trying on shoes

{via pinterest}

i'm walking a mile in your shoes. it's a hard thing to do. it's stepping out of the comfortable, away from the familiar and the normal.

but it's something we've forgotten to do, even as Christians. our greatest commandment is love Him with everything, the inhale and exhale, the lightbeams from the ends of our fingers and from each strand of hair. 

but that second one. why do we have so much trouble? 

love your neighbor ::

and don't try to ask the question the man at the fire asked, the one i'm never sure if it's heartfelt sincere or hesitating sarcasm. i can almost see that gentle look in His eye, the one that i'm sure that He wears often. the look of sorrow, the unspoken, 

oh child, can't you see Me? 

because 

your neighbor is everyone.

it is those that we have made untouchable, unlovable. the wallflowers and the window-washers. the soiled doves, the bastard sons.because the noblemen sat at the table with upturned noses and gags held back in the throat at the distaste, at the horror, at what kind of woman was touching Him. and He reached down and touched her back. 

i'm aching at this church, this city on a hill turned smudgy and dark because we're content with only tending to the pretty candles and letting the other ones burn out alone. 

He washed their feet. down on His knees, a servant Messiah, He took off their shoes and got their dirt on His hands. 

so i'm trying on your shoes, and my toes are a little squished in some and my feet too tiny for others. and my eyes are adjusting to seeing through your lenses for just a minute. because i want to understand what He did. i want to see your world through your eyes, through His eyes. 

i want to stop in the street because i felt the power. 

someone touched me.

{linking early with emily to celebrate LOVE}

eyes reprised

{via pinterest}

my obsession with eyes is no secret.

there's something so drawing // stirring // hypnotic about these orbs that peer from beneath curling lashes. there are stories there, just waiting to be read like books with unfurled pages.

eyes are the windows to the soul, the candles of the body. these are His words, though i wish they were mine, too.

but then i started gazing at the closed books, marveling at the covers.

don't judge a book by its cover

but then again, do. 

because the covers tell a lot, even if you aren't supposed to see. 

closed eyes are the covers of the books still shut. someone has to open them. there has to be an invitation.

read me. 

study me. 

just hear me. 

there's more to seeing than open eyes and mutual glances. 

you know that, right? 

those open eyes are even stares, level gazes begging and pleading for you to understand this language, to be a translator to their hidden stories and whispered memories. 

but the closed eyes, the downcast gazes to the dirt and grime of the path...do you realize we ignore them, shuffling past because we don't want to intrude, to infiltrate their silence. 

they must like it there. 

but these, oh, these are the least of these. these are the ones to whom He turned and whispered

neither then do I condemn you.

so there's more to read than just the pages. 

there are paintings atop these closed lids. the lashes are their bolted gates. and my soul craves to reach out to the downtrodden.

because He spoke those words to me, the weary one.

come unto Me

heavy-laden child

and I will give you rest. 

Fingertips

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restored and sorrows end.

~William Shakespeare

I have been blessed with amazing friends.

It blows my mind sometimes.

Even in the busy crush of life, the dramatic push of overwhelming emotion, and the shatterglass of confusion that makes up every day of human existence, I have people in my life who take the time to remind me that I'm more than just another nameless face in the crowd.

There come those moments where the ocean waves threaten to push me right off the edge of the cliff...that one pivotal disappointment that makes my once-sure footing suddenly feel like I'm balancing on thin air.

...and it's then, when I'm unable to stop myself from toppling headlong into emptiness...

...it's then that I feel your hand catch mine.

Sometimes, it's your whole hand -- a long conversation until 2:15 in the morning even when you know that you have to get up to work the next morning at 5am...taking my hand and dragging me onto the dance floor for no better reason than I'm sitting on the sidelines...discussing Jane Austen over Pad Thai and hot coffee on a late night, cross-country phone call...spending hours strolling around an amusement park, catching up on three years of moments...

Other times, it's just your fingertips that grip mine and pull me up -- the brush of your lips against my cheek when I'm crying...the feeling of your ankle draping over mine during a moment when I'm confused...a simple text message or wall post that says "I love you" or "Wish you were here"...that simple, wordless hug when both our worlds are shattering from the inside out...

At those times, I realize that it's your fingertip moments are the ones that stick with me the longest.

The ones that mean the most.

The ones that changed my life.

There is [a] friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self, the very meaning of one's soul. ~Edith Wharton