please stop

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this one's for the lonely

the ones that seek and find

only to be let down

time after time

this one's for the torn down

the experts at the fall

come on friends get up now

you're not alone at all

:: comes and goes // greg laswell 

dear world, please stop. 

stop battering down my door with a thousand voices telling me just how i should mother, how i should parent, how i should be. 

it's breaking me down before i've even begun.

dear fashion designers, please stop.

stop teaching us to hate our bodies, because we already fall down enough and we need to love this thing that carries our souls and hearts and breaths and dreams. it's okay not to be a size 2. 

it's killing our daughters. 

dear mothers of the world, please stop.

stop hating one another because one holds a baby to her breast and one chooses another form of life-giving food for her little one, because one chooses to return to work and another can hold her baby from dawn to dusk. 

i can't bear it any more. 

dear church, sons and daughters of the King of Kings and Lord of Love, please stop.

stop screaming hate when He said love, stop twisting words to mean what He never meant. put down the torches and the pitchforks. 

it's making Him weep

and He doesn't recognize you.

what else can i say but please. please, from the bottom of my heart, cloaked in all the love i can muster...

:: please stop :: 

alive underwater

it's a funny thing, this concept of drowning.

to be entirely underwater is a fearful thing on its own. to have the water close over your head and to sink down so low that the sun is a glimmer above your head, and the waves playing the oddest of games with your head.

and then you come up again, dripping and gasping for breath. and then you laugh and do it over again. and it feels like drowning, when your lungs are screaming for air and your eyes are fogged with water and far-away sunbeams and something else...something mysterious that i'm not sure i ever want to figure out entirely.

and it's a fear thing, to let go of the dock and sink when every corner of your mind is screaming

don't let go. 

don't you dare. 

and so we haul ourselves out of the water for dry land instead, preferring the solid turf beneath our feet to the ever-changing waves that could take us down and out of control for even just one second too long. 

and so isn't it funny that He stands on the edge of the pier, holding our hands in His, eyes fixed deep into ours and speaks a message that seems so foreign to our hearts. 

trust Me.

let go. 

you don't dare not to...

and the way to Aslan's Country lies over a river. and it lies below the surface of the darkest of pools with no bottom to speak of...

and it takes so much bravery to just dive right in. and to get there, you have to let the waves sweep over you and 

and He whispers

die with Me. 

die to live. die to self, arise in Me. 

and then we arise from the bottom of the sea, dripping wet and pouring glory from head to toe, hand in nail-scarred hand. the dove wings brush against my cheek, and the Voice from Heaven speaks a roar in my soul.

this is My beloved Son. 

in Him, I am well pleased. 

and He's holding my hand. 

sacred rest

i don't rest well.

it's something that truly bothers those who care about me most. i am more than willing to push myself into a wall and just keep going until my face is pressed into the brick and my body is broken from the futility and sheer physical exhaustion. 

i don't comprehend this idea of rest. but oddly enough, it's something i crave. it's also something i fear.

fear has a quiet voice, a grown up kind. and she has something to say, all whispery with promises and barely there:  

::

honey, can you hold on? 
because if you sit with me a while, i will teach you something sacred. 

{the secret life of fear}

i think i fear that the world will stop turning if i don't keep pushing it around and around and around the sun, and then everything will collapse, and it will be my fault. 

and fear and i have not had a chance to sit and talk, because i've been too busy racing in circles. and i haven't been able to hear the sacred whispers. 

and then God decided that i had done enough, that my flailing needed to come to an end. and so He gave me this child, this little one inside my body who drains my energy and leaves me exhausted even after just rising from a nap. 

will you listen to Me now? 

and now i have no choice but to listen. the steaming mug of tea in my hand that sends up those fragrant waves, this is my brand of incense. the tapping of the little feet against my skin from the inside out, these are my meditation drums. 

 and so we converse, God and fear and i. 


about my fears of resting, that my world will stop turning if i sit. about my fears of mothering, that maybe i will break more than i will fix, and that i am not "cut out" for this. 

and fear voices her concerns, and the bigger Voice quiets them before the last breath leaves her mouth. 


it's a cycle, back and forth. and i am content to listen. to be still and know. 

to sip my tea and to soak in the drums that will be of a different style in a few months. i know i will miss them in a way. 

and i will weave feathers into my hair, and i will fearlessly rest. 

understanding brave :: being

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it's the first of three sixty five. 

i woke up this morning and laid in bed, staring at the curtains as they fluttered in the frozen breeze. 

