permission to chase {page seven}

it came again, the silence. that breathing calm after the storm that often follows a bursting of bravery. the words -- my own words, those from the lips of others -- have been burning deep within me, a fire in my bones.

i've felt a little unravelled and a lot vulnerable. i opened my heart to the world in my last post, gutting myself and pouring out my grief toward the broken Church like a drink offering on the ground. so many thought i was dropping the title of Christian into the mud and making a point to stomp and grind my heels against it until there was nothing left. 

:: but that wasn't it at all. instead, i took the moniker and set it loose on the sea, like a message in a bottle, a page out of my Story. 

i want to reach out and take the hand of every person who wrote me harsh or concerned or confused. i want to draw them into my arms and whisper, i'm scale-shedding. i'm not leaving Him on the sand. on the contrary, He and i are wandering the beach together. He's not afraid of wandering. 

 i am the lover and the loved, home and the wanderer, 

she who splits firewood and she who knocks, a stranger in the storm.

:: adrienne rich 

those words up there, they epitomize this thing i'm doing, this thing i'm letting Him do. i'm letting Him strip me down, bare and scandalous. He knew the scars were there, but i'm letting Him see them. i'm dropping the arm and letting the tears fall. my eyes are closed, yes, but the arm is down. 

i said before i was tired. when i was young, there was this slogan, this little smiling fish swimming the opposite direction of all the other frowning fish. go against the flow. but i couldn't help but look at that little fish and wonder, aren't you tired? 

i always thought the point was that He lifted off the too-heavy yokes, stripped away the heavy chains that were exhausting to drag around. He never wanted to trade one weight for another. 

Mandy etched words in the front of my copy of Thrashing about with God :: to the one who chases Light and makes space for sacred selah. we've never met, but she breathed those truths over my soul like oxygen, and i'm gasping, even though i had no idea just how empty my lungs were. i'm breathing in the Holy, the Wild, the Spirit, the Lion's Breath. it's all my soul can handle. 

i feel like my spirit has dreadlocks, twisted knotted things of beauty cascading down that i'm just starting to appreciate. but the well-meaning Church keeps pressing a comb into my hand, whispering, you're knotted. go straighten yourself out and come back in. you'll fit better. 

but i'm drawn to the One that's beaming Light down into my soul, the One who broke my chains and turned me wild and fierce. i'm running, flitting, chasing after Him.

and i can hear His voice on the wind,

I like your hair. 

permission to not be a Christian anymore {page six}

{photo via dramaticelegance}

i've been sitting on what to write in this post for more than a week. i was so excited when i wrote my last post, so excited about my own bravery to share pieces of my story, that i wanted to share more and more and more. and then the brave went away, and i sat in all the silence. 

because i've come to a realization over the past several months. it's something beyond what i ever thought i would acknowledge :: something i never thought i'd be brave enough to say. 

i can't be a Christian anymore. i just can't.

and i know those words cause a certain level of discomfort to billow up in the stomach of those Christians who read them. there's something that sits wrong, the instinct to grip me by the shoulders and say, no, wait, no, don't say that. that's not right. don't do that. don't say that. 

but before you throw a rock at me, ask me what i mean. ask me what i'm giving up. because honestly, it's not Jesus that i'm giving up. not by a long shot. i refuse to give Him up. 

but i'm giving up my supposed white robes and taking the Israeli dirt covered one instead. i'm spending time with the unclean ones instead of the ones that whisper. and I'm picking up the lame ones that the Church has hobbled one too many times. because i feel like the Church is locked in this childish game, the one where fingers grasp an arm and connect hand to face over and over with the chant, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself. 

and then they wonder why the bruised ones don't return.

it makes me cry, hard and long, a keening wail into the night. i feel so like Him in these moments, screaming, oh God my God, why have You forsaken me? because i feel so alone, like i have love smeared all over my hands but everyone else is afraid to get the stains on them.

it's that word, that strange word that has become so warped and twisted. they will know us by our love. it's written there, in black and white. but why do they know us by all the things we hate? the laundry list of the things Christians won't touch is too long. it's like whiplash, what i'm allowed to eat or drink, where i'm allowed to shop. because we should be making a stand, right? they should know that we don't give money toward this and that and the other thing.

but instead, i'm closing my eyes on the deck of the ship, and i can hear the roaring of a dragon. it's me, with scales on the ground and skin ripped and bleeding. and He has claws and eyes...piercing, calm, quiet eyes. and He's tearing, and rending, and gashing, and i'm getting smaller and smaller and smaller still.

