for when you're sitting in limbo

{my girl and my love watching the snow.
they teach me the most.}

I am in the state of limbo that every writer who has ever submitted their work for publication knows intimately. it's the period between submission, the pushing of the words out from your hands to another pair of stranger-eyes, and the hearing of the acceptance or the rejection.

I sent my short story, Coffee, out for publication right around the end of January. I haven't heard back yet, and that's to be expected, as I was told it could be as late as April 1st before I heard anything in either direction. I still check the acceptance page of the publication's website every day.

my friend Brandy says this: just putting yourself out there is a win. aim for rejections. it's so foreign to me, this concept that even releasing your words is a step in the right direction, that a rejection letter is a sign that you did the impossible. you wrote something and sent it out.

honestly? I'm not in that place yet. I can't look at rejections as positive reinforcement, as reminders to keep trying. I haven't been able to stop the heart-pounding when I think, maybe they won't like me. it's reminiscent of being a child, right on the edge of the all-wood playset in the yard of the school, wiggling my fingers back and forth against my legs as I watched the other children chase and swing and toss pebbles at one another.

I just want them to like me. 

writing is vulnerability personified. I've said that before, that exact sentence almost exactly a month ago when I acknowledged that this process is, for me, wandering deep into the lair of a dragon. even more than that, it's realizing that I have no weapon, and that my intent is to ask the beast to share a meal with me. writing is walking up to the Big Bad Wolf, holding out my basket and whispering,

Grandma's not home. do you want to share?

{my writing space}

that's how I can tell that I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. there's a whole new kind of fear that comes when you recognize your calling and understand that breaking bread with dragons can be written in my resume under "job description." it's one of those moments in the tent, the kind where you overhear the Angel of the Lord tell your husband that you're going to have a baby at ninety years old, and you laugh because it's impossible. you have to laugh. it's that or cry.

the website for the publication to which I submitted uses the words "in progress" to refer to a work that hasn't been "completed" {passed on} or "accepted for publication." I think that's prophecy, in it's own way.

I'm still waiting. I'm still in progress, fidgeting a little bit as I wait to hear where my words will go next. I'm still refreshing the page every day, still watching the number beside my name, the one that identifies me as a writer.

I can feel Him looking at me, straight through the doorway of my tent, the place where I sat and laughed when He spoke a calling over me. I can hear the way He shakes His mane, the way the wind whispers through the wilderness and weaves around Him. 

Rachel, why did you laugh? I will return, and you will bear. 

rejection of the Story

{via pinterest}

there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you :: maya angelou 

i haven't started a blog post with a quote in a long while. but this quote...mm, this one, i felt was all too appropriate for my soul-season right now. 

i have a lot of emails sitting in my inbox right now. one of them is one that has been sitting there since February of 2011. i can't bring myself to delete it, even though i really really really really want to, more than even i realize. 

it's my very first novel rejection letter.

frankly, it wasn't all that surprising. the publisher had asked for my first fifty pages of my {still} unfinished fantasy novel, and i had sent it along with a small shred of trepidation in my heart. and i heard back. they thought it was wonderful. they used words like "brilliant" and "beautiful imagery" and "radiant." 

but it just wasn't for them. 

and i cried. it was the strangest most painful compliment i'd ever received. it was as though they were saying :: your work is good, great even. it's just not good enough. 

i never finished the novel. it's still sitting in my WORD file, completely untouched since that rejection letter arrived in my inbox more than two years ago. 

part of me wonders if it's because i needed to let it die, like a stone-pile monument to the moment i realized that i was officially a rejected writer {rejected as in, a right of passage to have your words turned down}. but then, maybe it was because i got scared. maybe the idea of a monument, a reminder, was romantic in a strange sort of way, and i was okay with leaving it like that instead of facing that fact that rejection sucks and i wasn't looking forward to dealing with it ever again. 

which, as a writer, is laughable. 

which, as a human, is laughable. 

rejection comes, like brutal hammers or like shards of glass in your shoe. it's there, banging down your door, right in your face. it's there, whispering quiet doubts that borrow deep into your soul and lodge there, eating you up into nothing until your story shrivels away into broken twisted stems. 

no light, no air, no water :: the story dies. 

