and i know it will, it will be that sweet perfume after a cleansing rain.

it will be worth the wait.

overflowing // pie {213-219}

i'm at a loss for words this afternoon.

{via pinterest}

the Christmas rush is finally starting to trickle down, barely twelve hours from the twenty-four that spelled out this sacred day, we are back to life again. back to normal, i suppose.

but can you ever really be normal after knowing?

is that even something i want? 

because this Christmas was more than just presents and sparkling lights, and perhaps even more than singing certain songs with hands raised in the candlelight. it was about being emptied, and then being made full again. because isn't that what we celebrate?

this thing of being empty. because how can something that is already full be filled anymore?

it's an overflow when the shell begins to brim over and then the Light tumbles over the edge and spills over in a waterfall over the edges and down the sides and falling down on everything and everyone beneath.

• 213. joy

• 214. Him coming, Him saving. 

• 215. sparkling eyes in Christmas lights

• 216. those grateful words on innocent lips when toys and games spark wonder

• 217. my precious family. words cannot express.

• 218. a God who loved enough to give. 

• 219. a Son who loved enough to die. 

{via pinterest}

:: it's a pie shell ::

you see, i made pie this Christmas, blueberry. and as i poured the dark purple berries in their thick syrup into a patiently waiting pastry shell, i watched them flood and fill until the edges were brimming with sweetness. 

but even as i covered the pie with carefully cut lattice strips and slid it into the waiting heat, i felt the touch on my soul and the whisper

do you see this thing of being filled?

it's okay to be out of room, dearheart.

because when you spill over, you bless.

it's about having more than you can handle, more than your words can fully form and it spills over. maybe that's why i'm counting my blessings differently this Monday, this day that normally flows with rising numbers as i tick them off one by one. 

because i'm overflowing.

{linking my continuous blessings with Ann}

the glory // the strangest way

it's Christmas Eve. i will be brief.

but the saga of this swiftly-coming night of holiness has not released its grip upon me.

because i turn on the radio and i hear songs of silent nights and silver bells and the celebration of God become Man.

 this mystery of how a humble virginal child can spread frightened fingers toward Heaven's gates and sing of a delighted soul, how a confused but tender-hearted carpenter can become the earthly father of the Son of the Most High God.

Why me, I'm just a simple man of trade?
Why Him, with all the rulers in the world?
Why here inside this stable filled with hay?
Why her, she's just an ordinary girl?
Now I'm not one to second guess what angels have to say
But this is such a strange way 

to save the world. 

:: strange way to save the world // 4-Him ::

and so

:: i dare you tonight ::

to find the time to hit your knees upon the floor and behold your King, come humble and gentle, come infant and precious. because this was for you. 

do you understand?

He came to die. 

this was His purpose, His highest calling. 

this precious infant curled in the arms of wondering parents while His Father gazed from Home with tears in sacred eyes as Word became flesh. 

behold, your King. 

now i'm not one to second-guess what angels have to say

but this is such a strange way 

to save the world. 

the fifth page :: mystery

{via pinterest}

{to read the first page, visit here}

{to read the second page, visit here}
{to read the third page, visit here}

{to read the fourth page, visit here}

conviction is a powerful thing. it's something that can come out of nowhere, something that you never saw before a hand touched yours and words were whispered, you should look.

today, it took a whimsically tangled ski trip and a sacred blog post to grip my soul and turn my head toward you should look.

it's time to look at ourselves, the sisters and the brothers and the sons and the daughters of the Mighty One. it's time to look at who we were and the mold into which we are squeezing ourselves just because we think we have to fit. have we gotten stuck in the place where sacred gets sidelined, talked about in whispers and not fully understood anymore? 

