the Holiness midwife

{photo via dramaticelegance}

dear you,

yes, you, the one with the Charlie Brown Christmas tree and the pile of tangled lights. you, with the expectation piling up in droves around you while sparkling decorations and Christmas carols threaten to drown you in a haze of grief and overwhelming fog.

it's okay.

it's okay to shut down Pinterest and buy cookie dough from the store. it's okay to leave the elf off the shelf and the cardboard star hanging sideways off the top of the tree.

it's okay to bury your head in your hands and sob to the tune of Jingle Bell Rock because you're too exhausted and worn down to turn the radio off.

because that's not the point, is it?

this is the season of Word becoming Flesh, the season of being stripped down to beyond the nothing. sometimes, it's even a time of fear. because waiting can be scary when you can't see beyond that curve in the road. it's a pregnancy, an expectant quivering. it is a cracking, an opening cervix through which blood will stain and Life will come.

it's the time of imperfection. if we were perfect, there would be no need for this season, for this waiting for the cry of One who came to gather us into Himself. for the One born of blood who came to bleed. He was born to stain, to leave a mark on all He touched.

He was not born for tidy.

it's okay to let go. to relax and let it come. we scream through the contractions and labour through the waiting. the Holiness is the midwife to this birthing, strong enough to bear it all.

and so you, you dear beautiful expectant soul. there is so much permission here. there is permission to breathe and pause. there is permission to quiver. there is permission to be imperfect.

sometimes you have to fight to find the sacred in the Advent. sometimes, you light a candle amid the piles of dishes on the kitchen counter and close your eyes and whisper,

i am waiting, i am listening. 

{this is another in my Story prompt series. would you joint us? there is always room for you}

when thrashing isn't a thumb war

{photo by dramaticelegance]

these past several months have been all about the Story for me. the funny thing is, despite the fact that my entire being is storytelling, it's really never been something that has met the criteria for my focus.

i've heard that phrase "let Him write your story...only you can tell your story" over and over as long as i can remember. i was raised in the Church; it's one of those things that fit in our little dictionary of words we all know. but it faded. and in some respects, my faith began to fade, too. 

writing that phrase made me nervous. i am loathe to write anything about shaky faith because i tend to hear the same things in response. it makes people uncomfortable, edgy, to think about faith being anything but concrete. we talk about it in whispers, as though it's a very dirty secret, casting furtive glances over our shoulders just in case someone might hear. 

my precious friend Mandy {who has written a book about her own personal thrashing which can be found here} wrote these words on her Facebook page ::  I don't have answers. I can't prove a thing. My faith is custom fit. Messy and mysterious. This is all I've got. 

ever since i read them, they've been humming in my soul. there's a strange sort of freedom when someone else speaks that same thing that's been sitting in your heart for a long time, maybe even before you knew they were there. 

part of telling my story is lifting my head up and acknowledging the road i've walked instead of keeping my eyes down to study the cracks in the sidewalk. the thing is, i didn't trip. i faded. Mandy uses the word "thrashing." and that's a good word. it brings up a picture in my head of a man on a mountain in the throes of a wrestling match with the Son of the Most High, from the darkness until the dawn. 

{photo by dramaticelegance}

and damn, that's powerful. the thrashing, the wrestling, the wandering....it happens in the night. that dark night of the soul. and then comes the dawn with Light shining down on the flattened grass and the bruises and bumps and bleeding places. thrashing isn't a thumb war. it's a guttural cry as you charge into the complete darkness. and sometimes you run into a tree. but you pick yourself back up and snap off a walking stick and pull yourself along.

sometimes pruning leaves you messy // right there on the inside //

and it's that moment in the shower // when you're crying to match the water 

// but then you come out // and the steam pours off //

and you're coffee and tea and warm blankets from the drier 

// fragrant and steaming and clean

words by me :: #mypoetryseptember

:: and it's all part of my story. 

it all comes back to the Lion. it's in that dark place where you have no idea what might come skulking out of those darkened doorways that He curls up quietly at your back. and sometimes, when you need him the most, when fear threatens to consume you and has crawled down your throat

He roars. 

three things // repost

{via pinterest}

sometimes i want to write what i feel. i want to take what i see and do the undone and fix the unfixed and light the snuffed candle all over again. but then i look and i say, do i even see? do i even know anything?

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 know that light kills the dark ::

and when you're walking in the dark and there's nothing but a match in your pocket, it's a good thing to know. and when you're walking in the Night and there's nothing but a verse in your mind reminding to be still and know that I AM...it's a good thing to know.

