the start of the melting

{via pinterest}

i remember the day that i melted. i think i will always remember. it was the very first day that i dared to question what was laid in front of me. i was seventeen with eyebrows tinged white from the missionary mime make-up. it was merely days after the quietest moment of my life. my toes were on foreign soil, in a land that has forever woven a spell over my heart.

it was the night of the talk. you know the one. we were gathered together, boys and girls and men and women. the words spoken to us were inspirational. at the time, they conjured something different than they would now. it was a type of shame, it made us blush. but we knew the drill :: we'd all heard it before, and the feeling it brought was familiar. they talked about shirts too low and jeans too tight, they looked us dead in the eye and told us to protect our brothers.

they taught us how to hug, arms draped around the shoulders from the side, never too long. they taught us about closed doors and warnings and dreaded plane trips home should we embrace too long, should a boy-toe ever enter the room of a girl. 

and then the talk ended and the mood changed. there was laughter and friends chatting during a short break, an appropriate hug exchanged here and there, but everyone was careful. it was ingrained. we knew what to do.

and then came the mention of the yearly mother-daughter cruise. there were cheers. there was excitement. and then the lights dimmed and the slideshow started to roll. and something inside me melted like wax.

the fabric was bright. blues and whites and yellows and greens and pinks. typical bikini colours. it was a cruise after all, all full of mothers and daughters bonding together. and they were on a ship in the ocean, and BarlowGirl was singing, and the girls were wearing bikinis.

i felt his hand on my shoulder, my friend, my heart-brother. i remember the look in his eyes, the way he whispered with head buried in hands, peering up at me through his fingers,

are they watching me? is this a test? i don't know where to look.

i remember when the lights came up and the burst of courage filled me. i was seventeen. i had never questioned anything before, not like this. but i couldn't let it go. i couldn't forget that look in his eyes.

with shaking fingers, i walked to the woman who ran the show, the one whose face we all knew, the one who smiled at the door each morning and spoke God to us each night. i touched her arm and took a deep breath.

"i'm sorry. but that didn't seem right. not after what you just said. all those girls in bikinis, the guys were confused. i was confused. i don't understand. it felt wrong."

i knew what i was expecting. i was expecting an answer, an easy one, some sort of explanation as to why. but she looked at me and pursed her lips and said, the Devil likes to cause turmoil at times like this. we don't need that kind of attitude here. 

i cried that night into my pillow, my roommates gathered around me with their hands on my back. it didn't feel right to them either. they told us not to look, they told us to keep our eyes closed and bodies covered. they whispered shame but screamed contradiction in our faces.

but what could we do? we were just teenagers. we were just girls.

i was so confused, everything all twisted up inside. was this what purity meant? i always thought it was something holy, something bright and white and glorious. i didn't know it then, but this was the start of my uncovering. my casting aside the millstone and taking a lighter yoke on my shoulders.

at the airport, two days later as we all winged our way from South America to long-missed families, my soul-brother hugged my neck.

i've never forgotten.

this is why i'm a Jesus feminist.
this is why i fight.

slow-stepping out the shadows, allowing the dark soul-night to teach me something. i'm learning how to put a face to the shame, slipping a voice against the palm of the voiceless.

{this is a piece of my journey. join with the wild mystics for a deep journey into the dark night}

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. 

the first

{via pinterest}

i can hardly believe that today is the first of December.

each time a new month comes around, i sit back and ponder where i've come from, and where i'm going. december is the month that draws the most contemplation, the deepest inhales, the quietest dwellings.

it's my favourite, if i'm being the most honest.

because it's the start of the end, after all.

there's a freshness in realizing that we're so close to crossing our toes from one full year to a brand-new empty canvas.

this artist embraces that, swims in the paint that could become 2012, if i let it free.

december holds much. we start the anticipation today. children tug sleeves with knitted mittens and squeal

Christmas is coming

there is an innocence with december, a newness even though the year is crammed to brimming behind our backs. it's like the closet door that slowly swings closed on the year, cluttered or organized, because the door must close eventually. there are new ones to open, after all.

{via pinterest}

that's what awakens my soul in this twelfth month. the countdown to Christ's coming is made so much more real as we hang small figures or read pages from special books, lighting the candles and murmuring

come quickly, Lord Jesus. 

