drop your coat

{via pinterest}

dear you,

you wanderer through the Valley of the Shadow
drop your coat.

you who haven't figured out how to process the change or the ache or the new or the rejection
drop your coat.

you who are finding yourself in the season of "no" or the season of leaving or the season of lots of taking and very very little giving back
drop your coat. 

// 

do you know what that looks like, to drop your coat and leave it there?

there is unspoken courtesy, ingrained in us from the very beginning. you do not just drop your bag, your coat, your shoes on the floor. not in another's house, not even in your own house. you pick it up. you find the hook or drawer or little nook. you hang it up. tidy, organized, everything appropriately tucked away.

even when the fabric is so heavy that it almost seems unbearable, this idea of crossing another twelve steps to the closet. even when the smile is pasted on, and the "let me take your coat" feels falsely cloying because you would just rather not lean into the pity (even though it's nothing more than your host being polite).

so I want to tell you something. I want you to look me in the eye.

I want you to rest. drop your coat. right there, in the hallway. shoes too. kick them off. let them thud against the wall.

I want you to find freedom. leave it there, on the floor, in a crumpled pile of soft fabric and silken lining. leave it there.

because it's not just a coat, is it, love? it's grief and heaviness and weight and confusion and a lack of knowing which direction to step next. and there may not be answers there between the hardwood slats. but there is a solid surface on which to rest. and sometimes that works better than answers. at least for now.

so drop your coat. leave it there. the world won't end while it lays on the hardwood.

dust washes off. you can use my machine.

moon-howler // be still

{via pinterest}

daughter

be of great courage

for your faith has made you whole.

i forget He said that.

it's funny, the more i pour through familiar words, the more i'm okay with passing them by. maybe because they whisper a little too close for comfort, maybe i'm afraid of what they say. 

am i afraid of being made whole? 

am i too comfortable with brokenness? 

because being healed takes more work than maybe i want to invest. maybe this thing of building wings while falling is too scary...too many of the "what if's" clouding my eyes like midnight fog on the windshield making it hard to see through the night.

after all

i might drop the feathers

howling at the moon is a brave thing, but what if my voice cracks? what if i'm less of a Lioness and more of a kitten on a rain-soaked back porch? the scars make a pretty picture, but they tell a story too, and what if i don't like the words they speak? 

:: because if i start, then i have to finish. 

{via pinterest}

oh

He will fight for you

you need only be still

so sometimes you have to leave your shoes somewhere in the blackberry patch and just run out in the soft dew-damp grass. because you have wings hidden in your hair and stars in your eyes, and the Son who made the moon wants to dance with you because you're His lady-love. 

and He'll hold your hand while you howl at the moon, brave-hearted beloved, fingers curled against His pierced palm while He sings His song in your ear. 

the world might whisper 

do you know Him? really?

and i sing

He knows me.

shattered alabaster

{via pinterest}

we fear brokenness. we fear what comes when we are face down, palms up. we can't see our backs from this position, this place of humility.

and what if someone sees us here? they might whisper, they might talk about how low we have fallen. and whispers hurt, after all; who doesn't know that? 

but He sent them out into the streets to bring us in. the broken, the lame, the blind and the weary. and He brought us in and set us as His table, us broken ones. and He stood still in the crowd and said someone touched Me. 

we forget these stories. they get pushed to the back as we look around and stand shoulder to shoulder with others and stretch to stand on tiptoe to measure up like we think we should. brokenness does not negate the warrioress, but instead it creates glory. 

a phoenix cannot rise until it burns. 
a seed cannot grow without death. 

“God uses broken things...it is the broken alabaster box that gives forth perfume.

 it is Peter, weeping bitterly, who returns to greater power than ever." 

:: vance havner

it is something we are taught to fear, taught that we must flee from and hide, that we must scrabble for some token of false strength to save face. do we deign ourselves so great that our Jesus must be broken, but we find shame in this place for ourselves?

the prostitute was the first to find Him in the dawn when the stone had rolled away. those who followed Him were too full to see, but this woman was empty of all but Him. and He said her name, and she knew in a word. this broken vessel, this woman of the night now turned bright as the Son. 

raised to glory, this broken ones.
living in life, these blessed ones.

weakness // glory

{via pinterest}

this world values strength.

it has taken the world by storm, this ideal of power and strength. especially for women in the world.

the calm and collected ones are given the stand, speaking effortless on how they have found their perfection in Christ.

the broken ones are quietly shown the door.

but what about me?

because i am one of the broken ones. i cannot even pretend to be one of these perfect women who have it all together.

because i'm not. i am not a rock by any means. i am fragile and broken and in constant need of some sort of support.

i am not Wonder Woman. not by any means.

i never seek to hide my imperfections -- i readily admit my need for a Savior, or else i tumble groundward and find myself lost again.

and sometimes i look around at all these amazing women whose blogs i follow, and i feel so intimidated. they seem to be so together, such strong and beautiful creatures with children and husbands that all fall right into their places.

{via pinterest}

and then there comes a post on brokenness. a post that makes my heart break as i read, as i understand what this precious sister is currently enduring.

and i am reminded that

His power is made perfect in my weakness

and so I will boast in my weakness

to give Him the  greater glory.

we are imperfect women. this cluster of souls knit together by the invisible bonds of Love 

there is power in a shared story. there is strength in knowing that you are not alone. 

there is sufficiency in the arms of the Lover of our souls. 

 we are the broken ones. holding fast to one another and to our Cornerstone.

egg

{via pintrest}

again, i am drawn to the small.

it seems in recent days that i have been pulled toward those things which are normally passed over or seen as insignificant to careless eyes. 

spoons and steps to the sacred.

i awoke this morning with a picture in my head. it was the photograph just to the left. 

a photograph of eggs. and for some reason, i could not get it out of my head, regardless of whatever i might do to dislodge it.

and then i began my morning blog readings. and the first one that i read was this one by Ann Voskamp.

and i realized that my glorious King was whispering in His own silent way that this mental portrait of an egg needed to be poured out and shared.

and so i pour. 

i pour this thought that an egg's sacredness has been lost. a gift from Heaven to remind us again and again of the holiness of God. 

more than just the picture of the Trinity here on earth, though that is indeed a glimpse of Heaven's gates.

it is the reality that brokenness can be restoring

that in our weakest state, when our shells are shattered and strewn about, that we are the most fulfilled. the most ready to be used for the benefit of others. for the benefit of Him.

{via pintrest}

for glory to come, brokenness must occur. 

for life to be seen, the shells must crack.

for Love to be poured out, the blood and water had to flow. the shell was crushed for life to be born.

the Stone Table must crack for death to run backwards.

the King must die for Death to die. 

this is life. this is love.

this is what it means to be an egg.