broken lines // mosaic

{via pinterest}
artist unknown. if you know, share it with me? 

i couldn't pass this one by.

not when my entire life has been broken from the start, and not when my passion is reaching out the broken ones and tucking them in close against me.

we've been made to think that broken is a bad thing, something to be ashamed of, to coil around and huddle in the darkness. but being broken makes mosaics, those little intricate lines and cracks that make up the letters into words of our own deep stories.

being broken hurts. it's not something anyone wants. we don't set out each day wonder, oh, how might i break today? :: but maybe we should.

i hate being broken. but it's not a shame thing. i'm pulling back the cover on my heart, the thick woolen blanket wound around my shoulders and whispering to each of you, come here, dearheart. let's sit together and put it all together.

it's what sisterhood is all about, taking the bits and showing the bright Light that gleams from between each little crack. it's what the Lion does best, breathing soft Life onto hearts and watching them mend, but leaving the soft marks behind.

and the Pharassees chant, "all you need is Jesus. but then, you need this...and this...and this thing too..." and the milestone hangs heavy and all you can do is collapse.

no dress code or stand up sit down or running away from the shadows. because He's in the shadows.

He's in the Light. He's in the dark. 

:: He IS.

the marks are art, lines of ink on the page. they speak of a greater story, a deeper grace. they show that you are strong, wandering through fire but held tender and close. it's stepping off the cliff and standing on air, hovering gentle on Lion's breath.

{linking five minutes of unedited "broken" writing at lisa-jo's today.}

craving space

i am craving my own space.

ever since we lost the dream house, the place in which we are tucked now has seemed to slowly be closing in around me. it's begun to feel smaller than it every had before.

i find myself sitting at the kitchen table with my art, merging paint and canvas with dishes and bank statements. it is not my space, it is collective space but not in a communal artist way. it in shared in a life way, a way that doesn't ever stop but simply moves around me. and sometimes, it feels like it is slowly pushing my artistic spirit down the nearby garbage disposal.

mermaids crave the ocean, the wide and the open, the salty spray and the peace of the selah-crashing waves. i am landlocked, in more ways that one, with the nearest water being bottled and chilling in the fridge.

and maybe that is why i have grieved the loss of this house so deeply, in a way that almost seems like a part of my physical self had fled. it has been a rending, a true exploration into that word that has become far stronger than i could have ever anticipated :: release. 

art has become something powerfully present in my life in recent months, especially as my own faith journey has taken unexpected twists and turns. it's that demolition, as my husband calls it, the breaking down of all i once knew save for the foundation of the Lion to whose shimmering mane i cling. i'm relearning the sacred, finding my soft Psalmist voice again. it's release. 

:: and even in the crush, releasing myself might be part of the grand scheme of the things after all. 

because i'm past the point of being able to find a corner of my own in this tiny little place we currently and i reluctantly call home. though home is where your heart is, and my loves are here. so this is home. i am creating in the midst of our life, where the Light shares between my ink and paper pages and the aromas of home-cooked food and laundry soap.

and so i'm laying out the brushes and opening the journal, a new blank page in the middle of my worship place at the kitchen table. i light a candle and exhale the holiest of God-Light to the tune of stillness in the midst of the household busyness. i'm learning how to find my warrioress self amid the pulsing thrum of vacuums and pasta water boiling.

finding my space which i crave so desperately.
even if it means this mermaid swims {for now} in the kitchen sink.

{linking with dear emily for imperfect prose}

three things // repost

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sometimes i want to write what i feel. i want to take what i see and do the undone and fix the unfixed and light the snuffed candle all over again. but then i look and i say, do i even see? do i even know anything?

and so i take my pen and my paper and my too-many thoughts and i sit and i wonder just what might happen if i knew something, anything at all.

i watch the people, feet on pavement and pavement on feet. and i realize what i know.

i know three things, because sarah kay says good things come in threes, and she's right, after all.

:: i know that light kills the dark ::

and when you're walking in the dark and there's nothing but a match in your pocket, it's a good thing to know. and when you're walking in the Night and there's nothing but a verse in your mind reminding to be still and know that I AM...it's a good thing to know.

:: i know that art is the voice even when it never speaks ::

i know that sometimes the silence of a paintbrush screams SEE ME and the whisper of just one wavering note in the empty concert halls cries I CAN DO THIS AFTER ALL and the raised arm on a stage is the salute to all things undone and all things done over and over and done well.

