drop your coat

{via pinterest}

dear you,

you wanderer through the Valley of the Shadow
drop your coat.

you who haven't figured out how to process the change or the ache or the new or the rejection
drop your coat.

you who are finding yourself in the season of "no" or the season of leaving or the season of lots of taking and very very little giving back
drop your coat. 

// 

do you know what that looks like, to drop your coat and leave it there?

there is unspoken courtesy, ingrained in us from the very beginning. you do not just drop your bag, your coat, your shoes on the floor. not in another's house, not even in your own house. you pick it up. you find the hook or drawer or little nook. you hang it up. tidy, organized, everything appropriately tucked away.

even when the fabric is so heavy that it almost seems unbearable, this idea of crossing another twelve steps to the closet. even when the smile is pasted on, and the "let me take your coat" feels falsely cloying because you would just rather not lean into the pity (even though it's nothing more than your host being polite).

so I want to tell you something. I want you to look me in the eye.

I want you to rest. drop your coat. right there, in the hallway. shoes too. kick them off. let them thud against the wall.

I want you to find freedom. leave it there, on the floor, in a crumpled pile of soft fabric and silken lining. leave it there.

because it's not just a coat, is it, love? it's grief and heaviness and weight and confusion and a lack of knowing which direction to step next. and there may not be answers there between the hardwood slats. but there is a solid surface on which to rest. and sometimes that works better than answers. at least for now.

so drop your coat. leave it there. the world won't end while it lays on the hardwood.

dust washes off. you can use my machine.

broken benches

{photo taken via VSCOCam :: by Rachel Haas}

writing is hard when you're writing.
you become a broken bench, in a way.

there are slats falling down
side
ways.
you're still a bench.
but there are holes and sitting


it's complicated.

writing a book is hard, period.
it's one of those things where you could jump up and down and pat your head and rub your tummy and walk across hot coals to bring back rubies clutched in your teeth

...and it would still be easier than getting those words down.
and yet we do it because we are it.
we are writers who write things.

writers who don't write things are benches made of fog.
you can see us
we just go away when you breathe a little too hard.

writing is complicated
with a lot of parts and pieces and bits and bobs
and upside down handstands.
and coffee.

and you can feel like a broken bench.
but you're still a bench.
when people fall on you, their hands connect with solid wood and scrappy frame.
you're plucky, you are.

they can rest there.
because broken benches are still benches.

faucets and keys

{via pinterest}

this past weekend, I drank out of the faucet in my bathroom.

I was in a new place. the kitchen was unfamiliar, the cabinets not mine to paw through. the faces and voices that surrounded me were familiar, members of an online community that had seen the darkest parts of me for the past year.

but the house wasn't mine and the faces were real-life. they weren't profile pictures anymore. these were flesh and blood women standing around me, calling my name and smiling at me. I was so thirsty -- the plane ride had been long and turbulent, leaving the flight staff unable to bring us any sort of beverage.

but I was too nervous to ask where the glasses were kept.

and so that night, during one of the sessions, I slipped away from the center of the group and made my way to the bathroom. I bent my head to the side and drank deeply of the water pouring from the sink faucet. my lips were still damp when I returned.

:: ::

I told them the next day. we were talking about fear, about insecurities, about who we were. about what we needed. and I told them that, yesterday, I needed water. a basic need required for life. it wasn't chocolate or wine or even a towel to dry my hair. but I was too afraid to ask my sisters for a drink. and so I drank from the faucet.

they laughed at the story. we all did, really. but it wasn't the mocking laughter that accompanies something foolish. it was a pure opposite. it was the laugh of love. the kind that comes when understanding and community and love merge into a familial glow between women who had never before been in the same room.

::

I took four copies of my manuscript with me to Austin. three in my suitcase, one in my purse. I studied those words on the front :: Portals of Water and Wine, by R.L. Haas. when I got to Texas, it took me hours before I could hand the first copy to the first pair of waiting hands. the night we wrote lies on index cards and threw them onto literal flames, it was all I could do to not run to my room for a manuscript to burn with the "rest of the lies."

that was another lie.

{photo by me, via instagram}

because they all took it, pulled it against their chests with smiles. "I've been waiting for this," they told me. and I believed them.

"we see you. He sees you." 

because we had been talking about dropping keys instead of building cages. they were dropping keys at my feet. I found myself unlocking my lips for the ability to ask.  I slid the little metal fixture into the lock and swung open the door of "your words are good."

::

the day we left, someone brought me a glass of water. I didn't even have to ask. but I could have, if I needed a drink.

if I was thirsty.

