passion seeker :: finder

{via pinterest}

but how do you find your passion?

no, really. how do you find your passion?

:: the sacred life of rain

it's a simple question. isn't it?

i'm an artist, a dreamer. i'm a passionate person with overflowing dreams and an electric surge under my skin. but how do i find my passion? 

i feel like my passion hit a wall this week. we had something in our grasp, something i didn't know i wanted quite this badly until it fell apart. it was a home, and it was beautiful and green, and i heard our future in those walls and planned moments in those rooms. 

but then, it went away. and then i wept until my body ached. i was on fire for this dream. 

and now, i feel swayed by this wind that has gushed through my body and whispered i wanted this so bad. and i wailed to my husband,

this is why i don't get excited

and i opened my mouth and dared to wrestle with the Lion like Jacob.

 why? 

i don't understand

why did you let us get this far?

and i sobbed for all the memories that could have been, and i broke for the passion that i would have possessed there. i stared at drab brown and white walls that i am not allowed to paint, and the too-much-stuff that crowds my corners with not even room for an easel, and i felt my passion compressing down into a cube that barely fit in this tiny place. 

i felt squished. i felt grey, like all the colour had been rung out of me. i felt limp and helpless and empty. no more passion, because i left it in the foyer of this perfect dream.

{via pinterest}

:: and so we wrestled, He and i, until the dawn.  

and then somehow, i dried my tears. my soul woke up and looked around this place, this little corner where he and i and soon our daughter have been placed. and i started to see dark bookshelves in a corner, and swooping dark purple fabric hung like bunting from corner to corner in the back room now-turned nursery. 

we went and bought new sheets for the bed. soft gold fabric to match the flowers on our midnight blue bedspread. and we put down the corners and made up the bed with the gold hidden inside until the blanket got pulled back after midnight. 

i slid my body between those sheets and let out a breath that was more of a prayer than a sob. because my passion isn't dead, it isn't gone, and it wasn't left wrapped around the perfect hardwood banister. 

it never left. i just forgot where it was. i didn't have to find it after all, because it was never lost. my focus had just become blurred. my passions aren't controlled by where i am, by what i have, by what i experience. 

they just are. 

they are in a two story dream, and they are here, in a four room canvas that i just haven't been bold enough to embrace. 

they don't need to be found.

they just are. 

sacred :: remembrance

i awoke with a pull. a voice in my head, whispering things undecipherable and beautiful.

He's trying to tell me something. 


because as i opened my laptop and began to read, soak myself in Lion's song and sister's words, i began to sense a pattern. again, a pull.

because rain wrote of truth in the thin places, of memorials of the sacred moments. and sarah wrote of love up to the dark, of life written out and remembered in Glory.

and i felt my soul crumble, not in the way of broken stones and shattered dreams. but in the way, the way you only understand if you've felt it before.

that crumbling of release and refreshment that comes when walls of fear and shame come tumbling down and all you can  see is the sun and Son, both shining down on your face, but One brighter than the other.

sacred spaces worth remembering etched in ancient lines across palm, 

and did you know that remembrance is synonymous with love? 

love-marked space says 

something special is here, 

something mysterious 

and worthy

 and holy.

:: rain: lullaby for light ::

and oh, how those words pounded tribal of brave to me. 

because memorials frighten me, sometimes. i'm apt to step into His shoes, into that place of writing in the dirt, scribbling hard with bleeding fingertips of every shame and every broken moment. somehow, i feel i must remember my shame, remember why i am unworthy. 

and then come sandal-clad feet, pierced and bleeding. and they are not the silent feet that some focus upon...

no, these are the pounding Feet that stood on the neck of Death and ground him to powder at the base of the Cross. they belong to the Gentlest Warrior who holds Hands high and cries in Lion's roar

Mine. 

and He destroys my memorial to shame. because He did not die so i would remain. oh, He died that i would rise with Him. and together we gather stones with carvings strange and markings still unfamiliar. 

grace. 

forgiven. light. 

eternity. brave. warrioress. 

