magnolia roots ::

{via pinterest}

i drove in my car today with the windows down with the blossom breezes flooding my nose. and i inhaled and my heart whispered to my soul, this is my sea. because some people have seaside breezes with salt and adventure, while i have suburbia with its sidewalks and blooming magnolia trees.

and the cherry blossoms swayed in the breeze and murmured, remember what you have remembered. 

because i think a lot about the trees during the springtime when everything becomes new and green. and i think about Jesus and the blind man, and the spit made mud smeared on his eyes by the hands of the One that kissed the dirt to life in the first place.

what do you see?
i see men...they look like trees, walking about.

and maybe he was right on point with this strange metaphor. we are more than human, more than flesh and bone and sinew and blood. we have roots that sink down, down deep into the soil, reaching and winding together with all the others, and the Life that pours from one enters the other.

unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone. 

and alone is something that doesn't touch, an empty death of sorts, a vague immortality that leaves the seeker empty-handed and the warrior without a sword.

{via pinterest}

i'm all about seeking these days, becoming the one with the mud-smeared eyes, because i want to see what He sees and less of what i think i should be seeing. i want to see Truth, not some misshapen passed-around hat that reeks of foolishness and the sweat of too much doing and not enough peace be still.

and i'm tired of looking around to seeing one closed door after another while the least of these is standing in the middle of the street naked and alone. and so many offended cheeks are turned while the Son of the Most High weeps in harmony with the cries of His beautiful lonely ones.

and so i'm being a tree with magnolia flowers in my hair and reaching out my fingers to the ones with the words i can't even bring myself to type streaked in tears and blood on their faces. i'm reaching out my roots to touch a thousand faces and draw them in where peace abounds.

she was forgiven much
because she loved much.

{a beautiful sister is giving away a piece of her sea, of the mermaid she is within. you can find rain and her beautiful life-giving giveaway here.}

the sacred yes // the sacred no

{via pinterest}

i've been doing so much soul-searching over the past several weeks. my blogger voice has been silent, i know, as i have tried to bring some sort of semblance to my life.

and then rain wrote her soul-prompt on the sacred yes and the sacred no.

and it was then that i realized that my whole life has become a sacred yes. and then, it has been a sacred no at the very same time.

 // By the sacred yes or sacred no I mean that affirmation or negation that comes from a deep place of wisdom and courage, even if it creates conflict or disagreement. The sacred yes is not willful or egocentric, but rather is willing and surrendered. The sacred no is not rebellion or refusal, but always the necessary protecting of boundaries. ~richard rohr 

i am a new mother of two very fragile and breathtaking months that have pressed me beyond what i ever thought possible. on 01 January, 2012, i said "yes" to being brave. twelve days later, i discovered that my yes was more expensive than i ever imagined.

and over and over, since that day when i discovered that my body was no longer my own and that my life would never bee the same again, i heard His voice whispering inside my soul

you gave Me your "yes."

and I have taken it. 

and I will show you beyond your wildest imaginings 

what can happen when you give Me yes. 

{via pinterest}

and my sacred yes has expanded to include much. so, so much.

yes :: i die to myself daily and live in Him for him and for her. 

yes :: i love boldly, even though i know it will one day hurt me beyond my wildest imaginings. 

yes :: i will raise a warrioress in a world where warrioresses are absent and fingers down the throat prevail. 

yes :: i will find my identity in Him. 

and in this journey, i have had to do something that i find so hard, almost horrible, almost impossible to do.

i have had to say no.

no :: i cannot do everything, i cannot please everyone. i must stop or else i will destruct

no :: i need please no one but my Jesus. i am my own, and no mold will contain me

no :: i will no longer chase 50K this year. maybe next, but not now. it is not the time. now is Marian's time.

no :: i will not allow fear or guilt or shame or pressure to cloud me, and in turn, cloud my marriage and my daughter's life.

and in my wrestlings with God, i have become Israel -- no longer Jacob, the usurper of the Throne of my soul. but a new nation of mother and leader and warrioress in my own right. 

passion seeker :: finder

{via pinterest}

but how do you find your passion?

no, really. how do you find your passion?