:: i know that mystery is just that, and it's okay to not know ::

i know that knowing is part of the battle, and when you don't know what you know that it can crush and scare and be unsure. but it's okay to have a mystery that you don't understand.

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and it's okay to let Him be the mystery of Love and Flesh and Man and God all in one small infant bundle, growing up up up to be Death and Life and Salvation and Water and Broken Bread with Wounds that Heal.

that is what i know. no more shaking ground for i stand on What, on Who i know. because i write what i feel and i feel what i know. and i know Him and little else. but that's power, okay? that Light is more than enough. that Water is more than enough.

because i know these things. Him and Him only. everlasting, time over time, from age to age.

Alpha and Omega, You answer. because You know

more than three things. 

{this is a slightly edited re-post from this post from December 2011

linking this renewal with emily today}

sparrow maps

sometimes life becomes about the push and the shove. it's impossible to avoid, as much as i wish as i could burrow down into the silence and inhale the sweetness of rest into my lungs. but instead, there's smog in the air, and it's heavy and there's traffic here and there and everywhere. 

and sometimes i feel upside down and i've forgotten how to straighten myself out. and that expression "pulling my hair out" becomes reality as the brush rakes that little bit too rough in the effort of working the knots out of my soul from where the footprints left their marks. 

looking around, i realize that i've been tying knots in other souls too. because i can't always keep my mouth shut, and i leave crater-holes where i've ripped love out by the roots and left gaping bleeding patches in my wake. and the ones i love hold hands to their hearts to keep what little i left behind, because i'm brutal in myself. 

you are a box with fragile written on it, 

and so many people have not handled you with care. 

and for the first time, I understand that I will never know 

how to apologize for being one of them. 

:: Shinji Moon

we all have the books, the pages worn around the edges from the turn and turn and turn and the press of the ink against every line. we have scrawled our lives there in our own secret language made of whispers and moments. we have a map tattooed in invisible ink on our palms and sometimes we just run out of compass points to decypher. it's hard work to walk alone, after all.

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i think that's why we raise our hands so often in that moment of emptiness. He already knows the road, but it's okay to remind Him where we are, because He likes to be asked. and my palms are bleeding from the twisting and the wringing and the clawing. and so my hands go up with a soft sob of oh Abba, i don't know anymore.

and that's when the drums of brave start to their thudding, their sweet heart-beating glory finding the cadeance of love and light and forgiveness. and i'm going to hum so sweetly of sparrows under my breath, because if He sees them, He sees me. 

it takes an ocean not to break

hums birdy

and she's right. 

but for me, i'm resting on the hands of the One who soothed the waves to glass-calm and dove into the depths of fire to remind me that i am worth more than the scars on my arms would lead me to believe. i am seen by the One-Who-Sees, and i've said it a thousand times, but one more time is needed, i think. 

i sing because i'm happy

i sing because i'm free

His eye is on the sparrow

and i know He watches me.

drumbeat :: magnify

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a precious breather occurred this weekend. i was going to apologize for not blogging in two days, but i'm refraining.

i'm honestly not sorry. 

i love this place i'm in right now. it's a breathing place, a place where Light overwhelms and rest is finally accepted.

it's a dancing place, a place of scarves and bells and so much leaping to the music of glory as this soul magnifies again and again.

this year is barely twenty-two days old. and it's already the best year of my life. perhaps a cliche, a redundancy that everyone speaks in moments of joy. but this is more than this heart can bear.

:: i'm pregnant ::

these are words i still struggle to speak because of their newness and the awe that accompany their presence against my tongue. as the weeks are ticking by and my exhaustion is deepening and my appetite for every food in sight grows, i also start to smile broader. as this little one gets bigger within me, i cannot help but magnify.

:: i'm going to Europe ::

i'm boarding a plane to Germany and Prague with my little sister in April. i still am in utter awe to the point of falling to my knees with elation and wonder. in a matter of hours it went from maybe to impossible to official, and this trip is now in the middling stages of planning. and again, i magnify.

my soul doth magnify the Lord

and my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour. 

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there are times when i feel that my level of blessings overflow above and beyond anything i could have ever anticipated.

and then in the moments of darkness when hope seems barely fingertips from reach, i remember this.

these dancing moments where glory brushes the earth and i find myself streaking cheeks with earth in lines of warrior paint and the drums of pounding hearts set the beat for my soul to leap.

oh, i am brave, soul doors thrown open to let the sun warm the broken corners.

oh praise Him.