Mine. 

and on this altar, i burn my rags and stand scarred and unashamed beside my memorial. i am barefoot, in the sacred place. 

He and i both. 

brave life :: on skin

{via pinterest}

i read a quote today, the first line of a blackout poem from the seeker heart of a girl whom i would call an inspiration and a friend. 

life printed on skin

a self-portrait must follow

this quote curled up and nested in my soul from the moment the words passed from eyes to mind. 

for a long time today, i sat and pondered, because i wasn't sure why these words spun silken threads of Light around me and held so fast. 

life printed on skin. 

and then i was drawn back to brave. 

because everyone sees your skin. 

yes, you can cover certain areas with clothing, even bundled from head to toe if you so choose. but you know what's there when the lights go out and the garments slip from shoulder to floor. 

it's not tucked away under flesh and blood and bone like secrets that even x-rays can't reach. it's like the tattoo that stands bold on my wrist, thick black lines that the whole world can see. 

and it's a choice we have. 

a self-portrait we must follow. 

we can tuck down and hide, ducking behind the blankets and begging the world to close its eyes and just look away, just for another minute of invisibility. 

but i feel like He holds out fingers to those corner-clingers, the ones that ache to hide in shadow. and He speaks of sacredness found in freedom, those footprints in the sand when we let Him left and carry. 

i'm brave now, or at least, i'm striving. 

striving hard to live eyes to the sky with outstretched arms, bare with scars and marks. 

because He's in love with them, and so i must be, too.

in love with those lines and lines, thin and thick in black and white and whispers of technicolour of this self-portrait that whispers to His mercies, His glory, and His salvation. 

final notes :: in review

{via pinterest}

tomorrow is 2012. 

honestly, it's hard for me to believe that another year is so close. i can almost feel the smoothness of the chalkboard, that clean slate that lurks so near. it's refreshing. 

this year has been remarkable. 

and you've blessed me. 

and life has changed for the sacred, for the beautiful. 

i'm humbled to be surrounded by such incredible brothers and sisters as you, once strangers turned beloved friends who have held my hand as this year has tossed and turned. in the beauty, we celebrated. and in the darkness, we held up the candleflames. 

it has been a year of Light in this place. a year of drawing closer. 

and so, here they are. 

:: the ones that blessed you ::

woman 

//

we need more than our silent allotments of stand and sit and worship and listen and nothing more than this. we crave Him. we ache to go deeper. we want to search His will and see His heart and wrestle with Him in hand-to-hand until we find ourselves undone and exposed before Him. because He chose us too. 

grace alone

//

i am walking on Grace alone.

Sometimes, I find myself at a loss for how much poetry I dream and then promptly forget upon my waking.

It is a powerful ache to realize just how much this world of chaos, of tears, of sleep-stolen moments and overbooked days has ripped my art from me.

dreaded souls :: imperfection

//

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. 

ink of wait

//

the three years worth of familial well-meaning words cut like the lies mixed with truth that they are...because really i'm not wasting anything.

why don't i go? i'm not called.

but i have wasted nothing.

this is rebirth, i would say. and it's painful.

three things

//

and so i take my pen and my paper and my too-many thoughts and i sit and i wonder just what might happen if i knew something, anything at all.
i watch the people, feet on pavement and pavement on feet. and i realize what i know.
i know three things, because sarah kay says good things come in threes, and she's right, after all.

:: :: :: 

i cannot thank you enough. the blessings that you have poured over my head like anointing oil in this past year has been more than i can understand.

it's been a walk into sacredness, toward gripping the hem of the Son of the Most High. a walk into adventure, hand in hand with my Abba.

it's been the vigil of death with candles lit and joy coming fresh in the morning. it's been a path with more stones than i expected, and more joys than i could even fully pen.

be blessed in 2012, dearhearts. 