{via pinterest}

and so i'm writing again. it's September. there's a thousand things happening this month, so many challenges laid out on the road in front of me like Turkish Delight, tempting and covered in powdered sweetness. it's a luring concept to take them as excuses to just not write, to just let the story lay "one more day." 

but there's a table laid out before me, gleaming and right, brimming with love and light by the Hand of the Lion with enemies and rejection pressing at the edges. but He growls so low into my soul. 

courage, dearheart

I have known you long. 

and i dine for strength. and my laptop perches gently on His broad back. i write, and He leaps over the kingdom of darkness until we rest on a beach with the gently cresting waves giving me glimpses into His Country across the sea. and i dip my toes into the Light-Water. 

and the Story puts out leaves. 

{want to enter a community of Story, of grace, of Jesus, of growth? Jesus found me in story 101. are you ready to take the leap? you won't regret it.}

our Father :: glory

{via pinterest}

yesterday was Father's Day. and i meant to write, i did, but the crush of the do and the laughter and the ice cream and pizza and s'mores in the glow of a low-setting sun overtook my inspiration.

there were hugs from the man of God that raised me, and from the man of God that gave me his son as my love and calls me "daughter," and from the man of God who looks at our tiny evenstar and calls her daughter.

and i inhaled family instead, and oh, it was so good.

and then i woke up this morning with sunrays on my cheeks and some strange realization brewing soft in the core of me. because on Saturday night, our pastor spoke familiar words that the whole room of worshippers repeated back to him, not just because he asked but also because we couldn't help it, really.

our Father
hallowed be Thy Name. 

and these words, just those two short phrases, had lodged themselves in my mind and hummed at me in the dawning. i've felt the stirrings my entire life, the pull from the place where my faith journey started where nothing was personal. it didn't feel right even to my little-child heart who grew up in the church.

why call Him Father and then be afraid to touch Him?

and i've been chided more than i can really comprehend for daring to touch the spiritual, for being so irreverent as to reach out my fingers toward His robe and even just brush the fabric. and i use that strange word so often :: sacred. and the intensity i feel scares even me sometimes, because what is there that pushes me in such a powerful way?

{via pinterest}

He does. 

and i reach up my fingers with a kind of hesitant bravery, that kind of courage that groans in the silence when we know what must be done, but there is a shakiness somewhere down deep. and it's overwhelming and we know that it might lead to something else...something bigger....maybe something  that would hurt.

our Father, 
glory. Your name is glory.

and so i grasp, tight, and i'm lifted onto a Lion's back and the roaring laugh reaches my hesitating soul. fingers in His mane, we leap to salvation, and i am so close i can feel His heart. and oh, it is a thunderstorm and a tidal wave and a comfort and a peace.

it is all of these, and a thousand things more.

and i beg Him to write His name as deep as it can go, because i don't want to forget. and i want to throw back this strangely terrified warrioress heart and howl glory at the coming moon, early seen at twilight, and radiant in the darkness.

:: my Father. 

Your name. 

oh...glory. 

laid bare :: in which i learn that courage groans

{photo of myself, courtesy of nikki} 

sometimes being brave is easy. 

you know what you want to do, and you take first one step and then another and suddenly you're across the bridge without a second thought. and your footprints are there, and looking back, you're aglow with what you have done.

you were brave without realizing. 

and then comes the hard stuff, the realities as the glow of bravery washes away and you realize that not everyone see the same footprints you do. you see the whole path, the big picture, and they see the toe marks in someone else's way.

