the synchronicity of birthing

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when I started 2014, He gave me a word :: precipice. and I knew it was a scary word, a big word, a word that held a lot of power and shivering potential. and it might not all be good. because weather high-up can be harsher than the weather close to the ground. when the word found its home inside me, I literally shook and sobbed and begged for another. because I knew :: big things, heavy things. and I was afraid.

I had no idea.

I lost another grandmother, the second in twelve months. upheaval became the name of the game. there was emotional turmoil, loss and brokenness in a community that I thought was solid ground. my family groaned under the weight of ache after broken-hearted ache.

and in the moments between the weeping, I wrote a book. words became sentences became paragraphs became pages became chapters because an entire volume. and yesterday, I finished it. officially. the proofing is done, the uploads are complete, the cover is the correct size. and then I clicked the button and ordered fifty copies. thirty-nine copies are already spoken for, which is overwhelming and more than I ever expected.

but on Friday, two days before, we got more news.

our family is growing. 

another tiny pair of feet are forming beneath my skin. 

and again comes the feelings of unworthiness, like last time. but this time, there is something more. there is something powerful that drowns out all the whispers of fears and cries of "too much too soon all at once." 

there is hope. there is a breath of restorative life. there is an echo of synchronicity that I've been waiting for...finally. it's been forever. 

this year, this precipice year, it has been a year of "He takes, blessed be. He takes, blessed be. oh, again, He takes. blessed be..." and the words have started to falter on my tongue, quivering as though I might not believe them as much as I did the first time. my lips ache from the wind-burn of being so extended on this precipice, and my fingers are bleeding from the grip against the stone.

and then I remember that He makes the stone crack. that death starts working backwards.

this year has been heavy. but now there is life. 

life on paper, words from my own soul escaping into the world. 

and life under skin, growing to be birthed into the world when the appointed time comes. 

abundant, He promised. 

life. 

auld lang syne

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it's the end of 2012. how did that happen already? 

this year has been full of a thousand moments, a million things that i wasn't expecting. i am better for them, i know, even if they broke me as they came. 

the last day of 2011, He gave me the word -- one word -- brave, and i didn't know why. and then i found out why thirteen days later when expecting brave became reality, and Marian was waiting for me then. and then everything went up and down in a kaleidoscope of colour and newness and fear and tears and joy. oh, so much joy in this year. 

i used to look back on the calender squares and wrinkle my nose. good riddance to that 365. but not anymore. now i look back and whisper i was brave. i was so brave. 

i was also silent a lot this year. looking back at my blog, i've watched my words slowly trickle down to a drip and my stream of consciousness become dammed up and locked away. is it out of place, sacrilegious even, to compare myself to Mary in these months? both Marys of the Word, in fact.

one bore the King of Heaven under her skin, bound up all these things and treasured them so deep within her heart. silent solitude was this mother of the Holy One. 

and the other sat at the feet of the Man and listened, worshiping there on the ground with eyes turned up to hear away from the business and the pull of others to come and be lost in the grind of life. 

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both listened. both were silent. and i've done much of that in 2012. 

i learned that brave does not mean unafraid. if it did, no one could ever be brave because fear is there wherever you go. it means exhaling and letting go, leaving the empty to be filled by He who is greater than i. 

starting last year, i gave up resolutions and took a word instead. my word is brewing in me now. i can taste it, feel it stirring so electric and so passionate within my heart. 

2013 is a blank canvas yet. untouched. but oh, soon it will be full of paint and lines and so much colour. i'm carrying brave over and i'm adding on. and my soul will magnify the Lord. and i will declare, oh, He is Risen and Alive and thus, i too will live in the volume and the grace of the King of Glory. 

i will leap barefoot in paint puddles and cry holy holy holy. 

see, I am doing a new thing!
    now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
    and streams in the wasteland.

::isaiah 43:19::

expecting // fear and light

there is a new rush of emotion in my life at present, of realizing that i am going to be the mother of a little one in less than twelve weeks now.

the reality that my little person is already starting to make her presence known on a regular basis, and the whimsy that tugs at my heart whenever i start to think about holding her in my arms.

{26 weeks and ever-growing)

and for a moment, i turned whimsical.

and then i froze in my tracks.