{also, for those of you that have been following my OneWord journey here and here, i have found my word. 

tomorrow, it will breathe. and it will begin. 

so much gratitude for all your prayers and all your blessings.}

rage :: Light

{via pinterest}

i heard a poem when i was in the first grade, and it's haunted me ever since.

i didn't know what the words meant, but i knew they had meaning. i knew that i would find out one day, if i just kept searching. 

do not go gentle into that good night

rage, rage against the dying of the light

all my life, these words have followed me. my entire life, i have heard this words whisper into my soul, a mantra of sorts that my soul sings over and over, a battle cry.  

now, i think i'm beginning to know what they mean. 

i always thought that rage meant to be angry, to be furious at the extinguishing of the light. but it means more that just anger, than just angst. 

it's fighting against it all. the fear, the expectations, the trepidation. it's warring against anything that quenches this Light. 

it's about stepping from the shadow into the Light, hands up and fingers parted to let every fluttering beam to slide into every crevice to let oh, so much strength flow into my every pore. 

{via pinterest}

it's about finding the power. because the Light, the Son is more powerful than we are. 

rage, rage against the dying of the Light. 

maybe the author didn't mean for this piece to be taken this way, but isn't that what art is about? freedom and expression.

and so i read these words over and over again. they've pulled me forever, and i think they will always weave some kind of spell over me. 

it's all about stepping from broken to Grace, from dust to sovereign. and so that's what this poem says to my heart as Christmas comes and the the mystery of skin and flesh and bone and God and Eternity meld together with stable straw and beating hearts. 

and so as i stand under twinkle lights and white pine trees with silver and red and green, i have a hand raised. 

because i am not going gentle into that good night.

and i will rage, rage against the dying of the Light.  

spark

do you ever wonder 

what you were born to do? 

do you ever watch the street musicians, battered guitar and plastic tub drums tucked into cement corners? do you ever watch their eyes?

because if you did, you'd see something. something raw that only a seeker could find.

you find the spark. every dreamer has one, i promise.

do you ever wonder why there that's moment when tears roll down, but not from sorrow? from that agonizing beauty of perfect joy found when you find it.

:: that spark :: 

{via pinterest}

that cross in the windowpane, that little moment of gaze when the sun peaks over the ridge and pours over your face.

that moment when hands go up and eyes fly shut, because this is praise in a way. it's pure Glory, pure majesty. it's that thing when the world goes black and it's You and God and nothing else. spotlights shut down and the room is dark but everything shines.

because it's what you were born to do. it's what your soul craves, that voice in your heart that cries

sing. breathe. paint. 

be artist, be writer, be vocalist. 

be spark. 

and there's nothing you can do but listen. because we are, after all.

because we're doers. we're breathers.

we're dream touchers, star-gazers.

{sharing this imperfection with emily today}

:: 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}

lifeblood art

{via pinterest}

it's a curious thing. 

to be an artist, you have to embrace mistakes. 

you have to let your pain flow like blood in a safer way than trembling razorblades from wrist to elbow, making an outlet that won't take your life but just might safe it in the end. 

 your joy like fireworks exploding from your skin and fingertips and hair and eyes and lips and soul like so much jubilant light. 

your love stream from your eyes like a river, tears that aren't unbidden but that so many just won't understand to be anything but pain rippling out and out. it's not, though. it's perfect love.

that's what it is to be an artist.

after all, how can we know passion if we have never experienced it ourselves? how can we write, sing, or leap with emotions that are unfamiliar territory?

we have to embrace our imperfections. 

every last beautiful one. 

