born from crushed aluminum

{via flickr :: creative commons}

I crushed a soda can last night. you can see the exact shape of my hand in the aluminum, the swirling white letters bent inward to form something more akin to a prayer than a brand name.

my not-so-tiny girl needed stitches, right on the even of her second birthday. three small black lines, twisted up with flesh. she cut her foot last week. it wasn't so bad. there was blood, but it washed away. there was a scab, but it was closing. and then last night, she tripped. and it opened anew, worse than before. so we bundled into the car, my husband + me + Marian (her in squawking high spirits, us not so much).

and the doctor said "stitches," and something inside me dropped so hard that I thought it might actually come out through my feet. they washed her foot and I cringed, holding her hand. they said "needle" and "Lidocaine" and I  made a hasty and less than dignified retreat. he made me sit, the doctor did, pressing a can of soda into my hand for sugar. I was white, he said.

and I sobbed on one side of a clinic wall while my daughter wailed, clutched tight in my husband's arms as he bear-hugged our fierce fighting child. they were hurting her to help her, and it made my momma-lioness roar vicious. and I crushed that soda can in my fingers until they were white and the can was twisted metal in my grip.

then it was over, and she was drenched in sweat but bandaged, sniffling into my shoulder. I buried my nose in her head as I rocked her, inhaling the scent of tears and sweat and strength and bravery, as much as a little-yet-fierce creature can exude.

this morning, I pondered as she nuzzled into my breast, an eager face at 7:02am beside my bed. it's been two years with this child, nine months before that of her nestled under my skin. motherhood is a funny thing. you can read every book in the world, and still realize that you know absolutely nothing when that child is born. and you have to learn. and they say that you learn from experience and doing and "as you go." but really, it's your child that does the teaching.

cliche? maybe.
true? entirely.

and so, as my Marian-girl begins her second year of life, my heart is swelling full of  holy hopes + wishes for her.

 :: I wish for her bravery to be acknowledged. she is not fearless, she is brave. 

:: I wish for Holiness. 

 :: I wish for delight in small things and joy in big things

:: I wish for her pain to be allowed. I do not want her to hurt, but when she does, I want her aching to be FELT instead of being brushed over or dismissed. 

:: I wish for a drawing near to Grace and the Throne upon which it sits. 

:: I wish for might. not power or fame or glory, but might. 

:: I wish for laughter (have you heard this child laugh? music.)

:: I wish for Kleenex and ice cream and shoulders and companions and light and Glory abundant. 

:: I wish for LIFE.

happy second birthday, my beautiful girl. 

I love you. 

for when there aren't many words left {#Furgeson}

{via pinterest}

as far as Ferguson goes, I've been silent. 

I mean that as literally as you can get. nothing on social media. not my Facebook or my Twitter or my Instagram or my blog. nothing. period. 

silence. 

and that, for me, is odd. there are very few social issues that leave me at a loss for words. this one, however, has done exactly that. 

I am at a loss for words. 

let me be very clear here :: I have not been silent because I am white. I have not been silent because I have an unpopular opinion. I have not been silent because I am afraid. 

I have been silent because it has been one of those moments where you are confronted with something so overwhelming that it leaves nothing behind. there have been so many amazing words shared already. {you can find a couple fantastic and powerfully gentle posts here and here.} there have been arguments on both sides, strong words flung and feet planted into the dirt. the Internet is good at controversy, after all. 

what could I possibly say? wouldn't I only be adding to the noise?

because let's be honest :: there's been a lot of noise. madness. tumult. 

all I can do is pray. 

and that's pretty much exactly what I'm going to do here. 

:: 

oh God. 

bring peace. 

oh Lord,

bring comfort. 

oh Jesus. oh sweet Jesus. 

bring clarity. 

Spirit of the living God,

fall fresh. 

oh Lion, 

breathe. 

oh mighty Father, 

sustain. 

selah. selah. selah. 

laughing at Jesus

{photo by jennifer upton}

I remember the first time I went to the mission. I don't remember how old I was, but I remember it was cold. I was with my grandfather and his friend, a chaplain whose name I can't recall. I know I was young.

and I remember the first time I ever heard someone laugh at the name of Jesus.