:: the sacred life of rain

it's a simple question. isn't it?

i'm an artist, a dreamer. i'm a passionate person with overflowing dreams and an electric surge under my skin. but how do i find my passion? 

i feel like my passion hit a wall this week. we had something in our grasp, something i didn't know i wanted quite this badly until it fell apart. it was a home, and it was beautiful and green, and i heard our future in those walls and planned moments in those rooms. 

but then, it went away. and then i wept until my body ached. i was on fire for this dream. 

and now, i feel swayed by this wind that has gushed through my body and whispered i wanted this so bad. and i wailed to my husband,

this is why i don't get excited

and i opened my mouth and dared to wrestle with the Lion like Jacob.

 why? 

i don't understand

why did you let us get this far?

and i sobbed for all the memories that could have been, and i broke for the passion that i would have possessed there. i stared at drab brown and white walls that i am not allowed to paint, and the too-much-stuff that crowds my corners with not even room for an easel, and i felt my passion compressing down into a cube that barely fit in this tiny place. 

i felt squished. i felt grey, like all the colour had been rung out of me. i felt limp and helpless and empty. no more passion, because i left it in the foyer of this perfect dream.

{via pinterest}

:: and so we wrestled, He and i, until the dawn.  

and then somehow, i dried my tears. my soul woke up and looked around this place, this little corner where he and i and soon our daughter have been placed. and i started to see dark bookshelves in a corner, and swooping dark purple fabric hung like bunting from corner to corner in the back room now-turned nursery. 

we went and bought new sheets for the bed. soft gold fabric to match the flowers on our midnight blue bedspread. and we put down the corners and made up the bed with the gold hidden inside until the blanket got pulled back after midnight. 

i slid my body between those sheets and let out a breath that was more of a prayer than a sob. because my passion isn't dead, it isn't gone, and it wasn't left wrapped around the perfect hardwood banister. 

it never left. i just forgot where it was. i didn't have to find it after all, because it was never lost. my focus had just become blurred. my passions aren't controlled by where i am, by what i have, by what i experience. 

they just are. 

they are in a two story dream, and they are here, in a four room canvas that i just haven't been bold enough to embrace. 

they don't need to be found.

they just are. 

sacred rest

i don't rest well.

it's something that truly bothers those who care about me most. i am more than willing to push myself into a wall and just keep going until my face is pressed into the brick and my body is broken from the futility and sheer physical exhaustion. 

i don't comprehend this idea of rest. but oddly enough, it's something i crave. it's also something i fear.

fear has a quiet voice, a grown up kind. and she has something to say, all whispery with promises and barely there:  

::

honey, can you hold on? 
because if you sit with me a while, i will teach you something sacred. 

{the secret life of fear}

i think i fear that the world will stop turning if i don't keep pushing it around and around and around the sun, and then everything will collapse, and it will be my fault. 

and fear and i have not had a chance to sit and talk, because i've been too busy racing in circles. and i haven't been able to hear the sacred whispers. 

and then God decided that i had done enough, that my flailing needed to come to an end. and so He gave me this child, this little one inside my body who drains my energy and leaves me exhausted even after just rising from a nap. 

will you listen to Me now? 

and now i have no choice but to listen. the steaming mug of tea in my hand that sends up those fragrant waves, this is my brand of incense. the tapping of the little feet against my skin from the inside out, these are my meditation drums. 

 and so we converse, God and fear and i. 


about my fears of resting, that my world will stop turning if i sit. about my fears of mothering, that maybe i will break more than i will fix, and that i am not "cut out" for this. 

and fear voices her concerns, and the bigger Voice quiets them before the last breath leaves her mouth. 


it's a cycle, back and forth. and i am content to listen. to be still and know. 

to sip my tea and to soak in the drums that will be of a different style in a few months. i know i will miss them in a way. 

and i will weave feathers into my hair, and i will fearlessly rest. 

kaleidoscope

{via pinterest}

all the colors

of the rainbow

hidden 'neath my skin

::

hearts have colors

don't we all know?