{via pinterest}

i'm preparing for a month of being laid bare. letting my soul pour into my novel, exposing my heart for this whole world to taste and touch and run their fingers over. 

maybe it'll do some good. 

a month of imperfections. a month of breathing art in like air. 

of being an artist

following my calling of art and passion and depth and soul. 

living here in imperfect art. 

creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes

art is knowing which ones to keep

~Scott Adams 

positivities. {61-70}

(via Pintrest)

another week has come upon us. another Monday has now arrived.

unlike last Monday's good-morning perfection, this Monday has already asserted itself in an attempt to bring me down under a chanting weight

so much to do.

so little time.

long. days. ahead.

i suppose, in a way, this little voice is speaking a measure of truth. 

i do have a great deal to accomplish today. 

i do only have 24 hours in this day, nine of which I have already slept away. 

and yes, this week has the potential to be either remarkably wonderful or disgustingly hideous. at this point, it could really go either way. 

but i have a choice.

 i could either allow myself to become overwhelmed by all that lies before me, take all of my hard and somewhat heartwrending situations of the week and internalize them, and then explode under the extreme pressure...

...or i can stop. i can breathe. i can know the Truth, and hold it closer than ever. and i can walk the path, doing what needs to be done...all the while remembering to breathe, and remembering to lean on the One who carries me through it all. 

and i can remember to be blessed. 

• 61. my mother and sister are coming HOME. tuesday night. after almost three insanely long months without my best friend-slash-sister, and one without my dearest mother...they are finally returning back to the USA. please forgive me a moment while my father and i go leap about the still very empty farmhouse like overly-caffeinated bunnies.
• 62. one month to go until opening night. it's almost here. i can taste it for it's closeness. i just have to survive the next month of off-book act polishing and tech/set conundrums until that curtain finally opens and i can say it's done.
• 63. laundry. the one chore i hate more than any other. but for all its hassle, it bears a certain measure of calming silence in that mostly-deserted laundryroom. save for the humming of the machines, all is quiet. and i can find a moment of stillness there. 
• 64. the continaul reminders that i am not alone in this walk of life. the message from a friend saying, that meant so much, just that talk. the little email with its words of wish you were here with me. these are the little comforts. 
• 65. spending hours talking with my dear engaged best friend. receiving text messaged pictures of the most flawless vintage wedding dress, discussing colour schemes and bachlorettes, and remembering that this path to the altar and to her adoring new groom is growing shorter with each passing day.
• 66. the new writers blog. it means the world to me. to ali. to dreams come true and visions realized. 
• 67. rango and tangled. being a child for just a few hours, laughing and loving those animated films which delight my soul. 
• 68. crying. the healing power of tears as they pour down my cheeks. the gentle reminder of the One who knows my heart. just a little while, dearheart. a little while and all will be as it was again. just wait a little while. 
• 69. His mercies. oh, may i never cease to praise Him. 
• 70. pintrest. whiling away the hours, listing and pinning and admiring such beauty. an addition, to be sure. a blessing, even still. 

this week could go either way. i have much to do, and little time. 

but i am not so small as my enemy would like me to believe. 

for greater is He who is in me

than he who is of the world. 

linking up with multitudes on monday.
a beautiful challenge. never forget. 

Respuesta (Answer)

I have no special talents.  I am only passionately curious.  ~Albert Einstein

Questions are a marvel of mine.

There is something so provocative, so deeply poignant, found within the curious ponderings of the human mind.

It fascinates me.

And so now, as promised, I have come to answer the questions poised to me in this post by so many precious and equally curious minds: Jess, Ashley, Christina, Kelsey, and Hannah.

In short, I will be honest...straightforward.

Read if you will.

What is your favourite type of music? 

Truly, I enjoy all types of music, with the exclusion of heavy metal, excessive rap, and overly "twangy" country. Those who know me know that my favourite artists include Owl City, Breanne Duran, Imogene Heap, and Brooke Fraser. 

If you could travel to three places, where would they be?

Peru. 

India. 

Paris.

What was your happiest moment last year? 

 To chose just one? So incredibly difficult. 

I would have to say the birth of my beautiful niece...holding her and cuddling with her for the first time, only moments after her birth. Such a precious gift, and such a beautiful moment. 

