:: joy dance

{via pinterest}

the pursuit of joy is a dance, a thing of glory.

it's feet placed squarely against smooth cool wood, that slight intake of breath right before the music starts, a matched exhale with that very first note.

happiness can be found easier, under the stones that cover the bed of a stream or right between the complimenting syllables that trip so sweetly from the lips of an admired one. 

but joy. ohh, joy is the elusive White Stag of the Great Lion's master plan that leads you in a mighty chase to place you direct in the center of His roaring triumph.

see, I am doing a new thing, a mighty thing.
joy, joy, joy!

it's a majestic thing to be in the center of this whirlwind of joy. because to get to this center, this pearl in the midst, there comes that grain of sand tucked in the sensitive corners of the soul.

the rubbing and the aching brings the sorrow.
and then comes the dawning in a rumble of Lion's song and dew-drenched blades of grass.

joy is something sought after, something requested and then begged for, a thing that draws the greatest and the lowest to knocking on the door with flattened palms and an urgency incomparable. joy is not the feeling. it is the being. it is not the treasure, it is the hunt.

you would not have called for Him had He not been calling for you. 
{paraphrased from C.S. Lewis}

and so joy is a dance, a leap and a skip that can be done alone but is better with two, with clasped hands and fingers raised and head thrown back.

{linking today with beautiful emily and the imperfect prose community}

send it off // unafraid

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i stand amazed in the presence 

of Jesus the Nazarene.

and wonder how He could love me

a sinner condemned unclean.

i've been singing these words all morning, my own private worship service.

see, i've been pouring over my old manuscripts in recent days, repeating to my husband over and over again my goal for this year. i will finish one of those novels, and i will get it printed in fine, smooth paper glory in a tidy stack and i will send it off.

send it off. three little words that can strike a lot of terror into my heart. because i've sent my work off before, eager and excited, only to be greeted with the stilted words of the form letter.

thank you for your interest, but...

and then two became three, and now little fingers pat my cheeks and big blue eyes meet mine all day every day. and spit-up covers first one clean blouse and then two and then i'm down to just my yoga pants and that last black tank-top, and bedtime comes exhausted with no writing done.

and i am left with more time to fear in the silence when he snores and she snuffles and the ceiling tiles number twenty-seven in the dim light from the softly murmuring television set.

there are times i press my hands to bathroom tile while the hot water pours down over my head and masks the tears as God and i share a private moment of anguish because His will is perfect, but oh, it is so hard sometimes to see the road less traveled becoming the one i'm called to take.

:: but oh, the glory.

{my little reader}
photo property of DramaticElegance

because i have so many hands on my shoulders, helping my arms reach upward when i get so very tired and all i want to do is toss the papers like confetti to the wind. and i have soft chubby fingers on my neck and little squeaks in my ears, and reassuring words of the man who pledged eternity to me, and there's soup on the stove and coffee in the pot.

so i'll take the leather bound book and i'll brainstorm while they play together on the floor. and i'll write.

because that's what this year was about. it was about release. letting go of what holds me back, standing strong on what He said and living life free without fear.

send it off, daughter.
let Me show what I can do.

and under my breath, in the silence, i'll stop counting ceiling tiles and chant like a warrior instead

oh, how marvelous
oh, how wonderful
and my song shall ever be...

daughter rising

{via pinterest}

i forgot what this felt like. to write my heart, i mean. i've been so tired and so worn for so long that these words seemed to have faded from me, illusive like grass on the wind. and as beautiful as they were, they were lovely to watch float away, too.

and so i let them float, maybe a little too long for some, but just long enough for me. because this life within me, this little tiny heartbeat that we have since discovered beats the warrioress rhythm like mine, has been drawing much from me, and leaving little behind.

yes, i am carrying a girl-child. another daughter for the world, another pair of feminine hands for the Kingdom's banner. and all i can do is wrap my arms around my ever growing stomach and whisper

courage, my dearheart

you are not a daughter alone.

i am almost afraid to bring another woman into this world. the burden already placed upon her tiny shoulders almost breaks me down to weeping at every thought. for who knew that so much would be required of innocent eyes and fragile fingers?

rain has told me to blurt. to impulsively speak my heart to the wind. and maybe that's what this is, a blurting out of my heart's overflowing emotion that has been building up and flowing through my veins at a pace too fast and to the tune of some music that i've forgotten that i've missed for weeks. 

{me large with our daughter, 18 weeks}

but this much i know well, and i know strong in my soul.

i will not raise a quiet daughter of sewn-shut lips and discreetly bowed eyes. i will raise an earth-pounder, a piller-shaker, and a battle-crier. 

if she is the gentle warrior, let it be and i will love her. ::

if she is the loudest singer with hands raised to broken clouds, let it be and i will love her.::

 i will not dictate her steps; He has that laid smooth without my desperate attempts to push and prod His mighty Hands. 

her path is on Him, and my smile is on her. 

my Marian Abigail. my evening star, her father's joy. 

my little girl growing. my warrioress rising. my unborn champion, my silent voiced miracle. 

my daughter. his daughter. Aslan's daughter