{via pinterest

the point of being with Jesus is not to be made bigger. the point isn't to be seen on the streetcorners with signs of broken bloody babies and screeching murderer into broken lives. the point isn't to grasp the arms of the ones with rainbows on their cheeks and glare into their eyes to make sure they know that they're sinners and we hate them.

and people on the street are catching my arm. do you know Him? do you know Him? and i say no, i don't. but He knows me. and He knew me before i was the Christian definition of desirable. He knew me when they dragged me out and flung me in the dirt. and He wrote in the dirt and they walked away in silence. He knows me. 

i'm tired. i'm so tired of being forced to act like i know Him, all of Him, every in and out and twist and turn of this thing called Christianity. if this is what Christianity is, then that's not a title i claim. i claim one thing, and one thing only.

i'm still thrashing. but i claim Him.
and He claims me.

permission to not have answers {page five}

i realized something today. i realized that i've been talking so much about all the permission i have found in telling my story :: but i haven't really told you any of my story. which is actually relatively funny, seeing as how i've become more and more free with sharing my story with the world in recent months.

there's a certain level of fear that comes with telling my story. it takes bravery to stand up and stammer out, i grew up Christian because i was supposed to, not because i chose Jesus above everything else. it takes a strange amount of courage to admit that from a very early age, i was that person, the one that gripped people by the throat and dragged them to the feet of Jesus whether they wanted to be there or not.

i made sure they knew they were sinners. i made sure they knew they were going to hell. that is, unless they became Christians.

i remember the girl in the department store, the one that i cornered at the age of five and asked, if you died tonight, do you know where you'd go? and then came the words that scarred the little missionary in me for a very long time :: uh, yeah, why are you asking crazy questions? 

that was my persecution, i was sure. and so i soldiered on, relentless in my pursuit to change the world for Jesus. i was on fire. or rather, i thought i was on fire. but i had no idea what i was doing. i had no idea what i believed. well, i believed what everyone else around me believed. i knew what i was supposed to think, and that was what i thought.

it wasn't until i was seventeen and i experienced the quietest moment of my life that things started to change. and it wasn't until even later still that i received permission from myself and from the One who sees me to question everything. i never would have dared to even think the things that now are the mantra of my entire existence.

{via pinterest}

not too long ago, a precious soul-sister sent me beautiful words, etched in paint and ink, that i have held close from the moment my eyes first beheld them :: He is not threatened by your questions. i grew up in a place where my questions meant my faith wasn't sure, and that wasn't okay. i was just supposed to trust, to lean, to go with what i knew, and knowing equaled faith.

there wasn't any mystery. there wasn't any wrestling. there weren't any questions.

except i had a lot of questions that didn't have answers. i didn't understand why those around me shouldered these heavy chains and walked with their heads down, murmuring about joy in their souls but with such strange oppression on their faces. this is what God says, they chanted, this is what we must do. but they wouldn't touch the broken ones that lined the road. and they looked me in the eye and held out their hands to me, Christian me, church me. the one that fit.

and then i had to wonder, what if they knew my story? would they hold out their hands then? because i know what i was, before this strange thrashing freedom came, and i would have crossed to the other side of the road. 

and it was then that He made Himself known to me, this strange Voice that loomed out the darkness.

:: dearest daughter, I have known you long. 

and this Voice, this Lion...He didn't seem threatened by my not-knowing. in fact, it seemed to fit. because He wasn't safe, which felt so foreign. He was supposed to be safe, to be full of facts and thick black lines, and there weren't supposed to be any questions.

but i had so. many. questions.

{via pinterest}

and i found myself standing on the edge of the sea, feeling the spray from the waves soaking every inch of me, through to the skin. and He murmured, deep into my soul, oh dearheart, I know there is a sea of questions. but I AM the great bridge-builder. and I can wait for you forever. 

i've never felt so fragile, as though a wind might knock me over. but then, i've never felt so free, as though i'm riding on the back of the warmest, wildest One i've ever known. i still have so many questions. but answers are slipping in, finding their places, one little scrap of wood at a time. and slowly, a bridge is forming.

i am fragile. the wood is strong.
and i can feel the flames building inside me again.