A few of your favourite bloggers?

To make this list is so deeply complicated and so very difficult! 

I love every single one of my fellow bloggers...but those that top my list are Carlotta, Olivia, Rain, Jocee, Jess, Polka Dot, and Grace. 

Your pet peeves?

People that interrupt. Men that disrespect/make jokes that degrade women. Theatrical politics. Dripping faucets. Daily drama being made public. Phones ringing in movie theaters/playhouses/etc. 

Your pet loves?

Kisses on my face, forehead, and nose. My niece's smile. Hearing my love call me beautiful. The Book of Isaiah. British accents. Properly used grammar. Inca Cola & Dr. Pepper. Sunsets. Hand-written letters. The smell of new books.  Watching the face of the groom as the bride walks down the aisle. Laughter. My King. 

How do you write so well? Did you take a course? 

I do not write so well. I write my heart on the page, and you may do with it what you will. And no, I did not take a course or any sort of college education, save the classes I took during High School.

Where do you find the pictures that you have in your posts?

Unless otherwise captioned, all photos are taken from WeHeartIt. 

What is your favourite holiday?

Easter, hands down. 

Such love and glory magnified into one single day. The world can barely contain such beauty.

What are three of the books that influenced you and your writing the most, books that inspire you, books that make you who you are?

To only choose three? Difficulty personified. 

Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, J.K. Rowling

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

I assumed the Bible was a given, as it and its Authour have transformed my life.

Which people, either living or dead, inspire you the most?

My grandfathers, one who is now with his King, and the other with whom I still cherish this lifetime.

My grandmothers, both beautiful and strong women who have prayed me into existence.

My birthmother. Flooded with courage. 

My mother. My model.

My father. My hero.

My sister. My best friend.

My love. My champion, and my Prince Charming.

My King. My Savior. My God. My Father.

If your house caught fire, which five items would be the most important for you to save?

My Bible.

My stuffed lamb, Lucy, which I have had since I was born. I love her. I am unashamed to admit this.

My laptop.

Other than these things, nothing else matters more than the lives of those whom I love and care about. If they are safe, I am the richest of women. 

White, dark, or milk chocolate.

Yes, yes, and yes. 

What is one without the others?

If you have read to the end of this post, I applaud your endurance...I value your curiosity.

If you have any other questions for me, never be afraid to ask them. There is always room for more answers, even if it takes another post to answer them 

Never stop searching for answers. 

You never know from whom and from whence they shall be found. 

Curiosity is little more than another name for Hope.  ~Augustus William Hare and Julius Charles Hare

Graduate

Do not follow where the path may lead. Go, instead, where there is no path and leave a trail. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

My little sister's High School graduation was on Saturday.

It was a day of emotion, family, and the passing of the baton from one generation to another...watching the graduation of my baby sister flooded me with pride.

As I watched her and a small cluster of my younger friends walk across the stage and receive their diplomas from their fathers, it was quite the flashback of my own graduation two years ago.

I remember standing against the wall with my closest friends as we prepared for the processional, slowly realizing that my life was about to change forever.

I remember the commencement speech and the mountains of advice given that day from teachers, parents, family, and friends to the class of 2009.

I remember giving my speech, fidgeting with my tassel, crying as I hugged my dad while my diploma passed from his hands to mine.

I remember smiling for endless photos and laughing through my tears as I shared final moments with the people who had shaped my life for the past five years.

But above all else, I remember being gripped by a combination of terror and passionate excitement.

It was the first day of my future, and I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. At that moment, all my dreams seemed so huge...so wonderfully wide and frightening massive.

So this is my word to you -- to HHSW's Class of 2011...to every graduate who has turned their tassel this year...

Be.

Be a man of God. Be a woman of grace.

Be a radical changer of the world.

Be strong and of courage, for the Lord is with you.

Be mighty men and women of valor and love.

Be dreamers. Be faithful. Be passionate.