{via pinterest}

because it feels as though we let it go, and we stopped seeking when we stepped through the church doors. 

we have somehow entered the place where candle-lighters are greeted with wrinkled brows and those who seek the holy are the strange ones who look to hard for "the emotion." because mystery in the Word, not understanding everything that greets our eyes and tugs our souls...

is this wrong?

shouldn't we just know?

we need to step back and breathe and seek. we need to be free to acknowledge that it’s okay to be a mystic, a seeker in this dark world. where candles make your soul ring in the darkness and we invite the Creator to come and create WITH us.

this season is God with us, celebrated and overwhelming with candlelight and silence in the beholding. this here, this is the time where we find ourselves willing to open our door to the fragrant and cast aside the understandable. and for this, i raise shaking hands to broken clouds and whisper, 

come have me, won’t You?

the fourth page :: peace in glory

{via pinterest}

{to read the first page, visit here}

{to read the second page, visit here}
{to read the third page, visit here}

i almost didn't blog today. between packing our suitcases for the yearly family vacation and attempting to get my Christmas-tousled house in order, time for reflection was pushed too far behind. the press and crush of time almost did me in again.

it's a flaw i have, letting time overwhelm and to-do lists dictate my sitting and my standing and my breathing and my living. i forget to stop and rest.

silent night. oh holy night. 

behold your King

for all this crush that spells the mas where it should be Christ, we forget that there was no pomp and circumstance to herald the entrance of Christ, as God and man blended into the mystery of one flesh. 

it was as silent as a birth can be. 

there was no cluster of red carpet admirers, no throngs of people with anxious hearts and fingers stretched out to caress the cheek of this Saviour child. there was a frightened virginal couple, not even a midwife to attend them. there were animals gathered around in the stone shelter where the Prince of Peace was born, with dung and straw and nothing but strips of cloth in which to wrap the Son of the Most High. 

she called Him Emmanuel. God with us. 

{via pinterest}

do you feel this like i do? 

:: God with us ::

:: God with us ::

:: God with us ::

and this woman, this new mother -- even a child herself -- treasured each one of these things deep within her heart. there was silence that flowed purely alongside the angelic chorus of oh, glory, glory, glory. and on earth, peace.

oh, behold your King. 

hail, hail, the Word made flesh.

so we celebrate, and we gather. 

but last night was that moment in this holiday season for me. that moment when our church was silent, save for the flickering of two hundred lit candles in the darkness, and two hundred voices rose to greet this God-made-man. 

oh, come, let us adore Him.

we'll praise Your Name forever.

oh, behold your King.

the third page :: the Father's beginning

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{to read the first chapter visit here}

{to read the second chapter, visit here}

sometimes i don't feel like getting ahead, this thing of push and pull and jerk and tug that seems to be so prevalent this time of year.

sometimes, i feel like hanging back a bit, because there's power in beginnings because it shows where you've been, where you used to stand and who you used to be.

because stories rarely start with once upon a time and end with and she stayed the same forever.

:: there is a change :: 

and sometimes i think we need to go back past the first breath of Saviour Child, before the word spoken to the cosmos when dark became light and nothing became something.

to before the beginning, even, when Heaven crossed swords and one thing lower sought to be Highest and overthrow the One who made him. when sonic booms and broken skies led to the the tumbling down of the once bright star and a third of his followers until they struck the earth and still kept sinking past the earth's burning core and into a vile black place of their own.

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when a Father touched His Son's shoulder 

and knew. 

because we see virgin mother and awestruck mortal father and tiny infant hands and feet tucked in manger straw with angels singing and shepherds worshiping. but there's another sacred corner. another Father, the only One who truly knew what must be done.

because He held the future in His Hand, and saw the coming. saw the scream of crucify Him crucify Him and saw the blood as lashes struck and thorns pressed into His Only Son's forehead as His sinless blood flowed into His eyes merging with the tears.

and He heard the wail of a broken Son crying out

My God, My God, oh, why have You forsaken Me? 

and still He touched His Son's shoulder and knew. and still He stood at Heaven's gates and gazed down upon this scene of nativity with moral flesh clothing His precious Son.

because His love for His broken ones, His people wandering in the darkness with hands outstretched and whispered pleas for deliverance...it overcame all.

so this is Love

not that we loved God

but that He loved us

and sent His Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. 