{this was written as part of a synchroblog to celebrate the release of Addie Zierman’s book When We Were On Fire. i'm honoured to stand beside her and a thousand others as we speak our stories, share our pieces. won't you join us?}

permission to write {page four}

{via pinterest}

ever since i started writing, i've had that little itch. the one that leads to names on covers and best-seller lists and signings in book stores where people match face to paperback and whisper, "that's her. she's the author."  

i can't help it :: i want my writing to mean something. i want to make it onto lists and to be seen, for that hand to go around another's shoulder and point, "see her? she writes for Glory." i just wish i knew how to leave the fame-wish behind and put the influence dream in my pocket for later.

but then, maybe i don't want the fame. because i'm messy, and messy is it's own thing. see, people want to see that woman behind the table as someone put together, something just like them except way more collected and tidy. they want the ones with the smooth hair and perfectly straight-lined scars, the ones that speak softly, i was broken, but i'm okay now. everything is in place. 

but i'm not like that. my scars are jagged, messy. there's nothing tidy about my story, no straight lines and smoothly paved roads. my roads are the country ones, up and down with hills that keep the valleys invisible until you're in them, with twists and turns and the occasional pothole. there's paint in my hair and one of my heels broke on the way up that last cliff. 

it's like there's an invisible line of church people, queuing out the door, murmuring in that way that blends together in that strange buzzing roar where the words can't be distinguished. i don't have know what they're saying, not really. i can see it in their eyes.

she has a lot of questions. she said...that word, that one i can't say. she doesn't fit, not anymore. her veil is falling off, it's sideways. someone should go fix that for her. 

my hair is a mess because i've been wrestling, and there's dirt on my face and tears in my eyes and it's streaking down and dripping muddy water off my chin. i'm wearing Grace and not much else, and there's fingers pointing from all directions. and sometimes, i'm so raw that it hurts to be touched because i've been clawing off one layer after another and it burns like Fire. 

then it comes, the ripping, the throbbing, the tearing. and it's not pretty, it's bloody and messy and there's scales on the ground like broken glass and i don't recognize myself. and then i see the flash of gold behind me, and i know. i'm being reborn, and everything is shredded and sideways, and those scales are gone, right off my eyes and i'm blinking into beams of Glory.

and that's how i know i need to write. how i know the permission that has been set in my soul since before i learned to hold a pen. i need to write :: for the imperfect, for the ones clinging to the hem of the only One who sees them. for the dirty, for the messy, for the thrashing. 

for the ones like me. 

permission to drink {page three}

two years ago, i wrote this post. i didn't know how much this post would affect me. i didn't know how much it would linger, even in the years that followed.

i don't think i realized just how little permission i was giving myself in my own femininity and my own faith. the more i write, the more i tell my own story, the more i discover secret links of the chain that was holding me down. this post was another inch of the door, another chapter of my story that i was letting into the open.

:: i was learning to let my story breathe. i was learning how to have faith. 

but there was still that guilt. there was this whispering little tug at the back of my mind, pulling me away from the freedom and reminding me just how much more comfortable the darkness was...how much safer i felt when no one could see me.

i was like the kitten that hides under a couch, the tip of her tail poking out, but absolutely sure that no one can see her. she was invisible, and that was okay. 

but i never had permission to be unseen. isn't that funny? i didn't have permission to tell my story, and it felt safer when i wasn't seen, but then, i was an extrovert. being seen came with the territory. tucking myself away wasn't okay, it wasn't part of the plan for me. was it? i grew up in the church, and that was my faith, and that was my way, and i didn't ask questions because i was just supposed to know. right?

the other day, i told someone about this book i was reading, thrashing about with God, and she gasped. it was obviously unintentional, soft and completely without drama, but it was there. she looked at me and said, oh, is that okay? to do, to read, for you, i mean?

and then they came, the inaudible words, soft and bitter, clawing at my confidence.. is it okay? are you sure you know what you're doing? what does He think of this? you're too wild. what would they think if they could see you like this?

i'm learning for it to be okay. i wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. and she smiled and made a few more little comments before she found a reason to slip away into the crowd. and then i realized :: it's okay. i'm okay. He sees, He knows.

i gripped the book a little tighter and smiled, maybe more of a grimace, but i managed to turn up the corners of my mouth and choke out,

it's okay.

