permission to write {page four}

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ever since i started writing, i've had that little itch. the one that leads to names on covers and best-seller lists and signings in book stores where people match face to paperback and whisper, "that's her. she's the author."  

i can't help it :: i want my writing to mean something. i want to make it onto lists and to be seen, for that hand to go around another's shoulder and point, "see her? she writes for Glory." i just wish i knew how to leave the fame-wish behind and put the influence dream in my pocket for later.

but then, maybe i don't want the fame. because i'm messy, and messy is it's own thing. see, people want to see that woman behind the table as someone put together, something just like them except way more collected and tidy. they want the ones with the smooth hair and perfectly straight-lined scars, the ones that speak softly, i was broken, but i'm okay now. everything is in place. 

but i'm not like that. my scars are jagged, messy. there's nothing tidy about my story, no straight lines and smoothly paved roads. my roads are the country ones, up and down with hills that keep the valleys invisible until you're in them, with twists and turns and the occasional pothole. there's paint in my hair and one of my heels broke on the way up that last cliff. 

it's like there's an invisible line of church people, queuing out the door, murmuring in that way that blends together in that strange buzzing roar where the words can't be distinguished. i don't have know what they're saying, not really. i can see it in their eyes.

she has a lot of questions. she said...that word, that one i can't say. she doesn't fit, not anymore. her veil is falling off, it's sideways. someone should go fix that for her. 

my hair is a mess because i've been wrestling, and there's dirt on my face and tears in my eyes and it's streaking down and dripping muddy water off my chin. i'm wearing Grace and not much else, and there's fingers pointing from all directions. and sometimes, i'm so raw that it hurts to be touched because i've been clawing off one layer after another and it burns like Fire. 

then it comes, the ripping, the throbbing, the tearing. and it's not pretty, it's bloody and messy and there's scales on the ground like broken glass and i don't recognize myself. and then i see the flash of gold behind me, and i know. i'm being reborn, and everything is shredded and sideways, and those scales are gone, right off my eyes and i'm blinking into beams of Glory.

and that's how i know i need to write. how i know the permission that has been set in my soul since before i learned to hold a pen. i need to write :: for the imperfect, for the ones clinging to the hem of the only One who sees them. for the dirty, for the messy, for the thrashing. 

for the ones like me. 

the elephant in the room

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i want to talk about elephants.

there's something about them {as anyone who follows me on instagram will notice} that captivates me. i've started to notice this metaphorical parade of these creatures following me, never too far behind. people ask me all the time, why elephants? what do they mean? and my answer has shyly, sheepishly been :: i don't know.

i hate not knowing. really, it's one of those things that i struggle with the most. my favourite question is "why?" and i ask it perhaps more than i should. i want to know why, i want to know what. i just want to know. and so when these elephants began to appear in my life, stepping into my path one at a time, i wanted to know why.

and then i found a secret message, tucked in-between words gifted to my heart from my dearheart friend Teresa. and the rest came in a Lion's-breath whisper straight into my very soul.

:: it's okay to quiver. baby {elephant} steps count. 

fear. oh fear. it's the elephant in the room, to use the cliche. it's the thing we aren't supposed to do, but the one with the deepest-sinking claws. and it buries itself in and snarls and refuses to let go. and i'm holding out my hand, begging and pleading for Him to take it away, but then He reaches out and i jerk back my hand. i'm afraid to let go of the fear.