{linking this imperfection with emily and all my dear ones}

the second page :: foreshadow

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{to read the first chapter, visit here}

another page now to turn, when books and words show more than we dare to realize. because we get stuck, i think with away in the manger when no one really went to this quiet manger where cattle are lowing and babies don't cry.

because there's more to this than just picture-perfect nativity and glowing mother and oh so proud father and stars and a Star that shine down over this little Kodak moment where someone should have had a camera.

sometimes it seems like they did, but they didn't.

there was blood. there was tears and there was pain. and there was a crying child who lay in a pile of straw, wrapped in strips of clean linen,  because the world who should have opened their doors to Him shut them tight and shouted

no room 

no room 

no room 

a hundred thousand times over until a cave cut into rock was His only place to be born.

and then His only place to lay when the hearts of every Pharisee shut tights and cried

no room 

no room

no room 

{via pinterest}

a hundred times over. and they wrapped Him in strips of clean linen -- and they laid Him in that cave to rest. not in life, but in death.

and then there were the seekers. the shepherds and the Magi from every walk of life, coming to behold and kneel with gifts of wealth and gifts of hearts.

 because the shepherds were disciples that came and laid their nothing but praise at His feet, because it was all they had. and a man named Joseph was the Magi who gave his garden and his herbs and his never-used tomb. because that was his honour.

and there was the angel in the sky singing "you will find Him lying in a manger. Emmanuel. Jesus." and the seekers ran to Him after waiting all their lives to find this Messiah, this one to save them, their land and their souls.

and then there was the angel again. who sat this time, no singing or multitudes. just the one. but this one's message was just as full of power, if not more.

this time,

He is NOT HERE.

because He is risen.

so the writer in me finds the foreshadow, finds the promise in the silent night and the holy night and the bright and the calm.

and so as i sing, the tears will fall down my face because there is more than sacred touching earth and life being changed as we know it forever by an innocent child soon to become the darkest with our sin. not His, but ours.

fall on your knees,

oh, hear the angel voices.

oh, night divine. 

turning Christmas pages {207-212}

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it's less than a week to Christmas.

i'm having a hard time believing that Christmas is really this close. i'm one of those people who peaks ahead on every new calender, pressing my finger to the 25th of December like a little child and whispers

how many more days are left?

the blessings that flock among these days are more than i can ever begin to comprehend, more than i could ever share in one place at one time. this season seems to be wallpapered with eucharisteo, from head to toe with grace.

but as always, i'm going to raise grateful fingers to heaven, and count...

• 207. this first year of being a family of six. Kyle home for Christmas from the US Army, laughter shared and memories exchanged until our sides split. 

• 208. live pine in the living room. imperfect just like we are. 

• 209. the overflow of love from sisters across the nation found in my mailbox over the past week. books and notes of love, reminders that we're connected, that we're a sisterhood here. 

{via pinterest}

• 210. our first sprinkling of snow. short-lived, but it was here. 

• 211. the sacrifice of a Father to share His Son with the world. the sacred blended with the earthy, Holiness clad in flesh. 

• 212. warm quilts and fluffy pillows and White Christmas. there are some traditions that i will never cease to adore. 

i love Christmas. but to me, there's more to Christmas than just the story found in the second chapter of Luke, more than we see or comprehend with our mortal minds. there's a big picture, a book with more than one page.

so i'm doing Christmas differently this year on my blog.

i'm unfurling those forgotten pages, showing the other sides of this time of year when Love came down and virgin arms cradled Emmanuel against her breast.

to read the first part of this sacred saga, visit here: the first-page :: havah.

because there is more than first glace can reveal. that's the mystery of my Jesus.

there is more. 

He is more. 

and i ache to drown in this mystery.

{linking my blessings with Ann}

the first page :: havah

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i've been reading a book.

it's not all that uncommon for me to be found reading a book, actually. i'm an avid reader as well as an author. can you be one without the other, really? can you write well without the example of fluttering pages and the comparison of knowing where one has gone before you, and soared?

i'm reading Havah. this volume gifted from the heart of a sister to my mailbox this week. and i cannot put it down.