:: EDIT :: Europe has fallen through. and though my heart broke all afternoon and tears flowed like water, i am still rejoicing. because there is something here for me, something to which i should cling. and home is where i should be now, i see. and i am still magnifying. 

big picture details

this is one of those days that i wished i painted.

because this day has been a canvas already flooded with too much colour for one heart to bear.

it took a distant voice down a telephone to soothe a frazzled soul like mine when batteries stop working and computers become electronic nightmares. when the sweet woman with the tender voice soothed the tears of this flustered pregnant woman, i felt a embrace from Heaven.

this entire day, these few hours that i have been awake from a sleep of strange dreams and tangled thoughts, i have had a reminder that it's okay to focus on the little lines instead of the bold strokes for a change.

because it's hard to see the forest for the trees and the trees for the leaves and the veins for all the big picture being pressing against our noses.

and sometimes we need to look past the image in the stained glass window and let the colours swirl over skin.

because it's not always about do.

:: it's about be :: 

and even He whispers of the simple things, like love and hope and grace and brave. do we forget that He knows, that He lived like us and stepped in our path? that He wrote the story and already has the ending etched on His palms?

most of all

let love be your guide

and so i'm not looking at my computer with the broken battery that i cannot unplug for lack of power. i'm looking at the pools of glory in the wood between my worlds of chaos and Light.

and more moments of barefoot wading, and sacred moments of colour and peace.

brave :: oneword 2012

my word scares me. 

it's not brash or strong or resilient.

it's not the one i anticipated, or the one i would have chosen. 

it's not fearless or determined or radiant. 

it's brave. 

i obsess over strength. weakness is something that terrifies me. wouldn't i want to be something gripping, something changing that would shake the world's foundations? 

but this is a shaker, in His way. because this world is made of rock and ice. it's fearless or nothing.  courage has been left roadside, ached to be forgotten. 

because courage isn't fearless. courage is being afraid, and standing. 

and i want to dig roots down deep into the soil at the foot of the Cross and wind this vine around the blood-stained wood. 

because i'm seeking courage, and i'm seeking strong found only in Him. 

courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; 

courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.  

:: winston churchill ::

so 2012 will not be a year of squelched fears, but of eyes met and courage found in the sacred corner. 

it will not be a year of silence, of bound tongues and captive hands, but of freedom and voice in the darkness. 

it will be a year of new. 

a one-worded year of Light, of sacred touch and inhaling glory from lungs to tongue-tip and back again. 

2012, a year of brave.

to live is the rarest thing. most people just exist, that’s all.

// oscar wilde //

final notes :: in review

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tomorrow is 2012. 

honestly, it's hard for me to believe that another year is so close. i can almost feel the smoothness of the chalkboard, that clean slate that lurks so near. it's refreshing. 

this year has been remarkable. 

and you've blessed me. 

and life has changed for the sacred, for the beautiful. 

i'm humbled to be surrounded by such incredible brothers and sisters as you, once strangers turned beloved friends who have held my hand as this year has tossed and turned. in the beauty, we celebrated. and in the darkness, we held up the candleflames. 

it has been a year of Light in this place. a year of drawing closer. 

and so, here they are. 

:: the ones that blessed you ::

woman 

//

we need more than our silent allotments of stand and sit and worship and listen and nothing more than this. we crave Him. we ache to go deeper. we want to search His will and see His heart and wrestle with Him in hand-to-hand until we find ourselves undone and exposed before Him. because He chose us too. 

grace alone

//

i am walking on Grace alone.

Sometimes, I find myself at a loss for how much poetry I dream and then promptly forget upon my waking.

It is a powerful ache to realize just how much this world of chaos, of tears, of sleep-stolen moments and overbooked days has ripped my art from me.

dreaded souls :: imperfection

//

if He makes all things new, all things good, all things beautiful -- then this i ache to emulate. i want to follow in His footsteps, stepping down the path with the ambition to dwell in His mercies
to make all things beautiful. to take my imperfections and make them into Art.
to make them dreaded. 

ink of wait

//

the three years worth of familial well-meaning words cut like the lies mixed with truth that they are...because really i'm not wasting anything.

why don't i go? i'm not called.

but i have wasted nothing.

this is rebirth, i would say. and it's painful.

three things

//

and so i take my pen and my paper and my too-many thoughts and i sit and i wonder just what might happen if i knew something, anything at all.
i watch the people, feet on pavement and pavement on feet. and i realize what i know.
i know three things, because sarah kay says good things come in threes, and she's right, after all.

