healing breadcrumbs

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taste and see that the Lord is good

oh, the joys of those who take refuge in Him. 

:: psalm 34:8

don't pretend that it's not important to Him, this thing of breadcrumbs and drops of wine. we tend to look at the daily things, air and water and food and shelter, and brush them off. not important, He's bigger than that, we say. 

but even this is vital, even this He treasures. because we've turned food into pain. it's become a pointed look, a raised brow, a slightly caustic "should you be eating that?" and little girls cry and stand in front of mirrors at eight, nine, ten, and place hands on flat tummies and wish to be less and less and even less still. 

but food is not something He ignores. in fact, it's something He is. broken Bread, poured out wine, Life and Living Water. and the King of the World knelt on a sandy beach that morning when the world had turned topsy-turvy and curtains hung torn from top to bottom. 

and the Lamb roared in the voice of a Lion

come have breakfast.

and He laid out bread and fish and served the ones He loved a simple meal that meant the most. eleven men, One Messiah, dining together. and minutes later, He looked at Peter, denier forgiven and bade him thrice do a simple command laden with more love than we could ever understand. 

Simon, son of John, do You love me?

feed My lambs. 

because we all need food, food that passes our lips and lingers on our tongues for that moment before it fills and heals. and then there's the other kind, the kind that once left guilt and shame and now brings glory with every bite. 

:: woman, your faith has healed you. 

because He is sustenance of a greater kind, the glory that fills and restores with Life and Strength and Eternity.  

{sharing healing, imperfection, and grace with emily today; wont't you join us?} 

diamond strands

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i am woman. 

hear me roar.

mew. 

because roaring is hard sometimes when the world is whispering, "women who aren't good enough should be seen and not heard." 

i feel tugged, stretched, a fragile strand of priceless diamonds pulled too hard until...

and then comes the snap, and the clatter of gems across a hardwood floor. the tears come then, as i gather the sparkling remains of what could have been in my palm and weep my own diamonds from heavy eyes and realize that it was nothing but fakes. 

and i hold up my twisted string and cubic zirconia in shaking hands to the One who saw me before the beginning of the world. and the Maker of All, the Mighty One, reaches down and takes my bits of nothing and holds them in His nail-pierced palm. 

and then He speaks. 

not broken. Restored.

not desolate. Renewed.

not forgotten. because I have known you long.

not dirty. washed in My blood.

not forsaken. Mine. 

not abandoned. not ugly. not worthless.

Lioness. Warrioress. Princess. 

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word upon word, reminder upon reminder from this God-Who-Sees. and plastic turns to diamonds as He whispers life to me.

He places the strand around my neck, mended and true and glorious. and that bleeding, broken hand of Glory lifts my chin to meet His gaze.

dearest Daughter, I knew you would not be long in coming to me. 

joy shall be yours.

::horse and his boy, c.s. lewis

and i step out to sing with His diamonds around my neck. and when the mirror screams a horrid chant of all that it claims i am, i can meet its gaze with the Glory glittering against my skin.

i am woman. 

hear me Exult! 

{a writer's prayer}

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if my heart has one ambition

if my soul one goal to seek

this my solitary vision:

'till i only dwell in Thee. 

:: hymn // brooke fraser ::

to the Lover of my soul, the Authour of my story, 

i'm walking a calling, something You gave me. something You pressed into my hands the moment before You sent me earth-bound and whispered, remember to use this. 

and now i use it, or at least, i'm trying. i'm grasping at napkins and ink pens, whatever my fingers can find to  etch the words that stir like snow in the wind behind my eyes. 

so here i am, on my knees with words piling up around me. 

please. 

hear my exhale.

guide my hand to write the Glory

guard my soul to write the Right

grip the pen when i'm too weak to do it myself. 

let my words be mighty, let my words be Yours.

the worlds i invent, the lives i create, may they be filled with Your Light 

and so here i am, just as i am, ink-stained hands raised up. because oh Lord Jesus, i am scared. there is transparency here, the see-through openness that somehow seems to bleed onto the pages. and i am laying myself bare, the deep parts, the aching and beautiful parts. the Glory visible can lead to pain.

this is trusting You with all of me, every corner, even the dust. 