:: Advent Sundays become Advent everydays :: 

so cue the instrumental music that leaves room for the soul to sing its own words at the close. because that's the best we can do, the greatest gift we can give Him, is to let our souls compose His song.

i'm tossed in Light now. in soul now. i'm sitting with my King, legs dangling over the edge as we speak together in the silence.

we're choosing words, my Jesus and i. we're making our preparations with joy, counting down the moments until the start.

and so with anticipation, we begin the final measures of this two-thousand-and-eleventh symphony. the ending is the prelude, the expectation building toward Glory.

i'm elated to discover now. and forever.

remember

five minute fridays. we write for five, and only five, minutes. no editing, no overthinking, no backtracking. . linking up with the gypsy mama.

the word

REMEMBER

now GO...

i saw this word last night. and i started to think what i should remember. 

because i remember a lot of things. not important things, like England king or the capital cities of every state in the Union. 

but i remember snapshots and mental videos of things that no one else does.

{photo by DramaticElegance
1997: haircut like Skandar Keynes}

family things, little quirks and things from the past. 

she does too. 

she was my companion in most, so we share this common memory.

you see, most of my memories involve two little girls. 

one with dark hair cut in a too-short bob because the little long-haired blonde one wanted to play beauty shoppe with Mummy's sissors. 

little red wagons and cats that lacked enthusiasm for being wrapped up like Baby Moses and being floated down the creek in a basket. 

lipsynching into hairbrushes in front of the video camera...it's on YouTube now, somehow. 

inside jokes that we still laugh about, because we remember, you see. 

on Tuesday night, we followed tradition. hanging lights and placing angels and snowmen in their traidtional places, like we do every first of the eleventh month. 

but this year, these two little girls are joined by two little boys. 

{photo by DramaticElegance
2009: my wedding, Bride and Maid-of-Honour}

these little girls have loves now. 

new memories now. 

these boys will both be here here for Christmas. 

one a husband who spends every waking minute with his woman...


...the other a solider home from war  for his first Christmas with her on this side of the webcam. 

we grew up somehow, these two little girls. 

but in the dark under the Christmas tree, we still tangle our fingers and curl like hedgehogs into a little bundle together. 

because we remember. 

days // hours // minutes

{via pinterest}

we all have our comforts. 

those things that draw us in and bring us a sense of warmth during these final months of the year. the spirit of celebration and nostalgia begins to burn within our hearts, as if kindled by the colder air and swirling leaves in tones of red and gold. 

comforts and warmth are part of the season. these final two months that grace the year are full of so many things unique to them, and only them.

 perhaps it is why we look at our calenders and count the days like children, eager for whispering snow and silver bells. 

how many more minutes 'till Christmas?

i've always been the nostalgic one. the one that looks with fond memories over each tradition, each carefully packed away decoration. the smell of pine makes me dream of late winter nights spent with my sister, pouring over our brightly coloured pictures and decorating the tree on November 1st. 

it's only 365 days between each visit, you know. 

{via pinterest}

but why does it feel so long between?

and why do i want it to come so fast this year? 

i'm catching myself drinking peppermint hot chocolate and longing to slip The Holiday or White Christmas into the DVD player. breaking my own firm rules: nothing Christmas until at least November. 

but we still have three full days until the eleventh month. i'm counting the days till Christmas on my fingers and toes. this sentimentality is killing me. 

perhaps Christmas is my comfort. the carols, the tinkling bells. the smells of pine and snow, the aroma that winter alone carries in its pocket. 

perhaps it is celebrating the start of my salvation. the stepping from gold to straw. from cries of Holy to cries for food and comfort from the throat of the King. 

God to Man combined. 

and so i will snuggle up with my peppermint hot chocolate, breaking my own little rule.

and this little girl will sit, counting... 

57 days. 1,364 hours. 81,864 minutes.

winter pot pie {recipe}

{via pinterest}

there is something so comforting about warm food in the wintertime.

amid the turning leaves and whispering snow, there is something wonderful found in a steaming bowl of soup or something equally warm and inviting.

chicken pot pie is, for me, one of those edible bits of cooler weather. until this year, i had never attempted to make it myself, relying only on my mother-in-law or pre-prepared offerings from the local grocery.

this year, however, i have delved into this particular recipe myself. and it has been proved delicious and incredibly easy to put together.

i share so many words with you all, so many mental and musing treasures that flood my mind night and day. but this simple bit of cooking is something that i could not keep to myself, and felt that each one of you might enjoy having yourself.