the more i tell my story, the more pieces of me i let out, the more i feel like i'm being poured out as almost a literal drink offering on the ground. and it's exhausting. i see all these things happening around me and i feel pulled in a thousand directions. but who's doing the pulling?

there's no handbook laid out for exactly what the qualifications are to be "good enough." except there is, and everyone else seems to know every single word. and here i am, sitting at my computer, with my hair in a messy ponytail and feeling so much wild-er than is considered "appropriate."

but He isn't safe. He's good, oh, so good. and i have a Lion at my back to roar bravery when i'm the stammering clumsy mess who can't make my story come out right. it's pressing myself against the banks of the river and lowering my mouth to the water. unsure, but drinking deep, because He has swallowed up much and i am thirsty.

i have permission to drink.

permission to rest {page two}

{photo by dramaticelegance}

sometimes i feel like i'm on the edge of this giant stone wall, a step of sorts, doing my very best to climb up and reach my long-ingrained goal. and there's the Christian crowd behind me, cheering to the point of a din behind me, that's it, you can do it, keep climbing. don't stop. 

what i need, though, is someone to come alongside me, grasp my hand and whisper, it's okay if you need to stop. it's okay to breathe. it's okay to stop. then comes the gasp of horror. they're telling you to stop? no. wrong. no.

stopping is not what we Christians do.

but maybe it's what i need to do. i feel like we so often focus our magnifying reading glasses on those words of Jesus teaching and walking and travelling and performing miracles and doing that we forget the resting. 

come to Me, and I will give you rest. 

i forget that i am Lucy. i am Peter, plodding diligently ahead, ignoring the signs and never resting, only ever traversing on. but He came to her at night, in the selah of the woods, and called her lioness. He promised her great renewal. 

as she rested. 

sometimes i wonder if we can even hear Him anymore through the din of our own good intentions. there's things expected of us if we bear that moniker of Christian,fingers intent on pointing out exactly which stones should be walked on, and which ones are too sacred to touch. 

we have made Jesus untouchable. and in turn, those of us who find the gasping bravery to reach out and grasp Him have become the whispered ones ourselves. we've wandered into the building wearing sunglasses and perish the thought we take them off and actually see. 

we have made following Jesus less important than following the rules. 

in telling my story, i can look back at where i've come from. i wish i could reach back and tug the sunglasses off my eyes and take the gloves off my fingers and whisper, Jesus doesn't mind fingerprints on His face. you can touch Him, dearheart. 

you can stop and breathe. it's okay. 

{day one} thirty one days of Story-telling permission

{via pinterest}

:: this is a post of deep breathing // this is the start of 31 days of Story-telling permission ::

until last week, i had no idea i would be undertaking this project. i attempted to do 31 days of sacred seeking motherhood this time last year, but faltered very shortly after starting, due to my pure exhaustion + the change of having a newborn.

but now, i'm starting fresh. i read a post by Elora this past week that gutted me, sent me to the floor. and in it, she wrote six powerful words that have thrummed deep in my soul.

let's be writers?  

yes. let's really be. 

:: elora nicole :: 

and then i had a conversation with her, a beautiful meeting of souls. it was her that turned my floundering words into something concrete. she didn't put her words into my mouth, not at all. instead, she took my words and put them back into my mouth in a way that flowed. she laid His words and mine together on my tongue, and said, 

now write them down. 

you have permission. 

{photo by dramaticelegance}

and those words came slipping back in. let's be writers? and there it is, my Story, curled up like a cat at my back i'm finding that i've always had permission. it was waiting, resting at the edges of my soul, holding sacred space and waiting for me to realize that it's been there all along. 

and so i'm exhaling and doing something i'm not sure that i'm brave enough to undertake. i'm starting thirty-one days, barely into my twenty-third year of life, and i'm quivering inside. i know it's going to be messy and i know it's going to be vulnerable and i know there will be times that i simply will not want to do this. 

i am giving myself permission to miss a day. or ten. i am giving myself permission to live, to breathe, to tell my Story in the time and the space i need. 

this is less of a rule book, less of a laundry list of "31 ways to give yourself permission to tell your story." this is a journey, hand-in-hand. and if you want to sit down here and hold space with me at the edge of the water, there's room, right here. 