::amen. 

so be it.

:: joy dance

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the pursuit of joy is a dance, a thing of glory.

it's feet placed squarely against smooth cool wood, that slight intake of breath right before the music starts, a matched exhale with that very first note.

happiness can be found easier, under the stones that cover the bed of a stream or right between the complimenting syllables that trip so sweetly from the lips of an admired one. 

but joy. ohh, joy is the elusive White Stag of the Great Lion's master plan that leads you in a mighty chase to place you direct in the center of His roaring triumph.

see, I am doing a new thing, a mighty thing.
joy, joy, joy!

it's a majestic thing to be in the center of this whirlwind of joy. because to get to this center, this pearl in the midst, there comes that grain of sand tucked in the sensitive corners of the soul.

the rubbing and the aching brings the sorrow.
and then comes the dawning in a rumble of Lion's song and dew-drenched blades of grass.

joy is something sought after, something requested and then begged for, a thing that draws the greatest and the lowest to knocking on the door with flattened palms and an urgency incomparable. joy is not the feeling. it is the being. it is not the treasure, it is the hunt.

you would not have called for Him had He not been calling for you. 
{paraphrased from C.S. Lewis}

and so joy is a dance, a leap and a skip that can be done alone but is better with two, with clasped hands and fingers raised and head thrown back.

{linking today with beautiful emily and the imperfect prose community}

send it off // unafraid

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i stand amazed in the presence 

of Jesus the Nazarene.

and wonder how He could love me

a sinner condemned unclean.

i've been singing these words all morning, my own private worship service.

see, i've been pouring over my old manuscripts in recent days, repeating to my husband over and over again my goal for this year. i will finish one of those novels, and i will get it printed in fine, smooth paper glory in a tidy stack and i will send it off.

send it off. three little words that can strike a lot of terror into my heart. because i've sent my work off before, eager and excited, only to be greeted with the stilted words of the form letter.

thank you for your interest, but...

and then two became three, and now little fingers pat my cheeks and big blue eyes meet mine all day every day. and spit-up covers first one clean blouse and then two and then i'm down to just my yoga pants and that last black tank-top, and bedtime comes exhausted with no writing done.

and i am left with more time to fear in the silence when he snores and she snuffles and the ceiling tiles number twenty-seven in the dim light from the softly murmuring television set.

there are times i press my hands to bathroom tile while the hot water pours down over my head and masks the tears as God and i share a private moment of anguish because His will is perfect, but oh, it is so hard sometimes to see the road less traveled becoming the one i'm called to take.

:: but oh, the glory.

{my little reader}
photo property of DramaticElegance

because i have so many hands on my shoulders, helping my arms reach upward when i get so very tired and all i want to do is toss the papers like confetti to the wind. and i have soft chubby fingers on my neck and little squeaks in my ears, and reassuring words of the man who pledged eternity to me, and there's soup on the stove and coffee in the pot.

so i'll take the leather bound book and i'll brainstorm while they play together on the floor. and i'll write.

because that's what this year was about. it was about release. letting go of what holds me back, standing strong on what He said and living life free without fear.

send it off, daughter.
let Me show what I can do.

and under my breath, in the silence, i'll stop counting ceiling tiles and chant like a warrior instead

oh, how marvelous
oh, how wonderful
and my song shall ever be...

trying on shoes

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i'm walking a mile in your shoes. it's a hard thing to do. it's stepping out of the comfortable, away from the familiar and the normal.

but it's something we've forgotten to do, even as Christians. our greatest commandment is love Him with everything, the inhale and exhale, the lightbeams from the ends of our fingers and from each strand of hair. 

but that second one. why do we have so much trouble? 

love your neighbor ::

and don't try to ask the question the man at the fire asked, the one i'm never sure if it's heartfelt sincere or hesitating sarcasm. i can almost see that gentle look in His eye, the one that i'm sure that He wears often. the look of sorrow, the unspoken, 

oh child, can't you see Me? 

because 

your neighbor is everyone.

it is those that we have made untouchable, unlovable. the wallflowers and the window-washers. the soiled doves, the bastard sons.because the noblemen sat at the table with upturned noses and gags held back in the throat at the distaste, at the horror, at what kind of woman was touching Him. and He reached down and touched her back. 

i'm aching at this church, this city on a hill turned smudgy and dark because we're content with only tending to the pretty candles and letting the other ones burn out alone. 