yesterday, i made a choice. a choice to drop every facade, a choice to dare and be brave and be luminescent :: woman. i chose to live what i have been speaking here for the past several months. i chose to pose semi-nude. 

and i didn't just do it to say i could, but for the hearts of the woman i have held in my arms as they weep and whisper, i starve because i am starving. 

and so i laid myself bare. no make-up or jewelry, no primping save a brush through my hair. there were no touch-ups to take out stretch marks or freckles or those things that i try to cover up with my fingers with down-turned eye and whisper, don't look.

and i closed my eyes and burst into smile and climbed the summit to meet my Savior there in a hush of holiness and a gentle murmur of "on earth as it is in Heaven."

and i met stones on the way down. 

they had their points and they had their reasons and they had their laid-out plan. and i can't help but respect conviction, because after all, i have my own. and it was my husband who stood up with his hand on my shoulder and took the step in front of me and took so many extra arrows in the chestplate, my warrior-man. and i did the best i could, but i sat down and shook with weeping because it was just too much to bear. 

{photo of myself, courtesy of nikki} 

and my dear friend wrapped arms around my shoulders from across the United States and spoke softly to my soul, 

courage doesn't always roar

sometimes it whispers, sometimes it groans

but it is still courage.

and it came from all sides, from the east and the west. 

:: brave. brave. you are brave.

and it came from His own lips, too. 

:: My daughter is brave

and i knew it would happen, but i didn't expect the intensity of the ache. and i knew it would be hard to be brave, that the journey over seemed so easy but the path down the mountain was a rocky tumble. 

so why did i do it, then?

because you are beautiful. i promise you are, dearheart. 

and i'll do whatever it takes for you to see it for yourself.

my daughter drew life from this body, whispered into my being by the Breath of the Lion. and she changed my visage, my skin, into a portrait made with blue eyes and soft red hair and baby's breath on my neck. and i fit no molds, not that i did before, and i'm learning to be okay with that. 

i am my Beloved's, radiant and adorned. 

thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.

:: song of songs 4:7

// // 

{i want this to be a gentle place, a place of love and respect. if you have something to say, please say it with love and words seasoned with salt and Life. i have disabled anonymous comments because honestly, i am still learning to be brave, and i think you should, too. if you don't want to write your response publicly, my inbox is always open to you. i also have a zero tolerance policy for fat-shaming, victim-blaming, "slut"-shaming, etc.}

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 //

woodpile

(via Heather @ Pintrest)

i drove by my parents' farm this morning to pick something up from my dad.

took a little wander down to the pole barn-slash-woodshed to check on my numerous kitties. when i moved out, they stayed behind. my daddy has discovered that he actually loves cats, and takes very good care of them for me.

at first glance, the barn was entirely empty

save for the woodpile 

and a few bits of machinery

and then i saw the ears. 

two tiny, fuzzy points sticking up from a small pile of wood

perched above a pair of wide golden eyes and a innocent little pink nose.

it was a stray kitten. scared to death. i could see it shaking. 

i could almost hear its thoughts as it stared right at me. 

please don't notice me. 

go away.

please don't see me. 

slowly, i turned to go. 

little kitty bolted. break-neck speed toward another woodpile, in which it hid. 

i am that little kitten.

doing my best to blend into the woodwork, begging all my fears

(via Natalie @ Pintrest)

please don't see me. 

go away.

just let me hide. 

and then, for whatever reason, i break cover and run as fast as i can. i'm too scared to just wait for the scary thing to turn and leave me alone. 

i get a burst of courage. and i run to safety. 

for a kittycat, it's a woodpile.

for me

it's a wooden cross.

prematurely linking up with The Wellspring.
perhaps not a playdate per se, but oh what joy . 

 

Courageux

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear.  ~Ambrose Redmoon

The question has been asked.

What would you do if you knew you could not fail?


It's a frightening question, really.

What would our lives be like if fear was pushed to the back burner, and if letting someone down by our actions was impossible?