:: i know that art is the voice even when it never speaks ::

i know that sometimes the silence of a paintbrush screams SEE ME and the whisper of just one wavering note in the empty concert halls cries I CAN DO THIS AFTER ALL and the raised arm on a stage is the salute to all things undone and all things done over and over and done well.

:: i know that mystery is just that, and it's okay to not know ::

i know that knowing is part of the battle, and when you don't know what you know that it can crush and scare and be unsure. but it's okay to have a mystery that you don't understand.

{via pinterest}

and it's okay to let Him be the mystery of Love and Flesh and Man and God all in one small infant bundle, growing up up up to be Death and Life and Salvation and Water and Broken Bread with Wounds that Heal.

that is what i know. no more shaking ground for i stand on What, on Who i know. because i write what i feel and i feel what i know. and i know Him and little else. but that's power, okay? that Light is more than enough. that Water is more than enough.

because i know these things. Him and Him only. everlasting, time over time, from age to age.

Alpha and Omega, You answer. because You know

more than three things. 

{this is a slightly edited re-post from this post from December 2011

linking this renewal with emily today}

red string

{via pinterest}

:: i am wind woman ::

:: air daughter ::

:: dove child ::

i am bleeding ink and whispering prayers in the same breath,
learning to lean on windowpanes and not so much on sinking sand.

this is a Solid Rock kind of moment,
barefoot at the burning bush with knees pressed to grass.
leaning on me is futile. leaning on Him is essential.

they say that soulmates are connected by an invisible red string
and no matter how far they go apart, the string pulls them together in the end.

my Saviour and i are tied by the red rope of redemption,
drenched in His blood, one end around my wrist, one end tied to the cross.

and so i'm learning to rely
on red strings and winds from the east
on Lion's breath and eagle's wings.

blessed assurance

Jesus is mine

the third page :: the Father's beginning

{via pinterest}

{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.

{via pinterest}

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}

:: dreaded souls :: imperfection

{via pinterest}

i've fallen in love with dreadlocks.

i'm not sure when this attraction began, when i first felt the pull toward these tangled twists of hair. i wasn't anticipating to have my heart transformed by a styling of hair.

but dreadlocks have woven themselves into my soul, this thing of turning hair into art, of pushing boundaries in the safest ways.

i associate them with artists, with canvas-breathers and word dancers. those curls that brush against the cheek of the bowed head over djembes and battered acoustic guitars.

there's something rich and so flooded with soul when art and dreads combine, a portrait in itself. it's ink swirling onto wood, it's light pouring through the window panes and casting colour and shadow everywhere.

it's unintentional art turned into powerful intention

 maybe i love them, these dreadlocks, because they're me.

is that too much, to compare myself to a style of freedom and tangled beauty that i can never fully comprehend?

who imagined such beauty could ever come from this? who invented this Light?

a tangle of smoothness, taking something once simple, twisting up into a complicated simplicity that changes souls as well as faces. it's imperfection, and it's beautiful.

and that's art. 

all on its own. 

and i've fallen in love.

and He who sit on the throne said, "see, I am making all things new." and He said, "write, for these words are faithful and true."

i may never have dreadlocks of my own. they aren't something my Love appreciates, being one who takes pleasure in my smooth hair.

but my soul is dreaded. 

i'm bound to embrace this imperfection that follows my feet. why would i not breathe it in, accept these imperfections and make them beautiful.

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.

{linking imperfection with emily today}

prelude to the grateful

{via pinterest}

every single year, right around this time, i find myself overwhelmed in the crush.

it's this season of preparing and orchestrating and oh, so much family that seems to emerge from every corner of the woodwork. 

for those of us who stand under the banner of red, white, and blue, tomorrow is supposed to be the day we take a few minutes to soak in the gratitude of our lives. 

i need to freeze in place

because i have much. 

it's hard to not get lost in the 

if only i

if we only had

if we obtained

but my soul sings this year. this time last year, i was drowning in self, in circumstances which i would have done anything to avoid. 

but He knew that i needed pruning. i needed pain to find the glory again. 

{via pinterest}

and oh, how my blackened soul rebelled. i withheld my joy, letting it slowly wither from lack of gratitude's water upon the cracking soil of a wounded heart. 

but then He gripped my soul. 

stop this, child.

let go and let Me heal. 

let Me restore your joy.

and then i began to seek again. and i have been unable to stop my hunger, my burning fire for those things that make this heart sing of Him.

and so now i drop the dishtowel and turn my back to the stove for just a moment. and i find that moment on my knees in the corner with His Love Letter spread out before me on the floor. 

because of Him, i stand.

how can i keep from gripping His robe and letting my gratitude from pouring over His feet like some strange perfume. 

tomorrow is Thanksgiving. 

but so is today. 