Be yourself.

But above all,

Be His.

Congratulations Class of 2011.

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. ~e.e. cummings

Théâtre

"Would it be too childish of me to say: 'I want?'; but I do want: theater, light, color, paintings, wine, and wonder..." ~Sylvia Path

I adore the theater.

Those closest to me know that the quickest way to my heart is through the thin cardboard of a ticket stub and the gentle kiss of rose petals against my nose.

I am more than passionate about the arts in general...but there is something so exquisite and breathtaking about the theater. From the time I was twelve years old, it has woven an unbreakable spell over my heart that has yet to break, and I pray it never will.

I love curling into a plush velvet seat, playbill in one hand, my heart pounding with anticipation and excitement as I wait to see what wonders lurk behind the curtains.

I love the soaring orchestra, the heady applause, and the moments that draw me to hysterical laughter and broken-hearted tears in the blink of an eye.

But there is a place in the theater I love more than any other.

Tucked away from the eyes of the public, hidden away behind thick side curtains.

That is my world.

Backstage is the palace to my princess wishes, the closest I will ever get to Narnia.

It's the place where all the magic happens, where adrenaline joins the blood to pump in my veins, and where the smell of sweat and excitement mingle to become intoxicating.

In this corner, my dreams have come to life. I have been to Neverland, stepped into the pages of fairy tales, and seen countless magical moments played out before my eyes.

Last night, I tidied my corner and left it in darkness.

For three months, I will wait and hope and dream...overcome with anticipation...

...before the curtain opens, and the magic comes to life again.

Bliss

Now a soft kiss -

Aye, by that kiss,

I vow an endless bliss.

~John Keats

My bliss is vast.

My bliss is leather-bound books...

Volumes of elegant poetry and dramatic prose, rich with the scent of age and wisdom.

It is wide open fields, bedecked with wildflowers of every hue and every type.

It is silver necklaces and delicately crafted earrings.

It's soft rose petals caressing my nose and acoustic guitars.

The scritch-ing of a pen against paper.

The Princess Bride and Chocolat.

A Jane Austen novel and a large leafy tree.

Red velvet curtains and the smell of a theater in those final moments right before a show is set to open.

Fluttering silk scarves and bare toes in the grass.

The feel of a new pair of heels and the whisper of a friendly word.

The tenderness of a lover's kiss and the lilting encouragement of the prophet Isaiah...

...the list goes on.

My toes in the sand as soft waves overtake them, and the twittering of birds along a soft forest path

An arm around me and a shoulder to weep upon, or words spoken in unison and the subsequent laughter.

Windows rolled down and music blasting.

Clear nights with stars that blaze and speak to my soul.

A pile of blankets and pillows in the middle of the floor, and someone with whom to share the snuggles.

A kiss on my cheek and fingers run through my hair.

Flickering candles and painted toenails in ten different colors.

Hot cups of coffee and fairy tales.

Late night conversations with my best friend, laughter that carries across the country.

A text message reminding me that I'm beautiful and that I am loved.

Whispers of Narnia and Hogwarts and secret lands yet undiscovered.

Memories of late nights in Peru and the smiles of brown-skinned children as they cling endlessly to my legs and hands.

On these cold February days, when all seems dead and empty under blankets of snow...

...I cling to my bliss

For warmth.

For light.

For color.

For hope.

For love.

Soundtrack

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent. ~Victor Hugo

I breathe music.

It's been something that I've lived on since I was a tiny girl.

With a professionally-trained musician father and a mother with the singing voice of an angel, I was steeped in musical notes and treble clefs from the time I could walk.

I credit my parents with teaching me the value of putting my life to a soundtrack.

Every great movie has a soundtrack -- a score of music, a compilation of songs, a haunting melody. These notes speak more to the drama, strength, passion, and bloodlust of each pivotal moment than any detailed explanation ever could.

My life is no exception.