I had never seen a prostitute before. I don't think I even knew what the word meant. but I remember her clothes :: black leather jacket, hot pink shirt that plunged lower than anything I had ever seen. I remember her hair, box-blonde with obvious dark roots, piled up on top of her head. I remember the cigarette dangling from her fingers.

she was sitting behind me on the plastic chairs. the chaplain asked, when you hear the name Jesus, what do you think? and the woman laughed and screamed, holy schmoly. effing Christians!

the chaplain kept in stride, never breaking for a second. I remember that. he pointed to her and repeated the first part of her words like a teacher accepting answers from a crowd of boisterous students, glad they were speaking at all.

I don't remember anything else that was said after that. 

I had never heard someone respond that way to Jesus. I never even knew that existed, never knew that people thought that way about Christians. I was confused, hurt, a little girl who had grown up with Jesus from day one and never even dreamed that someone wouldn't like Him. why didn't she love Christians?

{photo by jennifer upton}

and then I grew up. and I started seeing that woman more often.

obviously it wasn't the same face. but the eyes were identical. I saw her everywhere, in crowds and in churches. I found her in the supermarket. I noticed her at the post office. I realized that I was friends with her.

and now I understand that laughter. I hear it differently. it was mocking, caustic, and was laden with so much pain. it was the sound of a woman who had been slapped and kicked and knocked down a thousand times, had reached out her hand, and had someone spit in her face.

she had been given up on by the ones who were supposed to be the hands and the feet. I don't know every step she took. but she is familiar to me now. her story is one I understand, her words are ones I completely comprehend.

He didn't come for us to look down, to refuse to meet the eyes of humanity. He was born for lifting up. for getting dirty. for putting on skin and blood and pain. He touched.

can't we?

do not dare not to dare //

{photo by dramaticelegance}

i feel like the world has been chasing me with this thrashing. honestly, i think it's really comical that this thing that i have been hiding from for so long is now pursuing me, or at least putting itself in my path. i turn twenty-three in little less than a week, and i am just discovering. someone told me that it's because i'm aware of it, in tune with myself now.

but i don't think that's entirely the reason. i think that my eyes are finally open enough that the calling, the pulling, has finally allowed itself to crawl out from the cave and whisper i'm here. i've always been here. can you see me? 

part of me really wants to write about this. i feel like i've been waiting for my entire life to feel this strange warring freedom. but then comes that fear, the familiar flavour that weighs my soul down. it almost makes me want to let go and let the current pull me the safe way, the way that doesn't make my arms ache.


i wrote some time ago about taking off the veil and looking darkness in the eyes. i don't mean evil darkness :: the Lion already holds the key. i mean the strange unknown, the part that lingers in the  shadow when i've been too scared to pull back the curtains and let the light trace over my skin.

i'm not ashamed. i am afraid. but i am pressing my forehead against the stone wall while i seek solace from the din.

sometimes being on the ground // means a new season is coming

{photo by dramaticelegance}

it's autumn. there's a lot of death associated with the falling leaves and fading grass. but there's something resurrecting about this season. it's been hot, pressing, almost suffocating, with air so thick that i almost wanted to push it off myself like a constricting garment. 

and then comes the whispering cool air, taking my hair and floating it across my face. it's like some ethereal veil reminding me, you are seen, if only by He that holds the Wind

and He is not threatened by your questions. 

it's a digging in. it's painful. it's reaching deep into yourself with gently curling fingers and digging into the dirt. and it makes me shudder and gasp. it's gorgeous. 

sometimes He digs in His claws and flays me wide. but that's not what He's doing right now. my soul is whispering, echoing soft Lion-growl :: do not dare not to dare. (lewis) i am humming His name like it's the last melody i know. i am reaching up.