red runs through our veins

::

feel the fire burning up

inspire me with blood

of blue and green

::

i have hope

inside is not a heart

but a kaleidoscope
::
{kaleidoscope heart // sara barielles}

this song has been the soundtrack to my soul since the moment it first passed from my Pandora station into my ears. 

it stuck with me, as things have been doing lately. is it the hormones? is this my soul's version of nesting, perhaps? is my spiritual self starting to line the nest with the softest and most beautiful of things to prepare for what is to come in a mere 13 weeks, if even that long? 

it's certainly become a kaleidoscope pathway for me, as though the granite blocks have suddenly been fitted with some sort of intricate scroll-work that i never noticed before, and all i want to do is stop and study every detail. 

this summer is captivating me. it just started, four days into June and i'm feeling like exploding into peony petals and white picket fences. i want to spend every single day possible barefoot in the grass and dancing down the creek despite my ever-growing belly.

and so i removed the design that i've had for almost a year now, and i made it new. i tweaked and changed and made it fit the changing me. the sacred feminine inside me that i've squished for so long, but am now allowed to peak out of the crevices.

it's become a kaleidoscope of His story, of His breath mixed with the light to swirl and create something ever beautiful and ever changing.

it's sacredness, and it's mine to inhale.

:: deep breath in ::

name-seen

{via pinterest}

we are all soul creatures, made to be seen; we are created to be cradled and tenderly adored. 

:: and yet we tremble at the thought of it ::

{the sacred life of rain}

the above passage from the lips of my bohemian sister have been haunting me since i first read them. i knew they were important, i knew they were resonating with me for a reason. 

i just didn't know why. 

but i do now. because now my warrioress spirit is churning up and my fingers and tangled with grief into thick dark curls and i feel like breaking down into two kinds of weeping. 

once for the joy of truth known.

twice for the agonizing grief of truth kept hidden.

dear Christian women of the world, stop. please, please stop. please put down the measuring cups and brush your hands down your aprons for just a moment, tip your heads back, and cry your name to the skies. i dare you. wherever you are, wail those beautiful syllables from earth to Heaven. your name, the one given by parents, the word known before the creation of the earth. 

the one etched in blood and ink on the pierced palms of the One who died for you, too. 

whoever told you that you had to blend into the woodwork, to be a wallflower and wait with lips pressed together in the silence and shadows...oh, sweet sister, they lied to you. 

because you are seen. and He craves to see you. 

did you know that? 

{via pinterest}

did you know that your name is beautiful and that He speaks it with a smile? have you ever been told that His heart sings when He looks down and sees His daughters with open palms raised to the skies and a warrior-beat thudding between their ribs?

the introverts who peer up from swooping bangs and sing in the silence, the extroverts who leap to bare feet and dance up one aisle and down another. you are warrrioress, and you are too, sister. 

the veil was already torn, dearheart. why do you crave to cling to shredded fabric and hide there with your face shrouded and your eyes down to the stones by your feet. 

He is not down, He is up! He is risen, and you are raised to glory. so tip back those beautiful faces and speak that name to the sky. speak for your daughters, those ones who need a hand to guide them down the bravery path just for now. their feathers are still forming, these dove-daughters, and they need a map to follow. and He made it, and you speak it to their little ears. 

this is truth. open, honest, raw, beautiful truth.

you were made to been seen, to be heard, to be known. 

leap in the meadows and roar with your Daddy Lion. cling to His mane and sing His song at the top of your lungs. 

you were made be to loved this much. 

{linking this warrioress soul prompt with rain and emily}

expectancy

{via pinterest}

i am learning about expectancy.
not the act itself, but rather the level i dare to have.

because i don't have nearly enough, because my Jesus meets His loves at the level of their expectancy. i didn't notice that my tank was brushing e, that i didn't have nearly the amount that He aches for me to have.

the man whose daughter slipped from Earth to death, he begged Him to come and heal, to come and raise. just come, don't linger, just come now.