{from my own art journal. photo by dramaticelegance}

and those elephants, so big and bold and strong enough to even take on a lion in the wild, quiver in fear at the sight of something whiskered-small. they have fear too, these mighty things.

i've started to realize more and more, as i reach in and take hold of the story deep within me, that there are fear-chains wrapped around each word. it's being held down, tight, doing its level best to keep the Story stiffled. it tried to do it once already. have i forgotten that it failed? the Story ends with broken chains.

and so these elephants follow me, a sweet gentle parade, trunks swaying and nudging my back. and the Lion leads the way, a strange and beautiful party. we're walking, and inside we're quivering a little, because our Guide isn't safe. but oh, is He ever good.

and something is churning deep inside with each light barefoot step of mine, and each plodding waltz of the elephant feet.

i can hear the chains snapping.

craving space

i am craving my own space.

ever since we lost the dream house, the place in which we are tucked now has seemed to slowly be closing in around me. it's begun to feel smaller than it every had before.

i find myself sitting at the kitchen table with my art, merging paint and canvas with dishes and bank statements. it is not my space, it is collective space but not in a communal artist way. it in shared in a life way, a way that doesn't ever stop but simply moves around me. and sometimes, it feels like it is slowly pushing my artistic spirit down the nearby garbage disposal.

mermaids crave the ocean, the wide and the open, the salty spray and the peace of the selah-crashing waves. i am landlocked, in more ways that one, with the nearest water being bottled and chilling in the fridge.

and maybe that is why i have grieved the loss of this house so deeply, in a way that almost seems like a part of my physical self had fled. it has been a rending, a true exploration into that word that has become far stronger than i could have ever anticipated :: release. 

art has become something powerfully present in my life in recent months, especially as my own faith journey has taken unexpected twists and turns. it's that demolition, as my husband calls it, the breaking down of all i once knew save for the foundation of the Lion to whose shimmering mane i cling. i'm relearning the sacred, finding my soft Psalmist voice again. it's release. 

:: and even in the crush, releasing myself might be part of the grand scheme of the things after all. 

because i'm past the point of being able to find a corner of my own in this tiny little place we currently and i reluctantly call home. though home is where your heart is, and my loves are here. so this is home. i am creating in the midst of our life, where the Light shares between my ink and paper pages and the aromas of home-cooked food and laundry soap.

and so i'm laying out the brushes and opening the journal, a new blank page in the middle of my worship place at the kitchen table. i light a candle and exhale the holiest of God-Light to the tune of stillness in the midst of the household busyness. i'm learning how to find my warrioress self amid the pulsing thrum of vacuums and pasta water boiling.

finding my space which i crave so desperately.
even if it means this mermaid swims {for now} in the kitchen sink.

{linking with dear emily for imperfect prose}

sparrow maps

sometimes life becomes about the push and the shove. it's impossible to avoid, as much as i wish as i could burrow down into the silence and inhale the sweetness of rest into my lungs. but instead, there's smog in the air, and it's heavy and there's traffic here and there and everywhere. 

and sometimes i feel upside down and i've forgotten how to straighten myself out. and that expression "pulling my hair out" becomes reality as the brush rakes that little bit too rough in the effort of working the knots out of my soul from where the footprints left their marks. 

looking around, i realize that i've been tying knots in other souls too. because i can't always keep my mouth shut, and i leave crater-holes where i've ripped love out by the roots and left gaping bleeding patches in my wake. and the ones i love hold hands to their hearts to keep what little i left behind, because i'm brutal in myself. 

you are a box with fragile written on it, 

and so many people have not handled you with care. 

and for the first time, I understand that I will never know 

how to apologize for being one of them. 

:: Shinji Moon

we all have the books, the pages worn around the edges from the turn and turn and turn and the press of the ink against every line. we have scrawled our lives there in our own secret language made of whispers and moments. we have a map tattooed in invisible ink on our palms and sometimes we just run out of compass points to decypher. it's hard work to walk alone, after all.