Tosca Lee put pen to paper and wrote this book, her own heart's picture of the beginning and end through the eyes of the first Woman.

Havah. 

Life. 

Eve. 

and as i pour through these pages, overwhelmed with the beauty of the first portion, my heart swells. this connection to the Creator they feel, their bonding with the One who Spoke them to life...it makes me crave this same communion with Him. because the beauty is almost overwhelming to my soul.

and then the anvil drops. and i can see it coming in slow motion because i know the story and i know what's coming and i know, oh how i know what the cost will be, and i want to scream at her to stop and open her eyes because how could she not know?

but then comes a bite. and a second. and feminine hands outstretched toward husband's lips, and another bite. and with simple movements of lips and teeth and throats, their fate is sealed in darkness. but not just theirs -- ours. every last breath becomes thicker, harder, and every last heart is now blackened with sin.

but there is hope. there is Light.

for with darkness comes a glimmer of Hope. for with the disconnection from the Holy One comes a promise of reconnection.

you will bruise His heal 

but He will crush your head. 

even in anger, God knew. and God would not let His people, His newly-broken ones, go without a hope. do we forget this part of the story? we weep with horror and wail if only if only. 

{via pinterest}

but in a week, we celebrate that hope. 

the hope of all things new. 

for unto us a Child is born

unto us a Son is given

and the Government will be upon His shoulder

and His name shall be 
Wonderful Counseler, Mighty God, 
Everlasting Father

Prince of Peace.

and He came to save and live and walk and die as one of us, so that He might rend the curtain and let the Light in again. 

this is one of the pages in the Christmas story that we forget. the darkest of pages that we swiftly attempt to overturn in our hurry to get to the angels singing and the Child coming into virginal arms. but it's a big picture story, this thing of Jesus' coming. 

because even her name -- Havah -- it means Life. a promise from the beginning, a hope so sure as to not be shaken. 

and Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight

the clouds be rolled back as a scroll.

the trump shall resound and my Lord shall descend

praise the Lord, praise the Lord

oh, my soul.

mystery air

sometimes, it's hard to know things.

everyone teaches you like knowing is something you want to do, something that's required before you can exist in the big, wide world all by yourself. we have to learn things like how to tie our shoes and how to walk on the right side of the road so that we don't get hit by a speeding car.

but even when we know these things, even when we know where our feet are supposed to go, we still get hit by a speeding car. don't we all get blindsided, no matter how much we know?

but getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way

to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of 

:: air ::

{sarah kay}

so it's not about knowing. it's about being. it's not about knowing everything under the sun, it's about being willing to raise imperfect hands and whisper

my soul magnifies the Lord

and my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour. 

it's about taking the mystery in and making it become alive instead of locking the Light inside the vault to keep it "safe" from Earth and dirt. because that's what we celebrate a week from tomorrow, this thing of sacred becoming touchable.

this thing of gold and Living Water turning into blood and flesh and dark brown curls over chocolate eyes and gap-toothed grins in the middle of a stable with only a Star's light to herald the Light.

because mysteries are okay. the one who said they were doesn't understand this path we walk, and the Hand we hold, because sometimes it's all about mystery.

it's okay to not know. when all you can do is inhale exhale and inhale again, and that's all that you understand, i promise that it's okay.

and when you gaze into that face of long baby lashes and a soft triangle of milk-fed infancy, remember that this mystery is the earthly picture of another.

you know, the one where a teenager wrapped her arms around the Saviour of the world and kissed His cheek and called Him "Emmanuel."