• one medium onion, diced 
• 2-3 moderately sized chicken breasts, diced
• 1 tablespoon butter
• 1/3 cup flour
• 2/3 cup milk
• 1 small can cream-of-whatever soup {chicken, celery, mushroom, etc.}
• 2 cups broccoli florets
• 1 1/2 shredded cheddar cheese
• 2 nine-inch unbaked pie dough rounds {either your own favourite crust recipe or pre-made}
• salt, pepper, garlic powder, and herbs to taste {i use parsley, oregano, basil, and a sprinkling of cayenne pepper, mixed in with the onions before sauteeing, but you can wait and mix them in with the cream mixture later}

{via pinterest}

sautee the onions and herbs together with the butter just until soft. add the chicken and cook together until cooked through. 

in a separate bowl, slowly combine the flour and milk until you form a smooth batter. add the soup and whisk together until smooth. add the broccoli, cheese, chicken, and onions; mix well together. 

line a 9" pie plate with one of the circles of pie dough. pour in the filling and spread it out evenly. 

top with the second round and crimp the shells together to make a trimming crust. 

cut slits or simple designs in the top crust to vent. 

bake at 425 degrees F or until the crust is golden brown.

allow to cool for a few moments and serve warm. 

this dish is so wonderfully easy and quick to prepare. try other kinds of vegetables to suit your family's tastes. we have done corn, carrot, and green bean as well, which is equally delicious. 

yes, in all seasons, we relish in the taste and goodness of delicious food.

 but in winter, there are certain culinary delights that pique our fancies and hold us captive in an embrace of warmth and reminders of childhood homes. 

step into your kitchen. 

take a moment, 

and bake yourself a memory. 

Mailbox

And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
~W.H. Auden

I love the mailman. 

I love running down to my little postbox, slipping the key into the lock, and opening the tiny copper door to find letters personally addressed to me.

I love signing into my email and seeing emails written from one friend to another...personal, without a foolish "chain" or a message full of coupons, packed with trite, impersonal gibberish.

I love the written word, seeing my address hand-penned on an envelope...

...perhaps a few inked embellishments here and there to give the paper more personality than it already inherently possesses. 

I love knowing that someone took the time to sit down and scribble their heart onto the page for my eyes alone. 

It's is a much-loved gesture. 

Of all the movements in this world...

...of all the friendly acts known to the heart of man... 

...there is none so devoted or as timeless as a letter writ in human hand. 

This is something that I will never cease to adore. 

Not even after all the ink has run dry. 

The post office has a great charm at one point of our lives.  When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.  ~Jane Austen

Timeline

The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams. ~Eleanor Roosevelt

It is now 2011.

Wow.

For me, this is almost impossible to believe. I feel as if I blinked and have passed from January to January without hardly a second thought.

Did last year leave me behind?

To be honest, however, 2010 was a year of a lot of changes for me...many of which were beyond fantastic.

I reconnected with an amazing old friend after almost two years of silence, and found myself in a brand-new friendship that picked up as if things had never left off and has radically changed my life.

God answered my prayer for a female best friend, and I have never been more blessed to have her in my life as a sister and warrior on this road together.

I celebrated a landmark -- one year of marriage to my incredible husband, which still continues to blow my mind and delight my soul.

I met amazing people who have loved me and changed me for the better.

I started this blog, which has been a dream of mine, and was a resolution for 2010 that I actually saw through to fruition.

The blessings that have been heaped upon me still blow my mind and draw me to my knees time and time again.

However, this year has also been one of the hardest of my life. I have cried more than I ever thought possible. I lost precious friends for one reason or another -- some because of serious issues, and others over trivialities that I wish I could take back. My heart has broken almost to the point of bleeding -- both for myself and for those I love.

I have made so many mistakes...I look back at certain points over the past year and I weep with the utter shame of it all. In all honesty, there were so many points when I just wanted to give up...to give in to my own insecurities and lack of strength and simply let the world slip through my fingers.

But it takes the bad with the good to give me a reason to step forward.

If this past year had been nothing but good things -- perfect blue skies without a single thunderstorm, how then would I have grown?

It takes fire to refine the dross away from silver; it takes lightning and thunder for crops to grow.

The hands of the clock keep ticking by.

Soon enough, 2012 will be upon us. But that is the future.

2009 is gone.

2010 is gone.

The past is over and buried under the blood of the One who looked from moment to moment and decided that I was worth His ultimate sacrifice.