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i think that's why we raise our hands so often in that moment of emptiness. He already knows the road, but it's okay to remind Him where we are, because He likes to be asked. and my palms are bleeding from the twisting and the wringing and the clawing. and so my hands go up with a soft sob of oh Abba, i don't know anymore.

and that's when the drums of brave start to their thudding, their sweet heart-beating glory finding the cadeance of love and light and forgiveness. and i'm going to hum so sweetly of sparrows under my breath, because if He sees them, He sees me. 

it takes an ocean not to break

hums birdy

and she's right. 

but for me, i'm resting on the hands of the One who soothed the waves to glass-calm and dove into the depths of fire to remind me that i am worth more than the scars on my arms would lead me to believe. i am seen by the One-Who-Sees, and i've said it a thousand times, but one more time is needed, i think. 

i sing because i'm happy

i sing because i'm free

His eye is on the sparrow

and i know He watches me.

women :: wild-blessed

{photo via pinterest}

i speak about the wild here quite often. sometimes, i'm not even sure myself how to find that perfect grove of trees. and the smudge of dirt on my cheeks feels a little foreign, almost like a virginal bride awakening that morning to find her husband-love in her bed with a blush of blessed now.

i'm embracing that wild with shaking fingers, the wild that is woman, that is me somehow strange. the whisper of woman that was in the forefront of His mind, composed with God-Daddy smiles and sunrise-stained fingers that i cannot comprehend without weeping. because He formed me, hips and hair and eyes and mouth all in one, and whispered I see that you are good, wild daughter. 

and i can't help with the pinching and the frowning and the clumsy fingers clutching a chisel to gouge away the parts of me that He must have made wrong, the spots where the Wild-Maker slipped. and the mirror laughs and the sky cries as the Lion lets tears fall as i wrap myself in filmy black mourning cloth and block out the Light.

but He comes in the morning, like a bright-eyed groom with fresh unchanging love in His holy gaze and scissors to snip away the veils until i'm exposed and raw and maybe even bleeding just a little because pruning is pain, but it's beauty too. and then He spits on the ground and smears Heaven-made mud mixed with the Blood of the Lamb on my soul and whispers see again, for your faith has made you whole.

{photo property of DramaticElegance, taken via instagram}

He writes His name on my eyelids so when i blink, i remember. and every flicker of the eyelashes is a flicker of the Spirit-flame sent down after forty days of waiting from the day He rose. He calls me woman, He calls me daughter. and it's not a dirty curse but a whisper of admiring glory woven in Light.

and Heaven to earth is only a whispered prayer away, a half-step to glory. and for so long, i've been loving and living like fire and ice, never touching without burning and melting. but now i'm flying close to the Light and i am not burned, for the One at my side is like the Son of the Most High

so i'm leaving my shoes on the threshold because this place is holy ground, and the dirt feels good between my toes and the wild is calling my name.

run further up and further in
for this is the place of which you have dreamed
for which you have been waiting all your life.

:: be wild, dove-daughter
for your faith has made you whole

hush-holy ::

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a phrase has been trapped in my mind for about a week now. two words strung together, innocently enough, make something soft and precious and so profound that it has woven itself into the very essence of me and is resting there.

hush-holy.
{phrase coined by rain}

there is sacredness nesting inside me now, building up and making something great and beautiful in a way that maybe i didn't understand before.

this word {YHWH} is the sound of breathing.

the holiest name in the world, the Name of Creator

 is the sound of your own breathing.

and so i sit and ponder in this time of spring, the epitome of hush-holy and silent glory and the majesty of life appearing in the gentlest of ways.

but there are storms, grey-skied things that sweep in with wind and rain and thunder and lightning. and oh, how the glory of God is found in this grand display. 

:: but then comes the calm.

and the wind and seas obey His voice. and all is still when He and i step back into the boat, and i find myself on my knees in the hush whispering, truly You are the Son of the Most High God. because His very breath is this thing swirling around me, even here on my yellow couch with Old McDonald as the soundtrack to this moment of worship. 

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but in my head i'm singing soft words familiar to my tongue, words i have sang over and over in my soul from the first time i heard them. a tender melody found here in the hush-holy, in the calm draped over my shoulders like a warm blanket of Life from the fingers of the most loving Father.

oh the deep deep love of Jesus

vast, unmeasured, boundless, free

//

and it's not a solo, but a duet, because the Lion is singing soft in my ear, harmonizing in the most beautiful way, crooning, see, I am doing a new thing, all things made new. and the Song of the Lion has become the sweetest backdrop to arms outstretched and glory whispered from my mortal-turned-immortal lips. 

now you are a Lioness

and all...will be renewed.

