fire-walking

{photo by Jennifer}

{this piece has been recorded in my own voice here.}

we live in a place where being naked is forbidden, in the literal sense of sleeves and cleavage and measuring tapes, and the metaphorical sense of words and eyes and thoughts. in fact, I think the fear lies closer to the words than the wardrobe.

it's common knowledge that being covered up to the neck is accepted and seen as the best choice. and if you choose to bare anything that steps outside the line, you risk getting hurt, and it would be your fault. because they told you the rules, and you stepped outside the circle.

it's barefoot coal walking with everyone whispering around you, you're going to get burned, you're going to get burned, you're gonna get burned. someone comes forward with shoes, a pair of socks, nylons. their offerings are well-meaning, but the intent is the same: cover yourself. they're tugging at your ankles, and you're wobbling, clumsily trying to stammer out a plea for them to stop. but then you're face-down on the embers with burn marks on your face, and the chiding comes in thick and fast.

you brought this on yourself, you know. that's what you get for playing with fire. we warned you.

but they missed the point. you're walking on hot coals with your bare feet, and you weren't getting burned until they started trying to cover you. your brave is showing, and it looks good on you. just because your bravery got scorched doesn't mean it went away. it just needs a little salve.

so you arch your neck and throw the socks in the fire-pit, with the shoes and the nylons, and maybe you take off your coat and add it to the pile. and you take a wild step, with the chant pulsing like blood in your veins. it's become your life-source, more oxygen and water than simple words repeated.

your brave is showing. your brave is showing. your brave is showing. 

repeat it as many times as the lies come, and maybe one more so that the brook-stone sinks deeper into the giant's forehead. it's not unladylike to wield a hammer, you builder-woman you.

there's wind on your skin, and it's cold and it'll make you shiver. but you'll take another wild step, and you'll hear the skin-sizzle and smell the smoke, and the flesh of your toes might char, just a little. but that hurt, it's the right kind, the kind that comes when you wake up and everything aches from the pushing and the stomping and the pressing with your back against the stone. the ache that comes when you wake up and find you moved a mountain overnight.

your brave is showing...step...

your brave is showing.... step...

{this post was inspired by my tribe of writers, the ones that hold my hand and my back in a way I've never experienced. want to join us in Story Sessions? there's always room for you with us.}

holy ground

{via pinterest}

it's holy ground when the darkness comes and you're sitting folding laundry and picking up dropped Apple Jacks while your husband sleeps. on the couch.

it's holy ground when you find yourself barefoot on the hardwood steps realizing that you're in the place you've dreamed of being your entire life.

it's holy ground when you find yourself shaking because the honesty and the vulnerability is coming out in gushes and waves, and you're lifting your eyes to see through the veil to the Holiest of Holy places and you realize the veil is hanging in shreds and you can see His land uninhibited. and through the tears, it glitters.

it doesn't have to be beautiful to be holy ground. 

sometimes we forget that Moses found himself barefoot on the side of a mountain with wilderness spreading vast and wild all around him, and there was a bush that burned and it was not consumed. and He was in the fire.

sometimes holy ground is burning without being destroyed.

i slipped into the mentality, somehow, that holy ground was safely tucked within the four walls with a cross on the top, and that was the only place it could be found. i remember slipping my shoes off and wandering through the grass around my parents' property and thinking, this could be holy, this right here. too bad there isn't a church here. 

but it was consecrated ground from the moment i lifted my eyes up and whispered, find me here. i've been clinging to Narnia my entire life. i cried His name over the meadows and fields that spread behind my parents' house, and i reached out for Him.

i called for Him as He had been calling for me.

we declared holy ground.

{this was the first of many weekly prompts from Story Sessions. join us, won't you?}

a sacred meal

{via pinterest}

certain things have begun to monopolize my thoughts in recent days. some of these things are rich and deep, filling my hours with turning book pages and steaming cups of tea.

the other is food.

it's almost comedic how things that were once unnoticed are now suddenly the center of a growling stomach. and it's not just the flavour of food, as certain once-beloved tastes have faded into the background.

it's the cooking, the creation of things at my counters with flour and butter and cheese and a warm collection of spices that make my nose tingle and my tastebuds ponder as though they had their own minds.

there's a freshness, a newness to the creation of food. 

in some respects, it's a breathing. 

when simple items connect and join to become something new. it's knowing that i'm touching something important to God.

because even the Messiah, the King of the Universe, cooked for those He loved.

{via pinterest}

the simplest meal of homemade bread and roasted fish over open flame, served on a beach for eleven frightened men once grieving and now faced with the Risen One again on the water's edge.

come and have breakfast.

so there is something blessed, something mysterious in food and the creation of a meal for those we love. it's more than just the caress of flavour on a palate. 

it's a sacred act, a humbling of self to the betterment of others. 

it's a warrioress' duty to provide for those in her care. with meals that take all day, or simple gifts of grilled cheese and chocolate chip cookies. 

it's still the echoing call of the Lion on the beach. 