{to learn more about Mandy's book, visit messy canvas. to read all the posts in my personal thrashing journey, visit here}

driftwood

{via stylemepretty}

these days i have felt very unpoetic, very uninspired.

all of my artistic energies have been focused on my NaNoWriMo novel, and all of my strength has been poured into the care of my precious warrior-daughter of now eight weeks.

and then the doctors said i needed more surgery. my gallbladder quit working, as though it wast just as tired as i was. and i went under the knife again two days ago. my body is rung out like a rag in the bottom of the kitchen sink, tossed and crumpled and completely without strength.

i am weary. i am without poetry. i am simply exhausted.

i am driftwood.

lead me to the Rock that is higher than i.

and i am tempest tossed and oh, so forelorn.

i am a ship and the waves are swelling. 

but there is One who calms the waters with a word.

peace. be still.

for I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel.

and He has gone before me, unsurprised by a single thing that has occurred over the past month. and all i can do is whisper "thank you" to the stars that illuminate my night. because the Cross is what i cling to without ceasing these days, or i would be smashed to pieces against the shoals, carved with lies. 

insufficient becomes :: enough

broken becomes :: whole

empty becomes :: filled

and i am driftwood carved to elegance, leaning against the Rock that is higher than i.

brimming with grace {165-175}

{via pinterest}

i've started carrying Ann's book wherever i go.

it's small enough, which baffles me how a book so small can carry such a powerful weight of truth. it fits in my purse, but my soul can barely contain it all inside.

i'm full to brimming after only another four pages.

these pages were about pain. about this God we serve, and this mystery of pain.

this mystery of God's grace.

i know that we aren't supposed to know. but sometimes i want to know.

doesn't everyone?

i've been counting my blessings for several months now. i never once mentioned pain or aching hearts or any of those things that tend to make us shake our fists and scream at the skies. 

maybe i should start. 

because His grace is sufficient. His Word will not return to Him void. 

i look back now over my blackness and see where His light kept me walking when i wanted to crumple and die there. 

and so i'm learning. every sunrise brings me a lesson. and this one is hard, and i'm not sure if i like it, or even want to admit that i've been shown this truth. 

this is one i want to ignore. but i can't. 

{via pinterest}

because i'm still counting...

• 165. God's grace. 

• 166. the darkness that brings the sun into greater brilliance 

• 167. a sky full of stars on a cloudless night

• 168. homecomings and reminders that alone is never again an option

• 169. learning Him more, deeper with time passing. 

• 170. His lessons, painful and beautiful. knowing that He knows, and i will learn when that right time comes. 

• 171. first winter's snow, just enough to dust and melt away, but more than enough to light warm Christmas candles on the hearth of my heart. 

• 172. intercession for one another. moments of hands clasped over a thousand miles as one covers the other in blankets of prayer. 

• 173. thirty thousand words

• 174. rolling pins and the aroma of fresh pie dough. 

• 175. learning to be transparent. authentic. His hands slowly unveiling me. 

i'm going to keep a pen in my hand always. i'm still barefoot in His glory, because its starting to clear in darkness as well as light.

because these windows in my soul have been washed. 

and i'm still counting

because i'm seeing clearer. 

{counting to a thousand and beyond with Ann and my sisters there}

Supposed

I pray your glory shines / through this doubting heart of mine / so my world would know that You…You are my strength / You and You alone / You and You alone / Keep bringing me back home. ~Gungor, You Are my Strength

I know that you're all expecting my weekly Monday musings regarding all the beautiful things in my life. 

And there are many of them, brimming just under the surface of my dreams and moments this past week.

But right now, I can't find them.

I made a resolution to myself that I wouldn't write what the world at large might want to hear. I'm going to write what's real.

My reality.

And right at this moment, my reality isn't all that beautiful. In fact, it's rather like a harsh palace of stone and ice. I feel at war with myself, with certain people in my life...and in all honesty, I don't even know what to say. 

I'm brimming over with so much confusing, and maybe a little too much hurt than I should be in this particular situation. 

It's overwhelming me. And I have no outlet...not right now. Later, I will, I'm sure...but I don't need it later. 

I need it now.

I feel horribly selfish and petty to even write a post like this one. I feel as though I have promised you poetry, sunshine, and summer breezes in every piece I write. And this one is truly more of an icy snowstorm of hurt and complicated emotion.

Forgive me? Please?