{prince caspian, c.s. lewis}

moon-howler // be still

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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. 

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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.

fall fresh on me // avocado

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i've always been captivated by the inside. by the stuff that no one sees, the painting underneath the varnish that was forgotten for a hundred years until one brave chisel flaked away the dark to show the light.

and it's springtime, or almost, and i'm watching as life is fighting winter every minute and every second to find its way out of the ground and into the blue sky world out here.

i saw a little girl find a feather the other day, and she smiled and held it up, and the silken strands were still so strong despise the wind and rain and squashy mud all around. and my soul picked up the feather too and tucked it in my hair, the little girl in my heart throwing back long dark waves of hair and laughing to the sky

Spirit of the living God,
;; fall fresh on me

and i'm starting to find God in the little things again, the things i forgot. and i know i've written here a thousand times about the beautiful ones, the almost hidden ones in the Bible, the ones He noticed that were invisible to everyone else.

it's the slicing of the avocado, that thick black shell melting away under silver to reveal the green of nourishment and the thick pit that holds life at even its tiny tight-locked core. and it's marvelous how much life can be wrapped up in something so wrinkled and unappealing to the eye.

sometimes i feel the pain of that knife slicing so smooth through the vileness that has built up around the life potential He placed in my heart of hearts. and it hurts so that i falter and weep and beg

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Spirit of the living God
:: fall fresh on me

and then the green is seen, and the life tucked away deep within comes to the surface and blooms rich like springtime with glory and life shining from every pore. oh, how i ache to be radiant, to cover my face with a veil for the Light bursting from me to every corner.

now i feel infant fingers pull at long waves of my raven-wing hair, and i bring down my own fingers on the soft ginger gosling down that clings to the head of my beautiful little one. i think of future days when i will brush her hair and tell her about feathers and grace and the Light of the Son.

but for now, she falls asleep on my shoulder and lets loose the sweetest of baby sighs, and i feel something stir deep inside my soul. it's that little girl, tucking the feather behind her ear. she sits beneath a tree with the soles of her feet pressed together and elbows on knees.

and she whispers soft like the newcoming springtime breezes

Spirit of the living God,
:: fall fresh on me

upward gaze ::

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i've decided to stop looking down

because all that's down there is grass and dirt and my feet and the path less traveled. 

and He's not underground anymore, because He's risen and now sits among the stars. and i'm going to spend my hours in the stars this spring. no more shame with downcast eyes and hesitant steps that aren't exactly sure, that aren't exactly steadfast. 

now that she's back in the atmosphere

with drops of Jupiter in her hair

she acts like summer and walks like rain

reminds me that there's a time for change ::

drops of jupiter // train

people are living on the "even the..." too much these days, while i'm rubbing the eraser over those words until they disintegrate into thin rubber strands on the paper and get brushed away as far as the East is from the West. 

i'm resolving and loving regardless. and that includes loving you in the skin you're in, and looking past sex and race and orientation because those are words but they're are who you are, too. because He didn't stop and pass out checkboxes just to make sure the crowds were lovable before He stretched out His arms and poured out pints and pints of redeeming blood. 

so why do i?

so no more looking at the crowds with pointed fingers, Church-Bride. no more figures where faces should be. see the dove daughters and rainbow hued sons and paint-streaked kings and offbeat queens, just like He did. 

and that means loving you too. it means loving me like i'm worthy of His death and rising and loving and sword to the throat of Hell for me, oh all for me. and for you. and them.