I am the Bread of Life; 

he who comes to Me will not hunger 

and he who believes in Me will never thirst.

prayer circles :: rising

:: i am drawing circles in the earth.
i am marching around my Jericho.

because i believe in once, in twice, in seven times and a ram's horn blast.

i believe in the power of prayer. not magic or myth, but so much truth.

prayer, as strong as it once was when prophets raised hands to the skies and cried, and fire fell from Heaven and rain flooded from barren skies.

when warriors drop spears and march instead in circles around and around the massive walls, and a stomp and a trumpet and a shout collapses the wall, save for the place where the former prostitute knelt with her dear ones and believed that she and they alone would be spared.

it's not asking for the solution to the maze. it's holding out the hand and whispering

i'm lost and confused.

guide me?

it's the stand at the cliff's edge and crying to the skies with more joy than one soul can contain. and all i can do anymore is sing, not a dirge but a dancing rhythm. 

i rose, the dungeon filled with light.

my chains fell off, my heart was free

i rose, went forth, and followed Thee. 

and i'm kneeling in the center of this circle, hands raised to Heaven to receive the coming rain. the ground is dry, but i have marched, and now i wait. 

amazing love

how can it be

that Thou, my God, should die

for me. 

oh, glory is my song. and barefoot, this circle is my home. 

sacred :: remembrance

i awoke with a pull. a voice in my head, whispering things undecipherable and beautiful.

He's trying to tell me something. 


because as i opened my laptop and began to read, soak myself in Lion's song and sister's words, i began to sense a pattern. again, a pull.

because rain wrote of truth in the thin places, of memorials of the sacred moments. and sarah wrote of love up to the dark, of life written out and remembered in Glory.

and i felt my soul crumble, not in the way of broken stones and shattered dreams. but in the way, the way you only understand if you've felt it before.

that crumbling of release and refreshment that comes when walls of fear and shame come tumbling down and all you can  see is the sun and Son, both shining down on your face, but One brighter than the other.

sacred spaces worth remembering etched in ancient lines across palm, 

and did you know that remembrance is synonymous with love? 

love-marked space says 

something special is here, 

something mysterious 

and worthy

 and holy.

:: rain: lullaby for light ::

and oh, how those words pounded tribal of brave to me. 

because memorials frighten me, sometimes. i'm apt to step into His shoes, into that place of writing in the dirt, scribbling hard with bleeding fingertips of every shame and every broken moment. somehow, i feel i must remember my shame, remember why i am unworthy. 

and then come sandal-clad feet, pierced and bleeding. and they are not the silent feet that some focus upon...

no, these are the pounding Feet that stood on the neck of Death and ground him to powder at the base of the Cross. they belong to the Gentlest Warrior who holds Hands high and cries in Lion's roar

Mine. 

and He destroys my memorial to shame. because He did not die so i would remain. oh, He died that i would rise with Him. and together we gather stones with carvings strange and markings still unfamiliar. 

grace. 

forgiven. light. 

eternity. brave. warrioress. 

Mine. 

and on this altar, i burn my rags and stand scarred and unashamed beside my memorial. i am barefoot, in the sacred place. 

He and i both. 

barefooted :: painted one {191-199}

{via pinterest}

there are times when i feel like my life is a painting. strokes on a canvas, some soft and some harsh. like standing back as i watch the artist compose the piece in front of my eyes, unable to see the final product until i touch the shoulder of the concentrating painter, and ask

show me what you see. 

this has been a brushstroke canvas week for me. i've felt peace and war, even at the same time, pressing me inside and outside. this has been a week full of laughter, oh, so much laughter until my eyes streamed and my sides ached for mirth. 

and then there were the moments where the floor and i were companions, fingers curled to my palms as tears coursed their way down my cheeks in unison with the silent sobs where no voice could give way to the

why // why // why?

this is why i love my God. because there was always joy. always eucharisteo found in the midst of the sobs. because of Him. this grace, this promise. 

• 191. His grace which is sufficient. His promises which are never returned void. 

{via pinterest}

• 192. music. that kind that makes you leap and spin and toss your hair until you drown in melody

• 193. blackberry merlot and the company that comes alongside as you sip and laugh and confide and plan and grieve and exchange those knowing looks. 

• 194. raspberry tea and Adele beside the flickering Christmas tree

• 195. this expectation, this anticipation for this coming Salvation. 

• 196. counting down the days like an eager child. we're down to twenty now.

• 197. strawberry Nerds and a tow-headed lad of barely six years giggling, "you're a silly nerd, sister!"

• 198. these brothers and sisters, not by blood but by love.

• 199. the picture of freedom in a day-old baby girl, the symbol of freedom between two freed ones. even her name echos with life: ariadne grace {very holy one with grace}

i have much. i am flooded with His brushstrokes, from head to toe with the soul unforgotten. 

oh, my God holds me close. His arms are sanctuary, His blood is life. 

i cannot rise from this bare-footed hallowed ground. this burning bush of surrender and gratitude and sacred.

barefooted and paint-streaked at His feet. 

{linking with Ann, sharing my gifts as they grow}

barefooted

{via pinterest}

i posted Monday about my brush with the sacred.

on how i can never again wear shoes because my time and life is now Holy Ground.

and then i began to contemplate this thing of being barefoot. this unlacing of our sandals and casting them aside.

it's humbling to be without shoes. 

we are not lifted higher than we ought to be when our feet are bare. it's casting aside this most basic of pretensions, this utmost lowering.

our shoes are covered in the dust of life, the dirt of the path and the bits of foulness that cling to our feet.

we do not always watch where we step, either on this earthly walkway or when we traverse within our soul as well.

we cannot bring this filth to Him.

my feet have never felt so unclean as they do in these times of sacred approach. these times when Heaven and Earth seem to meet and collide in this explosion of revelation. 

and i find myself on my knees then, overwhelmed in this place where Love and Life have met and forgiveness is my name again. 

as this bush burns in this wilderness, this place where I AM has come to meet with us, we bare our feet as we do our souls. 

we are no longer separated from the ground. skin against Earth, brushing soul against Life. 

and we step onto this place, barefooted and unsure, with paths of sharp stones and cutting thorns ahead of us.

and He holds out His hand

follow Me

our weakness cries out for us to be shod again, to put our shoes on and protect ourselves. 

but He requests us be humble

and He will carry us.