And so, this year, I begin with only one resolution.

To grow.

To climb further up and further in.

To find my footing in Jesus Christ instead of myself...to allow myself to reach out and take His nail-scarred hand...

...to rise and rise again.

So here's to love and loss, to tears and joys, to passions and disappointments.

To growth and to journeys.

To becoming more like Him.

Here's to fresh starts and new beginnings.

Here's to 2011.

Peppermint Wishes

Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
~Bill Morgan, Jr.

There is something so magical about this time of year.

It's wintertime.

Christmastime.

The snowflakes are falling, whispering their gentle way from the grey sky to join hundreds of their compatriots that already coat the frozen ground.

Sparkling lights adorn the eaves of roofs and twinkling Christmas trees can be seen peeping through the curtains of darkened homes.

The air smells of ice, balsam, hot chocolate, peppermint sticks, and the wishes of hundreds of children who dream of Santa Claus and brimming stockings.

Fireplaces flicker over the toes of children, clustered around while carols play from the stereo and laughter provides its own merry soundtrack to the homey scene laid out to delight any casual passerby.

Christmas does something to my heart.

I love the sight of a fresh-cut pine tree, adorned with white lights and sentimental ornaments, almost toppling over from the lift of the carefully wrapped packages that have been secretly placed there by loving hands.

I love the whisper of the falling snow and the smell of the frosty air that burns and delights your nose at the same time.

It's only at this time of year when I crave the taste of peppermint -- a taste which I normally avoid.

My nose itches to smell cinnamon spice and "Winter Balsam" candles. My ears tingle at the sound of some instrumental Christmas arrangement, or the thudding heartbeat of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra blasting from my iPod dock.

Call me a child. Call me a sentimental fool.

I don't care.

It's Christmas.

It's a time for peppermint wishes and sugerplum dreams.

It's the most magical time of the year -- when blizzards can be forgiven and the troubles of the morning are glazed over in the love of a family and the flavor of gingerbread.

If growing up means I have to leave this all behind...if it means I must become sensible and view Christmastime as nothing but a mad rush to spend money and obtain obscene amounts of stress...

...then I never want to grow up.

Extravagant

Christmas in Bethlehem. The ancient dream: a cold, clear night made brilliant by a glorious star, the smell of incense, shepherds and wise men falling to their knees in adoration of the sweet baby, the incarnation of perfect love. ~Lucinda Franks

I am going to be extremely honest right here.

I love Christmas.

I'm like a little kid when it comes to this time of year. I am incredibly sentimental when it comes to Christmas.

I hate snow, but I want a white Christmas. I have this quirk about sleeping under the Christmas tree, looking up at the lights and ornaments, all of which have some sort of sentimental significance. Christmas gifts are more than boxes wrapped up in colorful paper and stuck underneath a bit of green shrubbery; each gift has some sort of personal direction toward the receiver that will really make them smile.

I even sit for hours with no lights on at night, just the Christmas lights and a few candles, just listening to my favorite Christmas songs and soaking in the magic that December seems to fuse my soul with in waves of music and pine-scented candles.

But there comes a moment in my heart -- generally in the last days before the big day arrives -- that the deep reminder of what this entire season is about grips my heart.

It's more than just the saga of a pregnant woman and her husband riding a donkey over the Judean countryside...more than shepherds and Wise Men gathering in a small stable...more than angels singing choruses and brightening the darkness with their heavenly light.

It's the reality that the King of the Universe -- the One that holds the stars in place and sends the thunderclouds to do His bidding -- stepped down from His throne.

He laid down His might, His power, and His glory...and stepped from Life to life.

From streets of gold and the lauding of angels to the inexperienced arms of a teenage Israelite girl and her rugged new husband...knowing EXACTLY what His purpose was.

He was born to die. For me.

So tonight, as I sit on my couch, looking out the frost-covered windows at the snow-covered street below, I cast my eyes toward the sky. And as a lone tear trickles down my cheek, I whisper a prayer of utmost and humble gratitude to the One who gave Himself to the world...

...Jesus, Your love is extravagant. More than I deserve.

Please, never let me forget.

You gave the ultimate gift that winter night.

You gave us Your life. Your love. Your blood. Your forgiveness.

Merry Christmas.