:: amen.

so let it be.

burning Real

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i'm twenty-two. and i'm just now starting to understand what it means to be real.

it's more than just existing, brushing my hair and putting on the same pair of shoes every day for a week. it's more than breathing, the inhale and exhale that i don't think about, i just do.

it's about that giving up and that allowing for ashes on the face, from clinging to the Fire that burns like white-hot glory in your soul. it's about the understanding that He is greater, higher, stronger, than i could ever be. and that's okay, because He is the Lion and i am His lamb.

once you become Real, you can never be ugly

except to people who don't understand. 

and i'm okay with being barefoot in the sand, because i'm treading on holy ground and there's nothing i want more than to be in this place of sheer and complete emptiness, full of Him and empty of me.

there's a sweet silence in the mantra spoken under my breath in the candlelight when He and i meet. it's precious, Abba God teaching me how to roar. and i'm still soft and squeaky and tumbling over my own tail at the snap of a twig. but we start again, and again, and He's patient even though i break His heart.

it's in pursuit of Real, of the nail-pierced hand on my cheek, guiding my tears into the bottle He keeps on His shelf.

it's about realizing that you're small, and that's okay, and you're worn, and that's okay too. because through the soot and the tumbling and the ink-stained fingertips, He's making you new.

and so i'll sit in the right place, tucked at His feet. it's all the dance, this step right and step left and settle in here.

with Your arms around me
i'm home. 

{linking with dear emily where we rejoice in imperfection} 

diamond strands

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i am woman. 

hear me roar.

mew. 

because roaring is hard sometimes when the world is whispering, "women who aren't good enough should be seen and not heard." 

i feel tugged, stretched, a fragile strand of priceless diamonds pulled too hard until...

and then comes the snap, and the clatter of gems across a hardwood floor. the tears come then, as i gather the sparkling remains of what could have been in my palm and weep my own diamonds from heavy eyes and realize that it was nothing but fakes. 

and i hold up my twisted string and cubic zirconia in shaking hands to the One who saw me before the beginning of the world. and the Maker of All, the Mighty One, reaches down and takes my bits of nothing and holds them in His nail-pierced palm. 

and then He speaks. 

not broken. Restored.

not desolate. Renewed.

not forgotten. because I have known you long.

not dirty. washed in My blood.

not forsaken. Mine. 

not abandoned. not ugly. not worthless.

Lioness. Warrioress. Princess. 

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word upon word, reminder upon reminder from this God-Who-Sees. and plastic turns to diamonds as He whispers life to me.

He places the strand around my neck, mended and true and glorious. and that bleeding, broken hand of Glory lifts my chin to meet His gaze.

dearest Daughter, I knew you would not be long in coming to me. 

joy shall be yours.

::horse and his boy, c.s. lewis

and i step out to sing with His diamonds around my neck. and when the mirror screams a horrid chant of all that it claims i am, i can meet its gaze with the Glory glittering against my skin.

i am woman. 

hear me Exult! 

trying on shoes

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i'm walking a mile in your shoes. it's a hard thing to do. it's stepping out of the comfortable, away from the familiar and the normal.

but it's something we've forgotten to do, even as Christians. our greatest commandment is love Him with everything, the inhale and exhale, the lightbeams from the ends of our fingers and from each strand of hair. 

but that second one. why do we have so much trouble? 

love your neighbor ::

and don't try to ask the question the man at the fire asked, the one i'm never sure if it's heartfelt sincere or hesitating sarcasm. i can almost see that gentle look in His eye, the one that i'm sure that He wears often. the look of sorrow, the unspoken, 

oh child, can't you see Me? 

because 

your neighbor is everyone.

it is those that we have made untouchable, unlovable. the wallflowers and the window-washers. the soiled doves, the bastard sons.because the noblemen sat at the table with upturned noses and gags held back in the throat at the distaste, at the horror, at what kind of woman was touching Him. and He reached down and touched her back. 

i'm aching at this church, this city on a hill turned smudgy and dark because we're content with only tending to the pretty candles and letting the other ones burn out alone. 