Maybe later this afternoon, after a bit of a good cry and losing myself in the silent embrace of the Word, I will come back and pour my beauties onto the page.

…but, for now, this is all I have... 

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. ~Psalm 73:26

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. ~Isaiah 41:10

Joining in with this beautiful sisterhood on August 22nd, 2011
Expect to see more of this blessed release from time to time.
Life is hard. God is good. 

Frustration (Important Announcement)

I am currently unhappy.

Hurt.

Broken-hearted.

Entirely flabbergasted.

Someone on my Facebook friend's list reported my blog as "abusive spam." This took away my ability to post links to my blog anywhere on my Facebook page or on my blog's Facebook page.

This required for me to change my blog's URL (which has now been changed back again to the original URL, thanks to the help of Facebook, some amazing friends, and an act of God), as well as make a few other small changes in the script and embedding process of my blog.

I need prayer from you all. For this to have happened, it would have had to have been someone on my friend's list who did this to me. Meaning, it had to have been someone that I call a friend. My heart is hurting, and I am wounded to the point of tears.

Please pray that I do not get bitter about this. Please pray that my heart heals. Please pray that my emotions stay in check and I allow God to work through this circumstance to grow me closer to Him.

My most sincere and heartfelt thanks to each one of you for your continued support.

You are a blessing, valued, and loved.

To any of you that changed my info to the updated URL, please put it back now, as that URL is now null and void. DramaticElegance is alive again.

Praise God.

(You can read my most recent blog post here.)

Phoenix

"God uses broken things. Broken soil to produce a crop, broken clouds to give rain, broken grain to give bread, broken bread to give strength. It is the broken alabaster box that gives forth perfume." ~Unknown

The past is a complicated thing.

So many of us attempt to erase the past...doing our best to clear our slates and start fresh every morning as we arise.

I will admit, I often find myself bogged down in regret for the things I have done in my past.

It's hard to keep from viewing myself as a broken mirror...Pandora's box, opened and poured out on the world in tears and pain...a soiled, tainted dove.

There are times I am overcome with the fear that the flames of my past have burned up any good or worth that could possibly be found in my heart.

And then I remember...

...at the bottom of the box, there still remained hope.

Gold is refined through fire.

Blood has already been poured out.

Death has already been battled and won.

My soul has already been saved.

The past is there for us to remember, to learn, and to grow. If we forget, what good has our pain been?

So, from the ashes, my hope shall spring.

I am His.

I am a phoenix.

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king. ~J. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

תקומה (Resurrection)

"Now after the Sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary came to look at the grave. And behold, a severe earthquake had occurred, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled away the stone and sat upon it." ~Matthew 28:1-2

I can only imagine what it was like to wake up on that morning.

The sorrow would have still be so incredibly fresh. The pain would have remained a thudding, almost crushing ache.

...if only they knew.

Because the power was brewing...the war was coming to its glorious conclusion...

...to the point that the world could not contain it for another minute longer.

The ground shook.

The guards collapsed.

The stone was rolled away.

The tomb sat cold. Hollow. EMPTY.

And the angel found his seat upon the overturned door, waiting for those who needed to hear his earth-shattered message.

"Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here...for He is risen, just as He said He would..."

The disbelief would have been incredible, almost impossible for their still-broken hearts to fathom...before it all turned to a powerful, measureless joy.

This morning, I felt powerful, heart-gripping joy.

I cried tears of passionate gratitude and indescribable adoration.

The tomb is empty.

Death has been defeated.

Hell has been overturned.

Death COULD NOT handle Him. The grave COULD NOT hold Him.

My King is risen!

"...she [the White Witch] would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor's stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward." ~C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

Silence

There are two kinds of silence.

There is the beautiful kind...the whisper before the storm erupts, the wordless moments shared between two friends, the elegant emptiness of the night sky.

And then there is the heavy silence.

The silence that screams of loneliness, fear, desolation, and unspeakable sorrow and regret.

This is the most frightening sound of all to me.

And it was in this echoing silence in which the disciples lay.

Barely sleeping, barely eating.

Locked away in the upper room of an unknown house, huddled in tear-stained masses as their terrified minds replayed the events of the previous day.