And the first time / That You opened Your eyes did You realize that You would be my Savior / And the first breath that left Your lips / Did You know that it would change this world forever...And I, I celebrate the day / That You were born to die / So I could one day pray for You to save my life. ~I Celebrate The Day, Relient K

World-Turners

The people who influence us the most are not those who detain us with their continual talk, but those who live their lives like the stars in the sky and “the lilies of the field”— simply and unaffectedly. Those are the lives that mold and shape us. ~Oswald Chambers

This is for the ones who live...

...who stand up when the world is sitting down...

...who fight when everyone else has fled the battlefield.

I wish you knew exactly how you

Inspire me.

I wish I had the right words to convey

How much you

Amaze me.

Maybe it's the way you stand alone,

Moving the crowd

Instead of them moving you.

Maybe it's the way you love from day to day.

From the simple word

To the more precious gesture.

You live the love.

You inspire me to push upward.

Onward.

Heavenward.

You're more than just my friends...

...more than just my family...

...you're my heroes.

You're my favorite kind of inspiration.

Because you don't just talk.

You live.

Labor of Love

Tonight, I spent some time with my mom's side of the family, planning for my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary celebration this coming fall. If you were looking at us from a distance with no knowledge as to who any of us were or what we were doing, you would think we were an odd little group.

There were eight of us, clustered around a small crackling fire enclosed inside of a large metal dish.

My aunt and uncle, not quite two years married, holding hands in two separate deck chairs, looking at one another as if their entire worlds revolved around their beloved partner.

My mom, sitting in her chair with her day-planner in her lap, her red hair glowing like a sunset in the light of the flickering flames.

The three teenagers -- Abby, Rae Marie, and I -- sitting in age-order on the padded porch swing, giggling and waving the smoke out of our faces.

And then there was my grandma and grandpa, the origin of this tiny cluster of loving people. They were the ones that drew my closest inspection.

Grandma, with her little basket-purse and crown of carefully styled grey hair, her smile and laugh more familiar and warm to me than a summer sunset. And Grandpa, with his fading grey comb-over and his unmistakeable sense of humor that reminds me of little girl sleepovers and snuggles around the iron stove in their basement.

My grandpa is in his early 70s. He grew up on a small farm in Illinois in a tiny rural community where he milked the cows at 4am and walked to school in the winter. He loves Jesus with all his heart, and is determined to bring as many people to know Him as he possibly can. He is the humblest, quietest man I know.

This is the man of whom I possess my earliest memory. The man who sang silly songs to my sister and I, and told us jokes that made my grandma shake her head and say, "Oh, Kyle!" The man who taught me that early morning breakfasts of "gobledy-gook" and orange juice was the secret to a happy morning. The gentle hands that swung a wood-splitting ax and poked flaming coals to warm the house, but that were always eager to hold the Bible and remind me of the goodness of God. The man who showed me that ticking Grandma awake at 6am was fun, and that "sleepin' at the foot of the bed" was a secret delight. He took me to my first movie in a theater -- Chicken Run -- and promptly fell asleep twenty minutes into the film...but that's not surprising, considering his ability to "drop his marbles" at any time and through anything.

My grandma is in her late 60s. She attended the local high school, and can still sing almost all the words the fight song. She married young, just like I did, and still loves her husband with all her heart after almost 50 years of marriage. I've seen the way she looks at him...I want to love my husband the way she does. When I was little, I used to stand next to her in church and listen to her sing the hymns; I wanted to sing about Jesus as beautifully as she did. She is an amazing woman who loves Jesus with all her heart, and has taught me so many things about being a godly woman and a godly wife.

This is the woman who read books to my little sister and I, recording them on cassette tapes that I still love listening to, even today. The woman who made me tiny models of all the characters from Winnie-the-Pooh (my favorite since I was a baby) by hand, and played the record of the same name when she changed my diapers or bathed me in the metal sink in the basement. The woman who made me dresses, quilts, and jumpers, hand-made with love poured into each stitch. She taught me how to sew; even though I didn't show a lot of appreciation for it then, I look back on those moments now and wish I could get them back. Grandma made us puppets out of brown paper envelopes and various bits of bric-a-brac, recorded Shirley Temple movies when they came on TV, and watched Milo and Otis with us over and over and over again.

Grandpa took me on my first missions trip to Costa Rica when I was 13.

Grandma held Hawaiian tea parties on the back porch with our American Girl dolls and Macadamia nut pancakes.

My grandparents are my heroes. Two of my greatest examples.

I want them to be proud of me.

Because I am proud to be their granddaughter.