He washed their feet. down on His knees, a servant Messiah, He took off their shoes and got their dirt on His hands. 

so i'm trying on your shoes, and my toes are a little squished in some and my feet too tiny for others. and my eyes are adjusting to seeing through your lenses for just a minute. because i want to understand what He did. i want to see your world through your eyes, through His eyes. 

i want to stop in the street because i felt the power. 

someone touched me.

{linking early with emily to celebrate LOVE}

:: in which we are behind the glass

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there's a lot of glass in this world. we spend most our lives behind glass, looking through panes to see out. we live and sleep and eat and breathe and even travel from ocean to ocean behind glass.

it's a lot of inside-out living, transparency our friend but the glass is covered in fingerprints with noses pressed up close to see everything that we just can't touch.

lend me your eyes, i can change what you see

but your heart, you must keep totally free

:: mumford and sons

sometimes the glass is there as a leaning post, something to press against and keep us steady, keep us close to the world but just out of reach.

are we afraid of the world outside, the puddles that might be deeper than we first imagine, the sharp stones that might cut our feet and make us bleed? 

there's an unsure-ity, an aspect of hesitation that comes hand in hand with that sunlight, oh that sunlight that kisses the glass and sends a thousand rainbows our way...always just out of reach.

and thumbprints, one of a kind, smoosh across the glass as we press our palms there like little children and wait...

...we wait for the day that the blinders come off, that we grow up enough to pass milk up for the meat and stand strong on the Rock that is greater, stronger.

and the curtain is torn and the glass shatters like ice from a shed roof in a sparkling crash that sings

freedom. 

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and on and on and on and on it goes

till it overwhelms and satisfies my soul.

:: just one thing remains ::

it's childlike faith that never falters and never changes. 

it's innocent hearts in adult bodies.

it's wise serpents and gentle doves curled together like the promise in Isaiah, two things so foreign and so deadly one to another made sanctified and holy because a little child shall lead them. 

and so we press bare feet to hardwood floors and press our noses to glass as we wait until we're grown, just a little stronger with roots a little deeper. 

then comes the shatter 

// and then comes the light. 

creating light

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exhale. what comes out?

air. 

speak. what comes out?

power.

there's life or death in the words of your lips. that's great power coupled with great responsibility to borrow the cliche. how than can we say that we are weak if that's what we possess, all of us? 

and i'm learning to tame that power in the right channels, to create life where death lingers and to bring light where darkness permeates. 

and i will learn, i will learn to love the skies i'm under. 

i'm tired of existing in a world that exhales darkness and dwells in it like a poisonous fog. 

the darkness screams violent, destroy, because it's easier. 

the light whispers tender, create, because you must. 

:: oh, you must. 

there is more to creating that scissors and glue or cloth and string. there is creating in this place you're in. it's the simple act of brewing coffee at midnight and the sweet shushing song invented to soothe the wailing. it's the braiding of hair and the wrapping of blankets. 

it's unity, it's sisterhood, brotherhood, the sacredness of family with and without blood for bond. 

exhaling light, life. creating beauty in the simplest of things and the most precious of actions.

and i will learn, i will learn to the love the skies i'm under. 

{linking with dear sweet em today}

circles repeated

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:: i am drawing circles in the earth.
i am marching around my Jericho. 

those words, those two simple lines, started a post that i wrote on the last day of January. my circle journey had just started, and i almost want to laugh and then weep at how far i have come.

because all of me has become a circle. and i can say that with laughter as i watch my belly grow and grow and continue to grow. and i watch the mandella of prayer in which i have found myself kneeling become visible and evident on my skin, dark purple twisting lines that create

the most intricate
the most precious
the most beloved
and the most frightening of prayer circles that i have ever witnessed.

i've learned more about myself in these past nine months than i ever could have anticipated. and yes, it has been nine months now, at the dawning of this morning's fingers of rose and pale gold. i've had to release the rigidness to which i have steadfastly clung, because i wake up every morning without a single clue as to what i might encounter.

and this journey of her safely beneath my skin is almost over, and with a scream of mine and a wail of hers, she will be here...and this makes me tremble, loved ones. this makes me tremble in the most sacred of ways, and the most human of ways, as well.