The Man whom they had followed...the One in whom they had placed their faith, trust, and their entire existence...

...dragged away, beaten to an unrecognizable pile of blood and bruises, and then hung upon a splintered cross to gasp out His final breaths.

Yeshua -- their Master, their Lord -- was dead.

And they had fled.

The guilt they all must have felt...the regret and sorrow...for only John had stayed at the foot of the cross until the thunder rolled and the rocks broke into pieces.

The silence must have weighed as heavy as the stone that they had rolled over the mouth of the cave in which they had placed the beaten, lifeless body of their Rabbi.

Crushing.

Destructive.

Overbearing.

Wordless weeping, empty despair.

...but this was not the end...

...for in this silence, a mighty war was waging.

The war against Death. The war against Hell. The war against hopelessness.

For after the silence comes the storm...

...and this storm would rock the world.

DEATH

COULD

NOT

HOLD

HIM.

Silence. Broken.

Return

Pick a star on the dark horizon / And follow the light / You'll come back when it's over / No need to say goodbye... ~Regina Spektor, The Call

Yes, this is another post about Narnia.

And I'm not even a little bit sorry.

To be honest, I didn't plan on writing another post about this magical land that has inexplicably woven its spell over my heart and soul.

But then I went to the blog of a friend and read her newest post (which you can read at http://avoiceofpraise.blogspot.com/)...and that set me off again.

Because there, in her own post on the land of Narnia, she opened another tiny wardrobe door to my soul...this one not quite as happy and fanciful as those in the past.

It was the idea of never going back.

For as much as there is a sense of beauty and passion in each visit to Narnia by each little group, there is always that moment...first tasted by Peter and Susan, and then heartbreakingly continued with Edmund and Lucy...

...that moment when they are told "you will never come back to Narnia."

To be honest, Peter and Susan's final moments in Narnia never struck such a wrenching chord in me as those of Edmund and Lucy.

Perhaps it is because Peter and Susan never seemed to need Narnia the way that their two younger siblings did.

Peter was the oldest. Proud and strong, the High King. Once there, he immediately staked his claim as a King. It was almost as if he didn't need anyone else.

Susan was the oldest girl. Beautiful, gentle, and beloved almost immediately. In fact, her pride never died, and she was the only one of the four who, once home for the final time, abandoned Narnia entirely.

It was Edmund -- the broken traitor, the forgiven one. It was Lucy -- the innocent one, the first believer, the one with the closest connection to the Great Lion Himself. These are the two that needed it more than anyone else.

And they are final of the Kings and Queens to be told that their time had come to its end.

But I will never deny that Aslan had a plan. I will never take away His credit. He knew what He was doing.

He knew they had lives to live, futures to embrace...and he knew their time in their own world would be short-lived.

For soon, they would come to Him forever.

They would pass through the Shadowlands in a loud and twisted train accident...they would pass over the silver wave, and come to Him forever.

They simply had to wait.

And while their first visits were beautiful, this final resting place was beyond all words and all imagining.

So for myself, I will visit Narnia while I may...reaching out fragile fingers from this world to the other, touching only the barest corners...

...patiently awaiting the day when I will crest the silver wave, and make my home in Aslan's Country forever.

I wait for the dream to end.

I linger at twilight...for I cannot wait for the morning.

It started out as a feeling / Which then grew into a hope / Which then turned into a quiet thought / Which then turned into a quiet word. / And then that word grew louder and louder / Until it was a battle cry. I'll come back / When you call me / No need to say goodbye...Regina Spektor, The Call

Forgiven

"For this reason I say to you, her sins, which are many, have been forgiven, for she loved much; but he who is forgiven little, loves little." ~Luke 7:47

I know that this blog is prone to lean to the more poetic side of my life. Elegant musings on springtime, reflections on holidays, or just the delicate moments of my own life which I chose to make important for whatever reason.

But not this time.

This time I need to be raw. Real.

Because, to be honest, I've never realized ANYTHING like this before.

It's scary...but here goes.

I have an issue with letting myself be forgiven.

In fact, I think that I believe that I am entire unworthy of forgiveness.

