rising wild

i am a rare creature. i am a thing of wonder, a thing of push and pull and inhale exhale repeat repeat without even thinking.

it's the little and the simple parts of me combining to create something greater, something that even i cannot explain. something glorious and dangerous and precious that pushes on the edges of the world and reaches past to twist among the stars.

"'you,' he said, 'are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world 

and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain.'"

:: emilie autumn 

but that's what growth is. it's pain, it's the push of life to emerge from beneath the thick rich-scented earth to burst through green and bright and full of promise.

a friend wrote two Aramaic words that rang in my soul for days after. talitha cumi. and i couldn't help but ponder these words and the Man that said them soft into the ear of a little girl whose breath had left her altogether. and then it came back. because He spoke it so. 

and that is the power of the cry of arise spoken by the One who vanquished storms with a word. they were simple words, familiar to the ear but strung together in a way that was far more foreign than it ought to be. it sinks wonder into my heart, but why? why should life returning at the word of the Son be anything but expected, but known, but anticipated with bated breath?

so i tie a string around my finger and remember.

this world is not where i belong, my hunger is for another place. a place where the wild and the wonder are the common and the expected, where the wind is the Breath of the Most High and the sun pales in the light of the One who spoke before time was ever born.

because i am the wild one, the daughter of more than grace, but of Water and Bread and Blood. a rare thing, a real thing.

bursting.
questing.
:: rising

{a writer's prayer}

{via pinterest}

if my heart has one ambition

if my soul one goal to seek

this my solitary vision:

'till i only dwell in Thee. 

:: hymn // brooke fraser ::

to the Lover of my soul, the Authour of my story, 

i'm walking a calling, something You gave me. something You pressed into my hands the moment before You sent me earth-bound and whispered, remember to use this. 

and now i use it, or at least, i'm trying. i'm grasping at napkins and ink pens, whatever my fingers can find to  etch the words that stir like snow in the wind behind my eyes. 

so here i am, on my knees with words piling up around me. 

please. 

hear my exhale.

guide my hand to write the Glory

guard my soul to write the Right

grip the pen when i'm too weak to do it myself. 

let my words be mighty, let my words be Yours.

the worlds i invent, the lives i create, may they be filled with Your Light 

and so here i am, just as i am, ink-stained hands raised up. because oh Lord Jesus, i am scared. there is transparency here, the see-through openness that somehow seems to bleed onto the pages. and i am laying myself bare, the deep parts, the aching and beautiful parts. the Glory visible can lead to pain.

this is trusting You with all of me, every corner, even the dust. 

::amen. 

so be it.