:: because it's a mystery ::

 God with us, Word to flesh, breath to breath.

and it's okay to wonder, and be full of wonder.

connection in the Sovereign

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when i tell people that i blog, sometimes i get the strangest looks. when i mention a friend that i have made, how dear she is to my soul but our only connection has been the one that flutters through cyberspace, the looks intensify.

because it doesn't make sense, if you give it too much thought, and if you don't understand.

how does it work, exactly, for women of every walk and every age and every standard to merge their souls and bare their hearts to one another?

does connection take face to face, hand to hand, and breath to breath?

or is it about heart more than flesh?

because there is love that radiates 

from screen to screen. 

there are voices that ring together with laughter over steaming coffee mugs, and then there are the clusters gathered to weep and mourn a broken heart with tears that flow in brokenness, despite the distance.

there is connection. 

this i promise you.

this is the blending of earthy and sacred. i've said it before, and perhaps too often.

but, oh, God became flesh, and gold became straw.

and connections become invisible and fingers touch and grasp together.

these sisters, these seekers that stand together with one hand stretched to Heaven and the other pressed to qwerty keys, they understand.

this is sacred connection of the strangest type.

this is Sovereign sisterhood.

rage :: Light

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i heard a poem when i was in the first grade, and it's haunted me ever since.

i didn't know what the words meant, but i knew they had meaning. i knew that i would find out one day, if i just kept searching. 

do not go gentle into that good night

rage, rage against the dying of the light

all my life, these words have followed me. my entire life, i have heard this words whisper into my soul, a mantra of sorts that my soul sings over and over, a battle cry.  

now, i think i'm beginning to know what they mean. 

i always thought that rage meant to be angry, to be furious at the extinguishing of the light. but it means more that just anger, than just angst. 

it's fighting against it all. the fear, the expectations, the trepidation. it's warring against anything that quenches this Light. 

it's about stepping from the shadow into the Light, hands up and fingers parted to let every fluttering beam to slide into every crevice to let oh, so much strength flow into my every pore. 

{via pinterest}

it's about finding the power. because the Light, the Son is more powerful than we are. 

rage, rage against the dying of the Light. 

maybe the author didn't mean for this piece to be taken this way, but isn't that what art is about? freedom and expression.

and so i read these words over and over again. they've pulled me forever, and i think they will always weave some kind of spell over me. 

it's all about stepping from broken to Grace, from dust to sovereign. and so that's what this poem says to my heart as Christmas comes and the the mystery of skin and flesh and bone and God and Eternity meld together with stable straw and beating hearts. 

and so as i stand under twinkle lights and white pine trees with silver and red and green, i have a hand raised. 

because i am not going gentle into that good night.

and i will rage, rage against the dying of the Light.  

droplets :: rain

{via pinterest}

i love the rain.

some find it gloomy, overbearing. almost depressing when the sun is blotted out with grey and fog, when water pours like tears from Heaven's eyes and there is nothing bright anymore.

but in my experience, tears heal.

and the rain cleanses.

there is no sun seen, but it's still there. it's just waiting for the healing.

driving in the rain is complicated. the roads are slick and damp, and there are puddles that gather in the low points that lead to a skid or a tidal-wave splash. but it convicts me, too, when i drive while the water pours from sky to ground.

but there's that blur when the water patterns the windshield and for that moment, you can't see the road. and then the wipers glide over the glass and all is clear again.

and that's the way it should be. the tears come and for a moment, all seems blurred and unsure. and then the fingers brush the tears aside. the bottle in Heaven fills with a few more drops, and peace descends.

{via pinterest}

You have taken account of my wanderings

put my tears in Your bottle. 

are they not in Your book?

{psalm 56:8}

these are not just our sorrows, i think. He keeps our joys in this bottle, too. and i think one day that He will take me into this room, this place where this bottle is stored.

and He and i will talk, and He will take this bottle off the shelf. and He will pour them into His palm where my name is written and smile.

i keep Your tears

of sorrow and joy and Light and pain and beauty and confusion

so that You could see

that I am greater

and I love you. 

so this is why i love the rain. the knowing that while it is unsure, there is beauty. and while the joys overflow into water down my cheeks, or the pain trickles down in the only release i can understand

i can stand. secure and dry in the Light of the Son.