:: :: :: 

i cannot thank you enough. the blessings that you have poured over my head like anointing oil in this past year has been more than i can understand.

it's been a walk into sacredness, toward gripping the hem of the Son of the Most High. a walk into adventure, hand in hand with my Abba.

it's been the vigil of death with candles lit and joy coming fresh in the morning. it's been a path with more stones than i expected, and more joys than i could even fully pen.

be blessed in 2012, dearhearts. 

{also, for those of you that have been following my OneWord journey here and here, i have found my word. 

tomorrow, it will breathe. and it will begin. 

so much gratitude for all your prayers and all your blessings.}

illusive

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i feel illusive.
like wind on pavement or dust in darkness.

it's there, and i know it's there. it's fact.
but i feel like it's invisible, like secrets

it's my word for 2012.

down to four days and still only silence. i've sat with Bible open and candles lit and tea cup steaming with fragrance, and i've listened. but this lack of noise, this time of peace, has only led to my heart being filled and peace on white feathers roosting in my soul.

but it's been precious.

because want can sometimes translate to need in that language that only souls speak.  it's one of those mystery, known but unknown. the way Light shines the brightest when there is none and the way words that don't leave the lips can sometimes be the most beautiful.

you are not bound to loss and silence.
for you are not bound to the circles of this world.
all things must pass away,
all life is doomed to fade…
 :: and yet you are not without hope ::

// breath of life :: howard shore //

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so i'm still wordless. and i'm not rushing it anymore. i'm going to sit and breathe in the tea steam. i'm going to inhale this invisible Glory called grace and dance in the swirl of dustmotes in a sunbeam.

because it will come, just as He promised me it would in that night when He whispered

we will choose, you and I, dearheart. 

i'm rooted in that hill where death was trampled and the Word prevailed and veils tore from sacred top to bottom.

it's a beautiful sort of turbulance, the kind found when storms are settling and everyone feels it deep inside. the wind is hard, but slowing. the rain is tossing, but sweet.

and so i seek. and i wait. because when the word comes, and i know it will, it will be that sweet perfume after a cleansing rain.

it will be worth the wait.

ink smears

do you know what it's like to hear the voice say

flip the pages and flow

but to have no idea what the flow means? black and white in sunless nights without the urge to fight anymore?

did i forget my passion once again, like the strummer with the broken strings who forgot how to sing in the night we mentioned before?

it's battlescars from movie stars who pinch invisible rolls and wail "i'm fat" and nothing can heal that but reality.

and it's hard to get past that when the mirror speaks lies and the world speaks water for truth but the reality is wine, but we tossed it out with the trash because we counted the calories on the back.

do we remember who we are? 

the chosen people with broken telescopes that won't look past tattoos and high heeled shoes and conceiling black robes that leave everything to the imagination?

we forgot our before with empty shores of seashell glass and glassy eyes and one footprint where two would have failed.

because it's nothing we can done alone. because silence is okay, but pushing the door shut and crying don't let anyone see, don't let anyone in

i feel more broken when i turn my back to Him.

because He already sees, and it's broken hearts that He heals and tattered scrapbooks that paint His portrait when we couldn't even see the road.

so black and white is okay, i think, in the long run when all we have is the sun at our back and the Son at the front where the ink flows and we can acknowledge our broken pieces.

so pick up your pen, dusty traveller,

the dawn is here and the ink is flowing.

{linking imperfection with emily}

breathing phoenix rain

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sometimes i wonder just what i am. i wonder if all this writing i do ever amounts to anything, if all it will ever do is sit in the recesses of my computer.

every time i read over my old work -- those worlds of my own creation, those characters whom i love like pieces of myself -- i wonder if anyone will ever see them, ever treasure them like i do.

and if they did see, would they love? or would my mountain become their molehill, lost in translation and unconveyed in their importance to me, to the world?

this fear almost cripples me. it's almost enough to jerk my words from me into darkness and shut the light tight on all my aspirations.

but without words

i wouldn't be able to breathe. 

not really. because see, that's what He gave me. to some He gave song, and to some He gave paint, and to others He gave a stand.

but i received words. He poured them into my soul, wove my spirit from ink and parchment and inspiration that i have yet to fully uncover. and He begs me

be writer, dearheart.

be this thing I made you to be. 