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i feel like this circle is fragile. like it could break if i press the wrong way, and everything falls to pieces. it's that fear again, that serpentine voice whispering my ear, you shall not surely die, but you shall be like God. 

and now i understand why Eve's temptation was so great, why the first woman reached out for the fruit that whispered lies of simple solution, of knowledge of what is and what could come.

but i'm letting Him guide my fingers from sparkling poison apples to something brighter, something dirty like Carpenter's sandals, something dusty like the hem of the Rabbi's cloak.

grasp Me here. 
and down on your knees is where you will find Me, the most clean and the most pure. 

because faith is found in circles of prayer and blood and freshly cut covenant
where the fire can pass between the torn pieces of me to lodge in the fullness of Him.

glorious emptiness

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i feel empty. but in a good way.

as though my self has been rung out, and tenderly folded over the edge of the sink. it sounds awful, i know. but it's a beautiful kind of emptiness.

morning by morning, He's filling me anew, and showing me that it's alright to be silent for a time. and i know that my blogging voice is has been quiet in recent days, but i feel like it's the break i've been needing for months.

since July, i've been blogging every single day. partially because of the inspiration flowing, but also because it's felt like a requirement. something i needed to do to keep myself in line in order to feel connected.

but now i'm learning to relax. i'm enjoying being pregnant, for all the discomfort and exhaustion that comes alongside this journey. i'm overwhelmed, and that's more than alright.

oh, this is a dance, steps that i have never learned before that i am now starting to understand. these slow movements turned to a pounding beat of resting...resting...resting...

and i'm standing here with hair undone and loose, and eyes wide open to see what lays before my bare feet. this is a good journey.

oh, so much glory.

overwhelmed in love. toes pressed against the base of the cross.

bear with me, friends, as i learn to juggle this exhaustion and temper myself with glory. 

and pray for me, as i measure out and find my new center. 

enigma

{via pinterest}

i serve a conundrum. i worship an enigma.

a roaring Lion, King of Judah. a Lamb slain, silent before His murderers.

Living Water that burns like fire. 

a Man dead turned God alive. 

and i am in awe. because i'm unworthy, and still loved.

is it strange that barefoot equals a gesture of sacred? that exposing the dirty, broken toes that pound the earth step after step and still, that's what He wants as my act of humility?

the King of Glory wants my lowest. and all i have is enough for Him.

i want to bite into life and be torn by it

:: anais nin ::

and i do.

because He stood on cliff's edge with the Devil at His back, whispering the sweetest lies into the ear of the Son of God. and the Word was flung back, this double-edged sword which finally drove the serpent to its belly again.

oh, lead me to the cross
where Your love poured out.

this enigma i worship, the awe shudders in my soul like an ocean wave.  this Son of Heaven turned all Man but still all Deity.

:: the One who knows all is jealous for me ::

because my God is not simple, but He sees me simply. forgiven, covered, no shame here. this is the most complicated simplicity. sinner turned saint, demeaner turned daughter.

oh, the glory.

be alive :: battlecry

{via pinterest}

do you want to live?

i hear this question every day. not as a cry of despair or a wail of longing, but as a battlecry.

do you want to live?

my heart beats this word. LIVE. LIVE. LIVE. who knew the very act of breathing could be more than just breathing? because there's more to this thing of living than just inhale-exhale-repeat times a thousand. oh, no.

living is so much more than being alive. did you know that today, as you press through crowds or stand in kitchen solitude?

do you have little ones clinging to your leg chanting their own reprise of mommymommymommy? or is there a thousand other voices clamouring for your attention, and you aren't sure which one to answer first?

because you're alive. your heart is beating and your blood is flowing. but are you living? really?

this is a battlecry, i promise you.

do you want to live?