That my past mistakes -- and even those I have yet to make -- have set me in a place where I past the point of being forgiven by anyone.

Not by those I love.

Not by myself.

Not even by God.

And then, I spent a nearly sleepless night, curled up with tears pouring down my face. Every time I closed my eyes, it was like a horrific home movie playing back behind my eyelids...replaying every awful moment, every moment of shame, every whisper of guilt.

But suddenly, someone switched off the projector.

There was nothing left but darkness. And the voice of Jesus Christ.

"I forgive you. You are forgiven. Your shame is gone. You have to let go. You have to let yourself be forgiven."

And so I let one finger slide off the edge.

I'm slowly letting go.

I'm accepting forgiveness.

From the ones who love me more than anything.

From the ones who could have given up on me...but didn't.

From the ones who would die for me.

And from the One who already did.

सुंदर (Beautiful)

It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness. ~Leo Tolstoy

The Oscars are on tonight.

Tonight, hundreds of people are glued to their television sets.

Tonight, a parade of "beautiful people" march across the red carpet to be honored for their "contributions" to the world of visual entertainment.

And tonight, hundreds of women will stare into their mirrors and wish that they looked like Anne Hathaway or Natalie Portman.

They will wish to be beautiful.

Now, please don't get me wrong. I am not denying the beauty of those women who grace the silver screen.

However...

...beauty is not defined by fame.

What do we know about these women...really?

We know their names. Their faces. Perhaps we can recite their filmography or even some of their famous lines.

But that's all we know.

Beauty is not found in a list of accomplishments or in how many people know your name.

It is found behind your eyes. Beneath your skin.

It is not dependent on how much you weigh, how soft your hair might be, or even how gracefully you walk.

It's found in the way you live...

...in your treatment of others...

...in the words you speak...

...in your presence, your carriage, and your tone.

Beauty does not make the woman.

It is the woman herself that creates the beauty.

"Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised." ~Proverbs 31:30

Cling

When restraint and courtesy are added to strength, the latter becomes irresistible. ~Mohandas Ghandi

I am the last leaf,

Clinging to the end of the thin branch,

The last scrap of green in a cold dying world.

I am the daisy petal,

The last of two clinging to the sunny center,

Wishing beyond all wishes to be

"He loves me"

And not

"He loves me not."

I am the oyster, weeping

Aching, overcome by the pain deep within

Knowing that if I simply wait...

...simply hold on...

A pearl of beauty will be evident.

I am the winding arms and connected lips,

Clinging to those of a lover from whom I shall soon be separated.

Never wanting to be free,

Never wanting to be alone again.

I am the stone, rough and jagged

Tossed about in the foam of the sea.

Drowning, overwhelmed in salt and surf...

...but soon, I shall be smooth.

I am waiting.

I am whispers.

I am love.

I am strength.

And I will cling to what I am

In Him.

Still

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. ~Anaïs Nin

Life is complicated.

There are so many things that play into every day life, even those things that we primarily take for granted.

...even when we don't notice, things are complex.

It takes more than just the passing of time -- the turning of moments into years -- for someone to mature.

It takes the rain. The heat. The storms. The pressure. The pruning. The pain.

These things are not always realities that are easy for us to grasp. We want things to fall into place without any work or discomfort. We just want everything to be perfect right away.

And so we push away the pain. We shy away from anything that could possibly be the slightest bit uncomfortable...that might be hard.

We shut down the growth.

We settle into a pool of stagnant water...unmoving and unchanging. It may seem still and serene for the moment, but it eventually grows foul and rank, filled with impurities that cannot be swept away.

The foulness is trapped...we are imprisoned by our own good intentions.

...except Him.

...we hit rock bottom.

Sometimes, even the little things like breathing are almost too much to handle.

So many times, it feels like the entire ground is just shaking...nothing is standing still...

Sometimes, all you can do is reach up and take His hand, trusting Him to not let go.

I promise you -- He never lets go.

The world is unsteady sometimes.

He never moves.

When my world is shaking, Heaven stands. When my heart is breaking, I never leave Your hands. ~Your Hands, JJ Heller