:: and Jesus went, and raised :: 

the solider who took a knee on dirt path and stone and whispered, "i know the power, i know the authority of a word. speak here, and my servant is healed."

:: and Jesus spoke, there on the road, and healed ::

the woman who bled, and reached out two trembling fingers just to brush against the hem of filthy fabric that composed the Saviour's robe. "if only i can touch, i will be healed."

and Jesus whispered in the pulsing crowd of a thousand fingers, 

:: "who touched Me? power went from Me, and I felt it go." ::

and i do not have her level of expectancy. i do not hold enough. i am the needy child who tugs His arm again and again and cries, "come now, Daddy...can You fix it?"

{via pinterest}

i don't expect enough from Him. i whisper "maybe You can...can You?" i should reach out with two tiny fingers and touch, and know. all i have to do is touch, and He will give.

and so i let the branches of self-doubt and human reasoning twist so that no more hope can seep out. it's just too risky, you see, to expect so much. too much gets lost, too much me gets forgotten, i think.

but oh, and then i realize that light is unconstrained, or else it is darkness. and expectation becomes the knowing, the watching and waiting not with maybe but with will come.

and i let my dreaded soul open, and run, and wail joy and knowing to the skies.

i'm kneeling in the dirt here, barefoot and broken. i'm reaching out for the hem of His robe.

and i know.

daughter rising

{via pinterest}

i forgot what this felt like. to write my heart, i mean. i've been so tired and so worn for so long that these words seemed to have faded from me, illusive like grass on the wind. and as beautiful as they were, they were lovely to watch float away, too.

and so i let them float, maybe a little too long for some, but just long enough for me. because this life within me, this little tiny heartbeat that we have since discovered beats the warrioress rhythm like mine, has been drawing much from me, and leaving little behind.

yes, i am carrying a girl-child. another daughter for the world, another pair of feminine hands for the Kingdom's banner. and all i can do is wrap my arms around my ever growing stomach and whisper

courage, my dearheart

you are not a daughter alone.

i am almost afraid to bring another woman into this world. the burden already placed upon her tiny shoulders almost breaks me down to weeping at every thought. for who knew that so much would be required of innocent eyes and fragile fingers?

rain has told me to blurt. to impulsively speak my heart to the wind. and maybe that's what this is, a blurting out of my heart's overflowing emotion that has been building up and flowing through my veins at a pace too fast and to the tune of some music that i've forgotten that i've missed for weeks. 

{me large with our daughter, 18 weeks}

but this much i know well, and i know strong in my soul.

i will not raise a quiet daughter of sewn-shut lips and discreetly bowed eyes. i will raise an earth-pounder, a piller-shaker, and a battle-crier. 

if she is the gentle warrior, let it be and i will love her. ::

if she is the loudest singer with hands raised to broken clouds, let it be and i will love her.::

 i will not dictate her steps; He has that laid smooth without my desperate attempts to push and prod His mighty Hands. 

her path is on Him, and my smile is on her. 

my Marian Abigail. my evening star, her father's joy. 

my little girl growing. my warrioress rising. my unborn champion, my silent voiced miracle. 

my daughter. his daughter. Aslan's daughter 

love thyself

{via pinterest}

there's a lot of things we're forbidden to do in this life.

as Christians.
as women.
as breathers.

and it's confusing sometimes. the world whispers love thyself to the broken ones, and then the woman who just learned to love herself is covered in whispers and pointed fingers and lowered glances.

then it's broken all over again and the slices are deeper the second time around.

it is too far a step to say that my Jesus weeps when broken ones break again, especially in His house? He's the one that said come to Me, heavyladen ones. for My burden is light...


this makes me want to stomp the ground until my bruised feet bleed and sob for the unborn one dancing against my skin at night. because in barely a breath's time, i will pass a life through fire and water and blood into this world, and this small life will inhale a world that already is out to destroy.

and my little one will grow into this place of love to hate and love again turned to shredded paper scraps of hate that used to spell a love letter from Heaven to parched ground Earth.

and what they will teach my daughter is clucking tongues and judgemental glares if she doesn't quite fit the mold that my Jesus has already stomped into shards of blood-covered glass the day He spread two arms wide and wailed it is finished.