so this is day one. a messy, wild mishmash of faith and thrashing, of art, of writing, of freedom. expect to see Aslan here, because this is far from safe, but He is good. 

day one :: i have permission to tell my Story. 

sprouting branches : day five/ten

i'm learning to sprout extra branches these days.

two hands used to be enough for cell phone and coffee and driving down the road with too much on my mind all at the same time. but now i have precious cargo in the backseat, and so now i drive ten miles slower than i used to with sneaky sips of coffee to stay alive. 

and i'm growing extra branches and blossoming here, because i'm seeing what's important. i'm slowing down and savouring these moments, because i looked at her this morning and saw a growing flower in my garden. 

my seed is already sprouting a little bud with hints of pink petals, signs of life of her own. she's brushed off all that dirt from her shoulders and reaching up fingers all on her own toward the light. she's seeing more, knowing more. 

it's already almost been a month. 

can you believe it?

so everyone in my house is growing as the world starts to hibernate. i'm getting the hang of juggling little girl on my hip while i do the banking with one hand and raise the other toward the sky with a whispered prayer of

can You send me an extra whisper of strength today?

not too much, just enough...

{via pinterest}

and i'm resonating with the leaves that fall on the ground in this season, but i don't have the time to fall. i can't fall down until she's tucked up asleep with little lips open and curving into a sleepy smile from mysterious baby dreams.  

and then maybe i can crumble for a moment into strong man arms and cry for just a second from overwhelming moments of emotion and the realization that my branches are extending, and growing pains hurt after all. 

but i have a Daddy to carry me in the moments when the ground seems very far away, and i'm being parented while i parent by the ultimate Father who gets it all. 

and so i'm taking a breath, and tying on a babywearing wrap of fabric and facing life like i used to...just with a few more blossoming branches.

carved on one is mother

and another says woman

and yet another speaks warrioress

some are new. some are old. some are rediscovered. 

but all are my branches. 

and He's tending them all. 

{being imperfect with emily today}

humble communion :: day three/four

{via pinterest}

being a parent is a lesson in humility. this i have learned already.

i've started in with the litany of stammered apologies at the state of my house to any guest that might stop by, and the blushing shame that lingers even when they assure me that they understand. because part of me thinks they don't, and they simply cling to polite courteosy as a way to make the frazzled new mom feel better.

and then today my mom came by with a box of things from home, and the stammering began. could she come upstairs? well...yes...but...my house is a mess...i'm so sorry for the mess...

and then my mama started in with her love. she held my daughter while i showered, and when the tiny warrioress slipped to slumber, she started in on my dishes. and dishes turned to floors and sinks and the toilet and tub and the messy stack of haphazard books and welcome your new baby cards in every shade of possible pastel.

and i again started with the i'm sorry you're seeing my house like this...and my mother lifted her head up and looked into my eyes and spoke words that melted my soul like wax.

:: that's the devil's lie

i wept in secret as i fed my daughter and my precious mother scrubbed the limescale from my tub. and  i felt my pride starting to fold in on itself.

because i was living in pride, in this dark land of messy dishes and unvacuumed floors that were crushing me from the outside in and bringing me to this place of overwhelmed confusion. and He was giving me a thousand outs, a thousand chances to rest and breathe again, and i was tossing them back in His face.

i am enough. i can handle this. 
i don't need You. 

{yesterday, me and my daughter) 

and then i broke. and i sat in the armchair while my mama brushed my hair and twisted it into a French braid out of my face and told me that i was radiant in my new motherhood. and we washed and dried dishes and laughed while my infant heart-clinger slept in her basket nearby.

we shared communion without the bread and wine, but with our mother-daugher-granddaughter hearts all meshed together. and i know He sent her to melt me down and restore me whole again.

even if it was just a shower and a tidied house and no more stammering apologies.

i need others. and i need Him.
there's no surviving without Him.

i'm inhaling His breath. and i'm loving my baby and letting the pillows fall where they may for now. no more pride, just on bended knee between the notes of the Lion's eternal song.

no more devil-lies. i'd rather share communion with my mama.
with my baby.
with my Jesus.

not mine but Thine :: day two

{via pinterest}

the day of my first baby shower, my mom gave me a book to read.

sacred parenting :: gary thomas

and i've read little pieces here and there, snippets when i hold her while she sleeps and passages as she nurses and looks up into my eyes with her baby blue pools that whisper of the future.