:: and i didn't feel brave ::

i made coffee, the first strong pot of a new year, steaming in my mug with fragrant wisps of steam. 

 :: and i didn't feel brave ::

and i looked out the window at the snow-less ground that could perhaps be confused for spring. 

:: and i didn't feel brave ::  

but brave isn't feeling, is it? because feeling lie and emotions betray and too often hearts don't know what they should, and minds know too much of what they shouldn't.

no, brave isn't feeling.

it's being. 

it's not about awakening and leaping from bed to floor with sword in palm. it's about living, all on its own. about thinking less and meditating more. about inhaling and exhaling and repeating the action a thousand times with barely a thought. 

that's my first portion of brave. 

the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud

was greater than the risk it took to bloom. 

:: anis nin :: 

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because brave isn't a battlecry, not really.

it's a love song. 

it's those halting, lonesome notes that ring over the night. it's the sweetness of a Lion's song, of a call to come and drink. 

because brave isn't something that comes naturally. it's waking, and knowing. it's living and breathing and standing and clinging to the mast in the storm and knowing that there is an end. 

it's watching the gale blow from the shelter of His arms, and knowing that a Lion's mane is stronger than a thousand storms. 

it's not being unafraid, because fear comes and fingers shake and there's so much unknown in the silence. but He promised a rainbow, and it makes me brave to know that colour comes again and grey is broken like shards of glass that slice the bonds between Life and death. 

it's brave to be His.

waiting and joy :: mary

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i spent this morning thinking about Mary.

this innocent girl has been on my mind so much these days as we count down the seconds, the minutes, the hours until Christmas.

because our anticipation lasts from the final dish on Thanksgiving Day until the twenty-fifth wooden figure is hung on the Advent calender.

but hers was for nine long months. 

do we forget that sometimes, that this was not a humble woman with eye aglow with pregnant anticipation with friends pressing eager fingers to a swollen belly, anxious to feel a kick?

this was a frightened child with big doe eyes and a secret told to her by an angel -- one that she could only hide for so long before the world would know and come running with big, sharp stones and cries of "whore."

this was her culture, her people. she had a strong man who loved her and sought her for his bride, but this baby was not his, and he would know, and then they would know.

but oh 

there was joy. 

this young woman of wisdom and grace, this little one with the heart of a Messiah beating inside, wrapped her arms around the place where the Sovereign One grew fingers and toes and eyelashes and a tiny smile, and cried

my soul doth magnify the Lord. 

my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour. 

she baffles me. standing in the shadow of so much uncertainty, she praised. she turned her face to the skies and sang of her joy. because she KNEW.

she knew her soul was wrapped tight with the Hand of the Master. the protector of the innocent, the Father to this Son.

and so she waited in the silence. hand on her stomach to feel the kick of the One who would save her soul from Death

:: and clung to unceasing joy ::

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. 

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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. 

Diary

The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it. ~James Barrie

Visiting the library is like stepping into another world. Shelves and stacks of books line the room from ceiling to floor...

...the rich aroma of ink and dusty volumes whisper of worlds yet hidden in bindings of leather and paper...

...but yet, between these seemingly innocent pages, is danger and mistrust and anger.

For these books are more than just words...more than stories...more than records of fiction or fact...these are the thoughts of an author laid bare before our eyes.

Their secrets are no more.

For I have not yet met a writer who was able to strip all hint of personal emotion from their work.

In fact, the thing that makes an author great is their ability to step into the pages and let their hearts do the writing.

For it is an unmistakable truth that, for a writer to allow another to read their work is to expose their soul.

It is as if we have opened the pages of our most private diary, held it out to the world and begged them...

..."come and read my soul. Feast your eyes upon my hidden mind. And please...be gentle with me."

This may be why so many of us struggle with allowing the world to read our work. It is nothing if not a terrifying idea for someone else to take something that we have poured our hearts and souls into and bring it out into the light.

Pieces of the writer themselves have become lost among the words. It's more than just a fairytale or a retelling of a historical event. It's part of our story, a scrap of our legacy, wrapped up in these fragile pages.

The work itself might be perishable, but the dreams, hopes, and fears that are represented there are enduring.

So please.

Be gentle.