Monday, February 17, 2014

in which I am doing something

{photo by me via Instagram}
in 2011, I wrote 297 posts.

it was the second year of my blog, the first full year from January to December. my mother called me prolific, and it was true. I was writing a post nearly every single day, sitting at the computer agonizing over something to write that was profound enough, that was rich enough, that was "good enough" for me to push publish and let it fly. and if I ever missed  a day, ever missed a step, I would apologize profusely, as if I had broken some never-made promise to always be present, always have words.

since I started writing, I've always felt like I had something to prove. that's what happens when you get married a week after your nineteenth birthday instead of going to college, and people are breathing down your neck for you to do something. it's not commonly done, choosing to become a wife instead of pursuing a degree. and so I wrote, wildly, and in some respects it was good because it was a honing period, a chance for me to understand the edges of my voice and what it had the potential to sound like , eventually.

but I had to clear my throat first because I had so many other voices at war in my vocal chords to the point that it was hard to figure out which was mine and which ones belong to everyone else. they taught me a lot, these other voices, because they pruned me down by making me feel uncomfortable. their words fit in their mouths so perfectly, but they were the wrong shape for mine.

:: :: 

I started to press myself deep into the Lion in those days, the ones that heralded the start of my thrashing as I shed my dead skin and sunk deeper into that lioness hide where I belonged, a selkie of a land-bourne sort. that's when I started to realize something.

maybe Susan wasn't "spared" death in the train crash because she was leaning toward boys and make-up and things that were pushing her into socially-appropriate adulthood. maybe it wasn't Lewis' way of chiding children for growing up, for choosing to walk . because if that was his point, if his purpose was to chase away adulthood and keep them locked in innocence forever, then Aslan wouldn't have been needed, and His own words would have been made void.
{photo by Nikki Jean Photography}

there, I have a different name. you must learn to know me by that name. that was the very reason you were brought into Narnia, so that by knowing Me here, you might know me better there. 

and in those words, I started to understand.

I have absolutely nothing to prove for being in the Land where He placed me. 

my voice and my story and my authenticity are mine, breathed holy straight into my lungs from the mouth of Lion on the mountaintop. it is a shift from the familiar, and it makes me feel a bit of a dervish. but this view, it's breathtaking.

I've spit out the salt water. my throat is clear.

and I'm prepared to speak.


  1. I have always felt that Susan was spared in the train crash, so as to give her another chance in our world to re-meet Aslan as Jesus. The Lord is compassionate and slow to anger, and I've seen many people find Him when others might have thought all was lost.

    That being said, I think the Lord has led you to a *re-birth* of sorts. He is releasing you into the deeper Land of your heart. And your voice is beautiful.


  2. Dear Rachel
    How I wish I knew this when I was still as young as you! Stay there, dear friend, entangled in Aslan's mane, and refuse to listen to voices that tries to pull you away. Just write what He whispers into your heart. Then you know it is for His glory alone for then the Lion has roared!
    Blessings XX

  3. I don't know what to say, because your words resonate, and I am simultaneously excited and terrified. Thank you.

  4. Beautifully written

  5. I think many of us go through a transition - where we sift through the faith we learn as a child - and make conscious decisions to include the faith - the relationship in the grown-up us who are more consciously responsible for the condition of our soul. I remember being little, dancing with abandon - but as an adult I have had to learn the steps to find grace - and then after finding the steps, I can dance with abandon. -

    Someone told me in graduate school that maybe I just wasn't a writer because after all - the great writers had written their classics by my age (23) - and I remember telling them they had lived statisticly half their life by my age, seen more about the life and death of living than I had - and it is in the life and death of living that we find our own voice - not our mother's voice or anyone else's voice - but our own individual voice. - I think your voice resonates truth!

  6. I see you, girl, and you are fierce. I love your authentic voice -- your heart before Him. Stunning. It shakes me awake inside.

    Love you.


I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise, and I wish I could sink my hands into your flesh and light lanterns along your spine so you know there's nothing but light when I see you. :: Shinji Moon