{via pinterest}

and my son will learn from the school of bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks that gentlemen are dead and gone, and men are fighters and not lovers and silently seated when they should be standing on the chairs and beating the pulse of love and respect.

this breaks me down into a pool for my unborn one, for his wife or her husband, and for the ones that came before and the ones that come after.

i want my child to have the words of precious Sarah as their heartbeat rhythm, that i will one day no longer teach but they will live.

we are thumping along with you, out here in the world [soon], reminding you that you are fearfully and wonderfully made. 

and you have a voice and a reason for being. you have a future and a hope. 

know who you are, small [one], and when you forget, we'll remind you.

:: in which i write a letter... // sarah styles bessey :: 

and so i will find my place on my knees tonight, with the music playing in the background and the candles flickering around the darkened midnight room. heartbeat thudding love yourself, little one. 

because i love you. 

and He does too. 

why sacred :: relationship

if you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you will have noticed my fervency for the sacred, my new and hounding pursuit of holiness that has taken over my life in recent months. i've turned my attention toward seeking Him in everything, every breath and every step. finding Him in the rubble as well as in the consecrated.

but that has not sat well with everyone.

i've heard from several different people in my life that what i'm doing is dangerously false and far from His truth. because sacred is in the Church, in the Word, and in the ordained.

isn't that right?

that was last week. and i felt something start to spin off-center in my heart.  wasn't this what He was telling me to do? wasn't i going His way, following His pull?

was i wrong? 

and this week, this video appeared. i saw it posted here and there, on one friend's wall, and then another's twitter. and then i clicked play. and i sobbed.

because it was my answer to these careless-flung words from one broken heart to another. because we've knocked His hands off the cross and hid the bloodstains under the carpet. we've repainted His face and highlighted mismatched sections of the Word until the sacred has been turned into stigma.

it's not a museum for good people

it's a hospital for the broken.

religion says do.

Jesus says done

religion says slave

Jesus says son

and this was my answer to the questions and the controversy. and i felt ashamed of myself, because this should have been my answer all along. 

and i cannot thank Him enough. because this is what i've been trying to say, and couldn't form. 

and so i find myself clutching brave again, like a drowning solider with just a scrap of fight left, unwilling to surrender. no more making Him small because it fits better. He isn't supposed to fit, after all, but change. 

when He said it is finished

i believe that He meant it.

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. 

Not

When you come to the end of all the light you know and it’s time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly. ~Edward Teller

I am utterly tired of being defined by what I am supposed to be...

...who am I am as a woman, as a Christian, as a sister or daughter or wife or friend.

Everyone else has an idea of what I should be, who I should be, and what I should eventually become.

My heart regarding this was pushed over the edge by this post written by my beautiful blogging sister, Rain.

I will no longer be defined by what I am not.

Because I am NOT so many things.

I am not a falcon. I am a sparrow in His hand, just learning to fly.

I am not a messy apartment or a pile of unsorted papers. I am an eclectic artist with a head full of life.

I am not a mountain climber. I am a kitten, putting out a paw to ascend a sapling.

I am not a lion. I am a lamb learning to roar.

I am not silent. I am a fighter learning to be a lover.

I am not a perfect friend. I am a shoulder on which to cry, and a heart with which to laugh. And I am here for you.

I am not June Cleaver, with coiffed hair and perfect pot roast. I'm my own definition of a domestic goddess and housewife...because I can only be me, as it is.

I am not the owner of a college degree. I am a self-educated woman who lets the King direct her pen.

I am not rational. I am a dreamer, un-caged and full of faith.

I am not a size 2 blonde-hair supermodel. I am a size 12 brunette with uneven green eyes, and I am beautiful.

I am not perfect.

I will never be perfect.

I am striving. I am learning. I am growing.

That is all I can ever be, all I can ever do.

Because I am His...

...and He loves me

arms spread this much

this way.

Certain thoughts are prayers.  There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees.  ~Victor Hugo