prisoner of hope :: always

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i am hope's prisoner. 

i am Light's conquest. 

and i seek no freedom. 

sometimes i wonder how people muddle through this world without the glimmer of hope behind their eyes. i see it, you know...that look that slips across their face when i meet their eyes with a smile. 

that look of want. of plead. of empty. 

and then we pass and they are gone. but they stay with me even after i've passed and am home under covers. because that look of hopelessness coats my soul with the grief that only loss can bring.

i want to go back and touch their shoulder and draw them back to the place i call Home and the One i call Father. 

but as for me, i will 

:: always :: 

have hope

for You have been my hope.

i cling to Him tightly in those moments when the world rocks and i have nothing but the pounding cries of uncertainty. what do they do, when the waves slam them against the rocks until their grasp loosens and their dreams flow from their eyes like water?

{via pinterest}

in my nights of darkened grief when all i can do is weep until my pillow floats and my hair is moist with salted sorrow, i know that my fingers can upward reach and grasp those of the One who holds me close.

this tangled kiss of hope that binds me against His chest. 

hope stays perched on the branches of my soul, singing like the uncaged bird, this phoenix of hope rising from the ashes of Death, killed and conquered and fingers sliced from off my shoulders. 

in the dark, i have hope. 

i'm running to Your arms

the riches of Your love

will always be 

:: enough ::


i hope you will forgive me, but again, with the holiday rush, i am simply going to reveal the winners here instead of in a full post. 
item no. 1: Ashley
item no. 2: Jennoelle
item no. 3: Ashlyn Nicole
item no. 4: Lucia
just shoot me an email, beautiful ladies.

:: dreaded souls :: imperfection

{via pinterest}

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}

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. 

meeting broken eyes

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i never know what to say to them,

to those men with the dirty clothes and outstretched fingers. to the guitar-toting girls on the median with their cardboard signs and hand-sewn jackets. 

their eyes might be pleading, but i wouldn't know.

because i never look. 

because for some reason, i am ashamed to meet their faces.

 it's not fear i feel.

they're the ones without homes or jobs or money. but i'm the one with a blush of embarrassment and low-ducked head.

i need to learn to look. 

because there are souls behind that filth. 

i remember a little girl me holding her daddy's hand, feeling so self-conscious in my green velvet cape, while my daddy handed red and yellow-arched "dollars" to these men and women with nothing to eat and no place to go. 

even then, i was shamed into silence.

into lowered eyes.

not just here in this country, but across oceans too. 

people with nothing, they frighten me. not because i'm afraid of them...

...but i'm afraid for them, and my heart burns with the shame of having so much.

i measure my shame with theirs and keep a down-turned face.  

these people have so much soul. 

{via pinterest}

sometimes Jesus is in cinnamon apples and warm home hospitality between sisters. 

and sometimes He finds us in the pews and kneeling benches of candlelit cathedrals. 

but sometimes 

He is in the small.

 in the filthy. 

the shamed. 

the dirty beards and faces lined with so much grief and battered old guitars. 

He is in those haunting eyes which i must learn to lift my head to meet with a smile that speaks Jesus to the emptiness. 

because i forget who He is. 

i forget that there is heart there. that every situation is different, and Jesus sits amid the unwashed hands and eyes that i ache to see. 

the eyes that speak volumes that are yet unwritten but should be. there are stories here.

i just need to raise my head 

and meet their eyes. 

eyes {writer blog}

i have an obsession with my character's eyes.

actually, i'm obsessed with eyes in general.

maybe it has something to do with the spiritual connotation found behind these rich pools of ocular beauty.

the eye is the lamp of the body

it's true, though.

so much can be spoken through a simple glance. a moment spent gazed into another's eyes can be enough to pass along an entire conversation and more left unspoken.

...

(to partake in the rest, go here)