the fourth page :: peace in glory

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i almost didn't blog today. between packing our suitcases for the yearly family vacation and attempting to get my Christmas-tousled house in order, time for reflection was pushed too far behind. the press and crush of time almost did me in again.

it's a flaw i have, letting time overwhelm and to-do lists dictate my sitting and my standing and my breathing and my living. i forget to stop and rest.

silent night. oh holy night. 

behold your King

for all this crush that spells the mas where it should be Christ, we forget that there was no pomp and circumstance to herald the entrance of Christ, as God and man blended into the mystery of one flesh. 

it was as silent as a birth can be. 

there was no cluster of red carpet admirers, no throngs of people with anxious hearts and fingers stretched out to caress the cheek of this Saviour child. there was a frightened virginal couple, not even a midwife to attend them. there were animals gathered around in the stone shelter where the Prince of Peace was born, with dung and straw and nothing but strips of cloth in which to wrap the Son of the Most High. 

she called Him Emmanuel. God with us. 

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do you feel this like i do? 

:: God with us ::

:: God with us ::

:: God with us ::

and this woman, this new mother -- even a child herself -- treasured each one of these things deep within her heart. there was silence that flowed purely alongside the angelic chorus of oh, glory, glory, glory. and on earth, peace.

oh, behold your King. 

hail, hail, the Word made flesh.

so we celebrate, and we gather. 

but last night was that moment in this holiday season for me. that moment when our church was silent, save for the flickering of two hundred lit candles in the darkness, and two hundred voices rose to greet this God-made-man. 

oh, come, let us adore Him.

we'll praise Your Name forever.

oh, behold your King.

art :: haven :: soul

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it's amazing how things change in the space of a morning.

from simple to grateful to glory in one watercolour stroke.

but today is artist's day. so i find it fitting, in a way, that everything becomes fluid on a day like this. a day when we take a moment to acknowledge the phoenix of art.

because we have stories. artists, you and i together. is it so strange that some paint with words and others write with brush and fervour on the canvas? but we're just the same.

art is the celebration of imperfection.

to dance, to sing, to paint, to write to compose. on the canvas of paper, wood, air, and skin.

:: it's embracing imperfection ::

it's all skin art. it's safely slicing a vein and letting it flow onto surfaces that abound in number. it's different for us all.

some find refuge in the studio with paint-streaked hair and eyes that whisper images that they conceive and birth to the world. others seek the solace of wooden floors and muted lighting and their feet and lips that move in tandem.

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we need this, you see.

it's our haven. 

it's the dangled dreadlocks where we tuck our secrets, the moments of silence that create a masterpiece that speaks volumes to this universe.

it's that place where we sit, hands down and eyes turned up. the place where we sit with the Savior like little ones with fingerpaints and sticks of wax and charcoal, where His hand wraps around ours and we create with the measure of soul and love that only the Great Artist could impart.

do you see what we are?
we're clay thrown on the wheel that turns and throws a vessel itself.

we're the glorifiers. the prisms. the image-catchers.

we're the created turned artists.

every poet and musician and artist, but for grace, is drawn away from love of the things he tells to love of the telling... ~c.s. lewis

thanks in the strings

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i almost didn't blog today.

it's the day after Thanksgiving, and i still feel weary from the length of the day and the busy swirl of family and laughter and oh, so much food.

normally, this is the day of five minute fridays with the gypsy mama. but somewhere between my waking and my resting, i have forgotten everything.

this thing of gratitude -- eucharisteo -- this instrument that i grip between my unquestioning fingers, knowing each twist and curve of the smoothly polish wood...

...it's familiar. i can speak of it with knowledge, share with others in times of need and emotion, feeling truth spring to my lips in the appropriate time.

but somewhere during the year, the violin finds a place in the back of my closet. the curving head cracks from lack of caresses.

i rationalize within my ever-hardening heart

it's only to protect the music 

to make this thing more precious in the 

right time.

and so i forget until the fourth Thursday in November. and then the sheet music lays on the stand again, and my fingers trace the familiar strings so that the music kisses the air again.

my soul floods then, with recollection and resolution to not let things go as they were before, to always dwell in the miracle of gratefulness. 

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but then comes the conflict that only family closeness can bring. there is some sort of push and pull that eventually tears the music and sends the bow crashing to the floor.

and the music dies 

unfinished. 

is this what i want? year after year after year of the same old broken dance, the same old shattered moments that never reach the finish line?

because each sour note hurts His ears. 

i slap His face when i withhold my thanks.

 when i play my own frenzied melody on broken instruments that no longer hold value. 

there is nothing so great in holding onto all my grateful thoughts until a certain day, and then letting them pour out like water onto the parched ground. 

where is the blessing here?

i refuse to touch the finale's score. i will live in the now, in the yesterday and the tomorrow.  

these melodies. 

these drops of eucharisteo. 

abounding {129-141}

{your first sneak-peak at the wedding photos}

on this morning, my cup overflows.

i cannot even begin to express the condition of my heart as the Floridian sun caressed my cheek this morning, reminding me that my time to return has come.

i don't want to leave this place.

this place of love and connection and some of the most precious people that dwell in this world.

and even in the midst of all the stress and rushing that has flooded my path this week,

the blessings have been innumerable.

• 129. ocean breezes and the crash of waves

• 130. the sight of a fresh and pure bride stepping down the sand toward a glowing groom with handkerchief blindfolded, awaiting her touch on his shoulder, to turn and to see her for the first time.

• 131. the tears on a mother's face as her daughter steps from child to woman

• 132. laughter.

• 133. swing dancing in the ocean waves as waves soak our skirts and the sunset kisses our lips and eyes. 

• 134. secret smiles and inside jokes

• 135. the reassuring and loving caress of a woman whom i call Mama

• 136. my best friend, now a wife, as she sobs into my shoulder with so many smiles. this day was perfect for us both.

• 136. love. the love of family. of friends. of man and wife. of 35 people gathered together. it was overwhelming. 

• 137. the ordaining hand of God, bringing each moment together in the most perfect of ways.

• 138. His provision. His promises are sure. 

• 139. aching sides and streaming eyes as laughter echos from the bridal party's throats among the sandy dunes

• 140. returning home when the time is right.

• 141. knowing that i am loved, knowing that i am wanted and treasured. 

my list is endless this morning. i could write for hours. His grace is so much sufficiency for me

and so i board a plane and journey home. and i will weep as i kiss my second family goodbye. 

but for everything there is a season. a time to come, and a time to go.

and this has been my time

 of blessings never ending.

{linking as always with Ann this morning. this blessings are growing greater}