:: be writer ::

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and so i keep writing. not for money or fame or any sort of plans set in stone.

but for love. 

only for love. 

and in this darkness, in the silence of night, my fingers grasped something and held on tightly. and i set my fingers to paper, and the ashes parted to reveal that which was hidden.

phoenix rain.

right now, there is so little. but it's enough to pull at me. for love, for wings, for future and dreams.

i have my breath. my paint, my canvas.

my story. 

her story. 

:: His story ::

all together now.

{unwrapping this glory today with emily}

the first

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i can hardly believe that today is the first of December.

each time a new month comes around, i sit back and ponder where i've come from, and where i'm going. december is the month that draws the most contemplation, the deepest inhales, the quietest dwellings.

it's my favourite, if i'm being the most honest.

because it's the start of the end, after all.

there's a freshness in realizing that we're so close to crossing our toes from one full year to a brand-new empty canvas.

this artist embraces that, swims in the paint that could become 2012, if i let it free.

december holds much. we start the anticipation today. children tug sleeves with knitted mittens and squeal

Christmas is coming

there is an innocence with december, a newness even though the year is crammed to brimming behind our backs. it's like the closet door that slowly swings closed on the year, cluttered or organized, because the door must close eventually. there are new ones to open, after all.

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that's what awakens my soul in this twelfth month. the countdown to Christ's coming is made so much more real as we hang small figures or read pages from special books, lighting the candles and murmuring

come quickly, Lord Jesus. 

:: Advent Sundays become Advent everydays :: 

so cue the instrumental music that leaves room for the soul to sing its own words at the close. because that's the best we can do, the greatest gift we can give Him, is to let our souls compose His song.

i'm tossed in Light now. in soul now. i'm sitting with my King, legs dangling over the edge as we speak together in the silence.

we're choosing words, my Jesus and i. we're making our preparations with joy, counting down the moments until the start.

and so with anticipation, we begin the final measures of this two-thousand-and-eleventh symphony. the ending is the prelude, the expectation building toward Glory.

i'm elated to discover now. and forever.

:: dreaded souls :: imperfection

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i've fallen in love with dreadlocks.

i'm not sure when this attraction began, when i first felt the pull toward these tangled twists of hair. i wasn't anticipating to have my heart transformed by a styling of hair.

but dreadlocks have woven themselves into my soul, this thing of turning hair into art, of pushing boundaries in the safest ways.

i associate them with artists, with canvas-breathers and word dancers. those curls that brush against the cheek of the bowed head over djembes and battered acoustic guitars.

there's something rich and so flooded with soul when art and dreads combine, a portrait in itself. it's ink swirling onto wood, it's light pouring through the window panes and casting colour and shadow everywhere.

it's unintentional art turned into powerful intention

 maybe i love them, these dreadlocks, because they're me.

is that too much, to compare myself to a style of freedom and tangled beauty that i can never fully comprehend?

who imagined such beauty could ever come from this? who invented this Light?

a tangle of smoothness, taking something once simple, twisting up into a complicated simplicity that changes souls as well as faces. it's imperfection, and it's beautiful.

and that's art. 

all on its own. 

and i've fallen in love.

and He who sit on the throne said, "see, I am making all things new." and He said, "write, for these words are faithful and true."

i may never have dreadlocks of my own. they aren't something my Love appreciates, being one who takes pleasure in my smooth hair.

but my soul is dreaded. 

i'm bound to embrace this imperfection that follows my feet. why would i not breathe it in, accept these imperfections and make them beautiful.

if He makes all things new, all things good, all things beautiful -- then this i ache to emulate. i want to follow in His footsteps, stepping down the path with the ambition to dwell in His mercies

to make all things beautiful. to take my imperfections and make them into Art.

to make them dreaded.

{linking imperfection with emily today}

gratitude via canvas {183-190}

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this weekend has been soul-stirring.

i wish i could open the shutters of my heart wide. i'm eager to show you what i've found, what treasures this weekend of pure eucharisteo has imparted to my soul. 

i've come to view this lifestyle of thanks, of grace, and of light as a work in progress.