:: i'm going to be a mum ::

and the petrifying concept, which had been occurring to me in the beauty and delight of pregnancy, sank in with a sonic boom that shook my foundations and led me to weeping in the middle of the night.

am i ready for this?

my expectations have turned from whimsy to fear and back again.

they say that no one is ever ready for this, not really. that you can prepare all you want, and then still be entirely unprepared for all that comes alongside the birth of a tiny new person that has your husband's eyes and perhaps too much of your spirit.

i look at mothers who seem to have it all together, and i shake with the terror that i might not be as good as they are. that i could say the wrong thing, that i could do something that would cast splotches of indelible tar-like ink on this little girl's still-blank canvas.

is this something that comes with impending motherhood, along with the passion to clean everything in sight, and then to eat everything in sight, and then repeat both actions over again until house and fridge are both equally clean?

i wish i could wrap this up in a tidy little bow, express some truth that i am entirely confident that i've got this, that i can manage this and that my worry flitted away on the breeze.

but i can't do that. i don't think i will ever be able to do that, to cast aside every shred of fear that i have and just run away.

but i'm not doing this alone. there is a Rock that is greater than i, a song that is louder than my fears, and a Saviour who is holding my hand with the softest whispers

I am a Father.

you are a mother. 

i understand. 

and we will parent together, daughter. 

can i do this on my own? never.

but then, i'm never alone. 

i am co-parenting with the King of Kings. 

expectancy

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i am learning about expectancy.
not the act itself, but rather the level i dare to have.

because i don't have nearly enough, because my Jesus meets His loves at the level of their expectancy. i didn't notice that my tank was brushing e, that i didn't have nearly the amount that He aches for me to have.

the man whose daughter slipped from Earth to death, he begged Him to come and heal, to come and raise. just come, don't linger, just come now.

:: and Jesus went, and raised :: 

the solider who took a knee on dirt path and stone and whispered, "i know the power, i know the authority of a word. speak here, and my servant is healed."

:: and Jesus spoke, there on the road, and healed ::

the woman who bled, and reached out two trembling fingers just to brush against the hem of filthy fabric that composed the Saviour's robe. "if only i can touch, i will be healed."

and Jesus whispered in the pulsing crowd of a thousand fingers, 

:: "who touched Me? power went from Me, and I felt it go." ::

and i do not have her level of expectancy. i do not hold enough. i am the needy child who tugs His arm again and again and cries, "come now, Daddy...can You fix it?"

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i don't expect enough from Him. i whisper "maybe You can...can You?" i should reach out with two tiny fingers and touch, and know. all i have to do is touch, and He will give.

and so i let the branches of self-doubt and human reasoning twist so that no more hope can seep out. it's just too risky, you see, to expect so much. too much gets lost, too much me gets forgotten, i think.

but oh, and then i realize that light is unconstrained, or else it is darkness. and expectation becomes the knowing, the watching and waiting not with maybe but with will come.

and i let my dreaded soul open, and run, and wail joy and knowing to the skies.

i'm kneeling in the dirt here, barefoot and broken. i'm reaching out for the hem of His robe.

and i know.

Advent wanderer

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the first week of Advent is coming to an end.

this time of preparing, of gently laying out the steps. these weeks leading to Christmas are filled with decorating and Christmas card envelopes.

this is the solitary candle, one lone light cutting into the darkness, whispering

this heart is ready. 

there is a place here. 

i'm trying to touch this Advent. to bring the sacred down to Earth, because i want to live there. i'm reflecting on this thing of grace turned Man. 

i'm still not sure if i know what that looks like in the now. because it feels enormous. i'm overwhelmed with the reality of Light coming to the darkness with intent to save, intent to sacrifice, and intent to die.

i wonder if He knew. did He always know?

His mother knew, gazing into the face of Sovereign Innocence that had come from Heaven and her body combined. she knew this Warrior child would save the world, save her soul.

save the future and the present.

:: not all who wander are lost. ::

this is me this year. this wandering seeker tangled in Sacred and Holy and overwhelming Love. 

this place of not knowing and being okay with not knowing. this place of accepting mystery as mystery, and reaching trembling fingers toward the Heavenly One.

this place where all that is gold does not glitter, but is, in fact, the brightest of all.