How would we live?

What mountains would you attempt to climb? What rivers would you swim or what cliffs would you traverse?

It's hard for me to not look back over my past and cringe at my own short comings...at those times that fear kept me from leaping ahead and taking things as they came, instead of running toward my nearest corner to hide from my own potential.

I think I'm going to make mid-year resolutions. I know I'm late to the game, but I'm going to start over.

I'm going to attack my life head-on. I am going to let go of my fears, and I am going to start trusting my God to supply my needs and carry my hurts.

I am going to leap into achieving my bucket list...those dreams that might seem just too big to reach.

I am going to continue to count my blessings, day by day.

I will speak the truth even if my voice quivers.

I am going to be real.

I am going to live as though I cannot fail.

And in Him, this is my reality.

Carpe diem. Carpe vitam. 

Seize the day. Seize life. 

Courage doesn't always roar.  Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I'll try again tomorrow.  ~Mary Anne Radmacher

Dawning

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without words
And never stops at all. ~Emily Dickinson

I've spent a lot of time dwelling on hope this morning.

I think it's a combination of some of the most recent occurrences in my life that have drawn me up toward this elusive sunrise...

...this phoenix rising from the ashes, arching for its comet-like dash across the night skies...

...this White Stag calling me from the thickest and darkest parts of a seemingly endless wood.

Come chase me. 

Try and catch me. 

Watch me.

I want to have more hope than I already do. I have a tendency to turn my back to the sun to stare at the shadows...those foolish, changing images that I am now taking as truth.  

One moment, my future is tall and stretching past the treetops. The next, I am gazing at my own frail feet and thinking, "where did my beauty go? I must have none."

This strange wing'ed thing...this mystery that is hope...it is not an ever-changing shadow.

It is the sun itself, always there even when hidden by a cloud of doubt or a storm of grief. 

It is the moon streaming into my bedroom, dancing over the soft piecework quilt, only to give me a kiss on my freckled and tear-streaked nose and whisper

courage, dearheart.

Hope is dawning. Hope is rising. Hope is there behind the clouds and in the darkest of nights. 

Hope is a Lion. Hope is a King. Hope is a Savior. 

Jesus. 

"Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.They are new every morning; great is Thy faithfulness.I say to myself, 'The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him.'"~Lamentations 3:22

Tracks

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.  I travel for travel's sake.  The great affair is to move.  ~Robert Louis Stevenson

So many things in this world captivate the poet in me.

So many little things that go unnoticed by most...somehow, they draw me in, whispering for me to tell their story and share the truths locked within their silent beating hearts.

I don't dare turn a deaf ear to their pleas.

Train tracks sing such a song to me...one that I simply cannot ignore.

They speak of so many things...

 -- of strength, for how many courageous brides clutched their carpet bags to their chests as the clicking of the wheels drew them closer and closer to their yet-unmet grooms...

When Jacob saw Rachel...he kissed her on the mouth and began to weep.

-- of bravery, for how much youths gaze upon the train doors, worn suitcases at their feet, preparing to carry their broken souls and sunken eyes home to aching-hearted parents with white ribbons tied to trees...

Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.

-- of love, for how many pairs of hands have brushed from window to platform, with now only letters to  keep them together...how many hands returned empty, and how many brushed palm-to-palm again with silver and gold bands to caress one against the other. 

Place me as a seal over your heart...for love is as strong as death. 

Yes, train tracks speak of so many wonders. The burdens they bear are full to the brim with so many stories of love and loss, of seats cracked with snuggling and windows stained with tears of longing and brokenness. 

Train tracks sing these powerful melodies...

...melodies best not ignored. 

And there is the headlight, shining far down the track, glinting off the steel rails that, like all parallel lines, will meet in infinity, which is after all where this train is going. ~Bruce Catton

(Don't forget to enter DramaticElegance's current whimsical giveaway, running until the end of August 2011.)