Maybe this is exposing more of my own quirks than I actually want to, but even still...

My life has a soundtrack.

My mood and my iPod run on very similar veins.

The rich, earthy tones of Imogene Heap and Joshua Radin speak to the mellowness...the twinges of romantic darkness that cling to the edges of my heart.

The light daisy-petal notes of Mika, Lenka, or Yiruma speak to the brightness and melodic tone of my spirit.

The powerpunch of Skillet, Anberlin, HIM, or Plumb generally refer to a bit of leftover angst lingering after a particularly strong moment of dark emotion.

The bouncy snap of some popular Top40 hit or the swish of a Michael Buble melody generally speaks to my growing need to move my body and dance like either a mad lunatic or a measured artist -- all mood-based.

The flooding rush of Brit Nicole, Brooke Fraser, Chris Tomlin, or Aaron Shust remind me for Whom I live...a musical way to remind me that I live for the One who broke my chains and set me free.

I could go on, but I think I've conveyed the idea.

Music runs through my veins like blood, scores cover my skin like invisible tattoos, and notes flood my head like flocks of brilliantly-hued butterflies over a dew-dusted meadow.

Music says what I can't. It screams when I have to be silent. It laughs for me when all I can do is cry, and it unveils those hidden corners of my soul that hurt too much to reveal.

So at the moments, when the echoes are screaming and the pain is flooding my lungs, threatening to drown me...

...I let the music breathe for me.

“'Sing and rejoice, O daughter of Zion! For behold, I am coming and I will dwell in your midst,'” says the LORD." ~Zechariah 2:10

Extravagant

Christmas in Bethlehem. The ancient dream: a cold, clear night made brilliant by a glorious star, the smell of incense, shepherds and wise men falling to their knees in adoration of the sweet baby, the incarnation of perfect love. ~Lucinda Franks

I am going to be extremely honest right here.

I love Christmas.

I'm like a little kid when it comes to this time of year. I am incredibly sentimental when it comes to Christmas.

I hate snow, but I want a white Christmas. I have this quirk about sleeping under the Christmas tree, looking up at the lights and ornaments, all of which have some sort of sentimental significance. Christmas gifts are more than boxes wrapped up in colorful paper and stuck underneath a bit of green shrubbery; each gift has some sort of personal direction toward the receiver that will really make them smile.

I even sit for hours with no lights on at night, just the Christmas lights and a few candles, just listening to my favorite Christmas songs and soaking in the magic that December seems to fuse my soul with in waves of music and pine-scented candles.

But there comes a moment in my heart -- generally in the last days before the big day arrives -- that the deep reminder of what this entire season is about grips my heart.

It's more than just the saga of a pregnant woman and her husband riding a donkey over the Judean countryside...more than shepherds and Wise Men gathering in a small stable...more than angels singing choruses and brightening the darkness with their heavenly light.

It's the reality that the King of the Universe -- the One that holds the stars in place and sends the thunderclouds to do His bidding -- stepped down from His throne.

He laid down His might, His power, and His glory...and stepped from Life to life.

From streets of gold and the lauding of angels to the inexperienced arms of a teenage Israelite girl and her rugged new husband...knowing EXACTLY what His purpose was.

He was born to die. For me.

So tonight, as I sit on my couch, looking out the frost-covered windows at the snow-covered street below, I cast my eyes toward the sky. And as a lone tear trickles down my cheek, I whisper a prayer of utmost and humble gratitude to the One who gave Himself to the world...

...Jesus, Your love is extravagant. More than I deserve.

Please, never let me forget.

You gave the ultimate gift that winter night.

You gave us Your life. Your love. Your blood. Your forgiveness.

Merry Christmas.

And the first time / That You opened Your eyes did You realize that You would be my Savior / And the first breath that left Your lips / Did You know that it would change this world forever...And I, I celebrate the day / That You were born to die / So I could one day pray for You to save my life. ~I Celebrate The Day, Relient K