{linking this imperfection with my dear emily}

mismatched vessels

{via pinterest}

i have two sets of dishes in my cupboards.

they could not be more different.

one is round, blue and green and flecked with brown.  the other is square, with deep strokes of tan and chocolate.  there are chips and cracked edges. they are far from perfect.

but i can't help but run my fingers over the edges and ponder these imperfect servants of mine.

because they resonate. i feel as though we converse at times, as i wipe them dry and stack them carefully again.

from one cracked vessel to another. 

i marvel often how my Jesus teaches me through the simplest of things. 

how i can look at this unusual collection of plates and bowls and matching mugs and find my reflection in their surface. 

because isn't that what we are in Christ? a mismatched collection of imperfect people, these chipped pieces of china and these pottery plates. 

{via pinterest}

these broken, beautiful ones who join hands and whisper

lead me to the Cross.

and so i cannot help but stop and run my fingers over each fragile corner, every lasting stroke that paints the portrait of Love on each ceramic surface. 

i don't claim perfection. i claim Christ. 

and so i stand with the strong and the beautiful.

i stand with the mismatched. 

 but we have this treasure in earthen vessels, so that the surpassing greatness of the power will be of God and not from ourselves; we are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not despairing; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.

--2 Corinthians 4:7-9 

{linking with emily and all my imperfect companions.
freedom in brokenness}

lowercase wood

{via pinterest}

i spent some time today going back over some old blog posts, some old work, some old scraps of paper upon which i had scribbled my moments of darkness of whimsy.

all properly ordered.

all with the appropriate punctuation. all in perfect lines. uppercase and lowercase, all where they belonged.

but then i hit a point of real. a point where the mask came tumbling off and shattered against the floor. and i found my crevices again.

i realized that i was cracked and marred, like well-weathered wood. fragments of me have broken off and been left behind. little scratches and cuts where life has left its mark. 

and my lowercase began to appear. slowly, just a bit at a time. as the polish was scrubbed away, it became frightening. painful. 

but the beauty was apparent. the weathered wood was coming alive, telling a story like polished perfection never could. 

maybe it's okay to be wooden. 

{via pinterest}

to be a story told again and again. to wear my life for others to come and read, pieced together by my skin-scars and soul ripples. it's okay to not be smooth all the time.

bumps are part of it all. 

but the past has made me strong. fire burned me hard, but let my heart stay supple to His tender carving. oh the pain that came with each brush of the knife against my soul. this Carpenter knew what He was doing when He made me this way. 

He left a line or two, a reminder of my weathering, lest i forget Him and grow brittle.

this lowercase imperfection is all i need to remind me that He is God and i am not. this dancing soul which He has carved for Himself, this daughter of Light and Love and so much forgiveness. 

He never said he would erase our past. that was never a promise.

only His glory was assured. 

and so these imperfections.

 they do not glare, they glorify. 

they do not scream, they sing. 

they do not humiliate, they humble. 

and they do not disgrace Him. 

they amplify Him. 

{joining this beauty of imperfection with emily and other soul-searchers today}

spoon

sorting through my silverware drawer, running my fingers over through the neat little rows of shining utensils.

freshly washed, freshly rubbed dry with soft red towels.

ever since i was a little girl, the silverware has had personalities all to themselves. the forks are knights, with their tine-made helmets. the knives are warriors with swords built in. they are fierce, these implements.

and then there are the spoons. no sharp edges, no points. the smoothness and the polish, but without any type of defense for themselves.

and so today, i went to my drawer of soldiers and warriors.

and to my two little rows of spoons. 

and i stood and stared at those small little pieces of silverware. and at first, i began to think i was a lunatic for putting so much stock into bits of metal with which the world eats.

but then i began to see myself in the reflection of one little spoon.

and i heard a Voice, so soft in my soul.

do you see you, dearheart? 

do you see Me and Mine?

and i saw me as a spoon. 

surrounded by warriors, people with influence to the world. and by soldiers, reaching out with power to the corners of the earth with shield and sword.

and then there is me. a spoon in a drawer.

maybe my edges are smooth and rounded, not the best for a defense.

but there's nothing better for comfort.

spoons serve up mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

and tomato soup. 

and all those things

warm and cold and soothing. 

spoons are soft and gentle.

i was made by Him to be a spoon.

and a spoon i shall be.

linking up with emily at imperfect prose on thursdays
my weekly moment to touch my real