:: a painting of a thousand strokes ::

it's artwork that will never be finished, growing eternally. but then come those times when we take that slight step back, to view and remember where we've come. to touch the strokes that have dried, reminders of our past steps. 

that's what this weekend has been for me. this time we in the United States call Thanksgiving. these weekend for laughter and family and too much pie. 

• 183. fifty thousand words and a completed NaNoWriMo challenge.

• 184. week-old puppies that whimper and make their little feet run with small, unknown dreams, tucked beneath your chin during football cheers. 

• 185. soft plum scarves and sock-less feet tucked into shoes. winter comes soon. 

• 186. the promise of snow in coming days. 

• 187. the countdown to Christmas beginning already with my parents' long-decorated house and Advent calender anticipation

• 188. returning promises that come back valid. a Word that does not return void. 

• 189. earthly tragedy turned to Heavenly triumph. 

• 190. art. the rawness, the promise, the haven for our ink-stained souls.

these have been my ladder moments. the times where the brush gets tucked into the messy bun and the eyes traverse over the canvas, if only for a second.

it's remembering

the grace

the glory

and the gratitude. 

it's soaking in the Light where darkness wars to prevail. 

it's embracing.

{linking my multitudes with Ann and my fellow gratitude seekers}

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

eyes reprised

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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. 

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. 

{via pinterest}

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. 

submerged

{via pinterest -- America's Next Top Model}

for the past week, i have been singing the same song.

lead me to the cross by Francesca Battistelli 

it's been following me, actually. i keep hearing it everywhere i go. 

they haunt me, these words. the simplest of truths, locked into this precious melody. it makes me weep every time i hear the first few notes of this song float from my speakers and fill the room. 

and this morning, as i sat and listened to this song, as the tears flowed again down my cheeks, He whispered to me then.

do you see now? 

do you see Me better?

because this is what I want you to understand, child. 

you must be SUBMERGED into Me. 

and i wept anew. because this is my whole purpose.  

no other religion has this sense of relationship, this place of community with the Holy One. 

it's a lake in which i yearn to drown. i don't want to stand at the bank anymore with my toes just brushing the surface. 

i want to be drenched in Him. i want to hear Him everywhere i go. i want to fully grasp His humanity and His Godship into my soul. 

i want to fully lose myself into Him. 

because there is the calm beneath the water. i am held so close to the heart of Christ. i crave this silent rush that comes when i allow myself to slip beneath the surface of this Living Water. 

drowning to survive.

death to self to life in Him.

i wish i could express to you the passion burning in my soul. i weep as i write this with the realization that i have allowed myself to remain in the boat. i merely live on His surface. 

{via pinterest -- America's Next Top Model}

do the waves frighten me too much? is my faith that small, that fragile, that i cannot trust myself into the Hands of the One who has carried me thus far? 

have i forgotten that He is no stranger to this place of struggle?

You were as i, tempted and tried. 

human. 

the Word became flesh, bore my sin and death

now You're risen!

i need to step out, hands spread and eyes fixed only on Him.

i need to let the chaos fade to black and let my focus burn onto His eyes. 

He broke the ground for me to follow.

this is my inheritance.

painted words

sometimes i wonder what it would be like to live as a painter.

would it be easier than this thing of creating images with words?

i would have colours then, bright and pale and every shade and hue with which to fill an empty space with brightness.

i would have strokes, broad or thin, richly pattered or intricately traced.

i would have something tangible to show the world.

a canvas that i can hold up, like a child holding up a finger-painting,

see? 

this is what my soul sees...

it's hard to paint with words when i want them to read my soul in just the way i meant it, without any misunderstanding. 

i want them to read my painted words, see them in the way i intended from the beginning. 

i wish i could write in paints, that my words would flow from keyboard to screen in a swirling watercolour rush of blues and greens. 

emotion for tone, passion for hues. 

a living paintbrush that could show the world my soul without confusion. 

but i live with words. i'm a writer.

it's day 2 of NaNoWriMo. seven thousand words swirl with life and fire and so much colour that it threatens to overflow and spatter the ground with life abundant. 

so i see i'm finding the center, this middle ground between paint and ink. i'm finding the way to make sparks fly from keyboard ticks. i'm learning to let the colours arc outward.

to paint my soul with words so others can look and see

see what my soul sees

in black and white

and technicolour. 

{linking today with dear emily and others for this moment of imperfection}