because i think you should crave to LIVE. oh sister, grasp life by the mane and roar your existence to the Heavens. we are Lion children, Heaven's heirs. and we're living like miners in the goldrush, fingers pawing through the muck for maybe a nugget of truth, or maybe a nugget of lies.

have we forgotten how to live in Light? as daughters and sons, adopted to glory?

stop where you are. 

stop right now.

and look. rip off those sunglasses as those who are blind and feeling their way from brick wall to muddy bog. because there is a path to take, dearhearts. and it's lying down before you, crying out

i'm here! see me?

sometimes it's a charge. other times it's tentative steps, learning to walk all over again. so won't you leap? and won't you live?

cry out, warrior. be brave. and live.

drumbeat :: magnify

{via pinterest}

a precious breather occurred this weekend. i was going to apologize for not blogging in two days, but i'm refraining.

i'm honestly not sorry. 

i love this place i'm in right now. it's a breathing place, a place where Light overwhelms and rest is finally accepted.

it's a dancing place, a place of scarves and bells and so much leaping to the music of glory as this soul magnifies again and again.

this year is barely twenty-two days old. and it's already the best year of my life. perhaps a cliche, a redundancy that everyone speaks in moments of joy. but this is more than this heart can bear.

:: i'm pregnant ::

these are words i still struggle to speak because of their newness and the awe that accompany their presence against my tongue. as the weeks are ticking by and my exhaustion is deepening and my appetite for every food in sight grows, i also start to smile broader. as this little one gets bigger within me, i cannot help but magnify.

:: i'm going to Europe ::

i'm boarding a plane to Germany and Prague with my little sister in April. i still am in utter awe to the point of falling to my knees with elation and wonder. in a matter of hours it went from maybe to impossible to official, and this trip is now in the middling stages of planning. and again, i magnify.

my soul doth magnify the Lord

and my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour. 

{via pinterest

there are times when i feel that my level of blessings overflow above and beyond anything i could have ever anticipated.

and then in the moments of darkness when hope seems barely fingertips from reach, i remember this.

these dancing moments where glory brushes the earth and i find myself streaking cheeks with earth in lines of warrior paint and the drums of pounding hearts set the beat for my soul to leap.

oh, i am brave, soul doors thrown open to let the sun warm the broken corners.

oh praise Him.

:: EDIT :: Europe has fallen through. and though my heart broke all afternoon and tears flowed like water, i am still rejoicing. because there is something here for me, something to which i should cling. and home is where i should be now, i see. and i am still magnifying. 

why sacred :: relationship

if you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you will have noticed my fervency for the sacred, my new and hounding pursuit of holiness that has taken over my life in recent months. i've turned my attention toward seeking Him in everything, every breath and every step. finding Him in the rubble as well as in the consecrated.

but that has not sat well with everyone.

i've heard from several different people in my life that what i'm doing is dangerously false and far from His truth. because sacred is in the Church, in the Word, and in the ordained.

isn't that right?

that was last week. and i felt something start to spin off-center in my heart.  wasn't this what He was telling me to do? wasn't i going His way, following His pull?

was i wrong? 

and this week, this video appeared. i saw it posted here and there, on one friend's wall, and then another's twitter. and then i clicked play. and i sobbed.

because it was my answer to these careless-flung words from one broken heart to another. because we've knocked His hands off the cross and hid the bloodstains under the carpet. we've repainted His face and highlighted mismatched sections of the Word until the sacred has been turned into stigma.

it's not a museum for good people

it's a hospital for the broken.

religion says do.

Jesus says done

religion says slave

Jesus says son

and this was my answer to the questions and the controversy. and i felt ashamed of myself, because this should have been my answer all along. 

and i cannot thank Him enough. because this is what i've been trying to say, and couldn't form. 

and so i find myself clutching brave again, like a drowning solider with just a scrap of fight left, unwilling to surrender. no more making Him small because it fits better. He isn't supposed to fit, after all, but change. 

when He said it is finished

i believe that He meant it.