He washed their feet. down on His knees, a servant Messiah, He took off their shoes and got their dirt on His hands. 

so i'm trying on your shoes, and my toes are a little squished in some and my feet too tiny for others. and my eyes are adjusting to seeing through your lenses for just a minute. because i want to understand what He did. i want to see your world through your eyes, through His eyes. 

i want to stop in the street because i felt the power. 

someone touched me.

{linking early with emily to celebrate LOVE}

:: in which we are behind the glass

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there's a lot of glass in this world. we spend most our lives behind glass, looking through panes to see out. we live and sleep and eat and breathe and even travel from ocean to ocean behind glass.

it's a lot of inside-out living, transparency our friend but the glass is covered in fingerprints with noses pressed up close to see everything that we just can't touch.

lend me your eyes, i can change what you see

but your heart, you must keep totally free

:: mumford and sons

sometimes the glass is there as a leaning post, something to press against and keep us steady, keep us close to the world but just out of reach.

are we afraid of the world outside, the puddles that might be deeper than we first imagine, the sharp stones that might cut our feet and make us bleed? 

there's an unsure-ity, an aspect of hesitation that comes hand in hand with that sunlight, oh that sunlight that kisses the glass and sends a thousand rainbows our way...always just out of reach.

and thumbprints, one of a kind, smoosh across the glass as we press our palms there like little children and wait...

...we wait for the day that the blinders come off, that we grow up enough to pass milk up for the meat and stand strong on the Rock that is greater, stronger.

and the curtain is torn and the glass shatters like ice from a shed roof in a sparkling crash that sings

freedom. 

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and on and on and on and on it goes

till it overwhelms and satisfies my soul.

:: just one thing remains ::

it's childlike faith that never falters and never changes. 

it's innocent hearts in adult bodies.

it's wise serpents and gentle doves curled together like the promise in Isaiah, two things so foreign and so deadly one to another made sanctified and holy because a little child shall lead them. 

and so we press bare feet to hardwood floors and press our noses to glass as we wait until we're grown, just a little stronger with roots a little deeper. 

then comes the shatter 

// and then comes the light. 

kumbaya

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it's more than three syllables, more than a simple campfire chants with guitars and jean shorts. it's more than that.

:: kumbaya. 
come by here. 

it's the word my soul speaks in the darkness when i'm reaching out into seeming nothingness and i'm empty and the dark night of soul is pressing in tighter and tighter.

:: kumbaya

it's the dance of the soul bathed in light as joy comes bringing in the morning with a laugh and a whisper of better things, beautiful things made new like He promised.

:: kumbaya

it's a silly song, one that every little child can sing by the time they've seen five summers. the words are used to mock, even, those who seem to want to lower weapons and hold hands across enemy lines. but it's more than that.

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:: kumbaya
oh Lord, come by here. 

it's the rings in the tree, repeated and widened year after year. it's that knitted line in the scarf, threads woven by hand that speak of love when wrapped around neck and palms. it's the sacred footsteps of the seeker who has nothing left, the nomad who wanders the desert to find the spring of water and sits in the shadow of Him that sees.

for I have stood in the presence of the God who sees me.

kumbaya.
a word transforming.

it is come by here, Lord. it's a little girl crying come find me, Daddy. 

and El Roi, the God who sees, Abba Daddy. oh, He comes running.

it's more than a firelight song. it's a heart's burning cry.

it's the breath of our lungs.

::kumbaya::