i'm learning why parenting is sacred in a way i've never seen before. i've been told more than once that not everything can be sacred. but parenting...the only way i could survive this journey is by relying on the ultimate Father.

the relationship between Father and Son grips my soul freshly now, this way that Father loves enough to surrender His Son from glory to earth, and this way Son loves enough to surrender His life and will.

not Mine
but Thine.

and i want to love like that, though i know it might destroy me in the moment when she comes home and cries into my shoulder and whispers, how i wish i hadn't done that, momma. my mom did that for me, this thing of loving me enough to let me fail and let me chose.

can i do this? can i let her fail sometimes?
can i love her enough to let her learn for herself?

can i love her enough to let Him guide her steps instead of me tying her shoelaces together and the ends to the belt-loop in my jeans?


i prayed for this child on knees with choking sobs of longing, and she is here now in my arms, tiny and sweet and more precious than my heart can bear. but she is mine only for a time, but she is His for always.

{first moments with my Marian}

so i'm holding her up to Him and saying

not mine. 
but Thine. 

nothing i need to remind Him of, but a reminder to my mother's possessive heart.

i prayed for this child on knees with choking sobs of longing, and she is here now in my arms, tiny and sweet and more precious than my heart can bear.

but this daughter of my body and blood is His creation, of Lion's breath and Lion's song and earth so fresh and new that even iron and steal springs to life from within.

and the song continues from the tips of her toes and the ends of her fingers, and in the night as i hold her and kiss her sleeping face and whisper

not mine.
but Thine.

your children are not your children.

they are sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. 

they come through you but not from you.

and though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

:: kahlil gibran ::

holy intentions :: day one

{via pinterest}

the birth of my daughter was not what i planned.

i had the best of intentions, the most carefully orchestrated of plans. i would labour without meds, without intervention unless needed. it would be natural, it would be private, it would be beautiful.

but the day before i was induced, i wrote this post.
and i wrote this phrase:

i'm bringing life through blood. it's sacred, a reminder of Him, really. 

the Stone Table broke when blood was spilled, 

and my body might break in this pursuit of motherhood. 

i'm ready to be carried, lifted up and held.

and indeed, my body did break. but not in the way i anticipated, nor in the way i wanted. 

but it wasn't about what i wanted. because i gave this child to Him the moment i knew of her presence within my body. it was His job to bring her here, and He did. His way in His time. 

she was late on my timeline, but not on His. nothing about that day surprised Him or alarmed Him. i was afraid to the point of shaking, but there was that whispered voice in my ear that breathed

{pure awe upon gazing at my child's face}

:: courage, dearheart, for I have already overcome :: 

and i let go. and she was lifted from my body like Moses from the water, like a flower from the soil of earth. and her life began in His time, and not in mine. 

and oh, how precious His intentions are. how precious is this child. 

everything about this motherhood journey is going to be foreign, anticipations that may not line with a perfect world in which i would rather dwell. 

because parenthood is laying down me to better her, being Him to her innocent eyes. i am mother to this roaring lamb, this tiny warioress. but i am still learning to be a warioress myself, still learning how to stand and fight while letting Him guide my feet. 

it's a dance, this thing of holy intentions and sacred parenting. a dance of standing strong and letting go, the act of exhaling

You are God. 

i am not. 

31 days :: motherhood

i've started a new journey this month. i've become a mother. and there is such a risk in motherhood, i've learned, even with only fourteen days to my credit.

there is a risk of retreating when i should be warring, a risk of withdrawing when i should be clinging. of all the times in my life, this is the time to be seeking Him with fire in my veins and passion in my soul.

this is the time to seek the sacred, to walk the path of the King closer than ever before.

and so i'm undertaking my first 31 Days.

:: thirty-one days of sacred, seeking motherhood ::

i'm not sure what i'll find, or what i'll become, or what i'll uncover while i undertake this. i will not shut out the Light in the time i need illumination the most. 

i cannot live without Him in the best of times and in the easiest of moments...oh, how i grasp Him now. 

:: my ship is in unfamiliar seas ::

:: my Anchor is my salvation :: 

and so with Marian in my arms and the Lion's breath at my back, i'm inhaling life. 

// i'm uncovering sacred in motherhood //

// i'm seeking Him in everything //

:: day one :: day two ::