{I spent the weekend in "pop-up, 3-D" community with my Story Sisters in Austin, Texas. it was beyond words. and you know what? it was exactly the same as it has been online. the only difference was the face-to-face. there is room for you in our circle. not on the outside, but right here, next to me. join us? we are waiting for you.}

permission to rest {page two}

{photo by dramaticelegance}

sometimes i feel like i'm on the edge of this giant stone wall, a step of sorts, doing my very best to climb up and reach my long-ingrained goal. and there's the Christian crowd behind me, cheering to the point of a din behind me, that's it, you can do it, keep climbing. don't stop. 

what i need, though, is someone to come alongside me, grasp my hand and whisper, it's okay if you need to stop. it's okay to breathe. it's okay to stop. then comes the gasp of horror. they're telling you to stop? no. wrong. no.

stopping is not what we Christians do.

but maybe it's what i need to do. i feel like we so often focus our magnifying reading glasses on those words of Jesus teaching and walking and travelling and performing miracles and doing that we forget the resting. 

come to Me, and I will give you rest. 

i forget that i am Lucy. i am Peter, plodding diligently ahead, ignoring the signs and never resting, only ever traversing on. but He came to her at night, in the selah of the woods, and called her lioness. He promised her great renewal. 

as she rested. 

sometimes i wonder if we can even hear Him anymore through the din of our own good intentions. there's things expected of us if we bear that moniker of Christian,fingers intent on pointing out exactly which stones should be walked on, and which ones are too sacred to touch. 

we have made Jesus untouchable. and in turn, those of us who find the gasping bravery to reach out and grasp Him have become the whispered ones ourselves. we've wandered into the building wearing sunglasses and perish the thought we take them off and actually see. 

we have made following Jesus less important than following the rules. 

in telling my story, i can look back at where i've come from. i wish i could reach back and tug the sunglasses off my eyes and take the gloves off my fingers and whisper, Jesus doesn't mind fingerprints on His face. you can touch Him, dearheart. 

you can stop and breathe. it's okay. 

day of rest

{via pinterest}

you know that music player at the bottom of the page?

please, scroll down and turn it off.

and then come back to this video. turn off the television, the music. shut out the distractions and draw the Word of the Lord into your lap.

God cannot give us peace and rest outside of Himself

:: there is no such thing.

// c.s. lewis

soak in this meditation, lose yourself in the blessing of His grace and goodness, His glory and His salvation.

we have lost this concept, this burning need for a day of rest that comes with the start of a week. fresh with no mistakes, a new hour to breathe and learn and draw so much in to our weary souls.

do not be afraid of rest. instead, lose yourself in the sacredness of this.

:: // :: // ::

why do you complain, Jacob? why do you say, Israel, “my way is hidden from the Lord; my cause is disregarded by my God”? 

do you not know? have you not heard? the Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. 

even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

:: isaiah 40:27-31 ::

⁷ 

// hallelujah, You have won the victory //

:: ::

// hallelujah, You have won it all for me //

{one thousand thanks to rain for bringing this meditation to my attention}

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. 

thin places

spring brings me to the thin places. those places that the Celtic speak of in reverential whispers in the silence of the night when the stars are close enough to be touched and the moon has a face of love.

the place when the line between Heaven and earth is thinner than three feet, and everything seems wispy and sacredness seems to overwhelm.

these are the shoeless places, holy ground, where sandals fall from calloused feet and the grass slips between toes. that's a prayer, right there.

i feel like these places come out with the spring breezes and impending April showers. they bring me closer to the ground, all laid out with palms flat to the earth.

{via pinterest}

but it makes me feel fragile. as things get thinner, i feel that i get thinner too, easier to break. and that's a frightening reality sometimes, when things feel so close so shatter. but it's worth it when the world gets wispy and my fingers can slip between the veil.

what i need is the dandelion in the spring. the bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. 

the promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. 

that it can be good again.

::  the hunger games :: suzanne collins ::

i'm learning to love these thin places. these little gaps between light and dark, and open and shut. i like this barefoot season of scared and holy. 

it's the glass of ice water, Life Water, beneath the spreading branches from a thousand trees. it's the whisper in the wind that sings of courage and strength and rest. 

it's the thin places. 

clinging power

{via pinterest}

i feel like i've been on a train for a thousand years, and i'm watching the trees blur outside the window. and i got so caught up in the blur that i have missed my stop.

that is what these weeks have felt like to me. because i have been in this whirlwind where i feel gripped by the shoulders and the hair and tugged back and forth until night turns to day and day to night, and everything feels backwards.

but the Voice of the Lord was not in this storm.

He was in the still, and i lost Him for a minute. or rather, i shut Him out of my tornado. because i didn't want Him to see how badly my world was tossing, and i didn't want Him to be ashamed of me.

but oh, how blind i am. because He sees me, this God-Who-Sees. i have felt like Sarah, rejoicing for this child, and i have felt like Hagar in the wilderness, gripping to a bush for some sense of stability.

but He sees me. all of me, regardless of my rejoicing or my gripping.

and isn't this glory? 

because i feel like i'm finding my footing again. where the waves meet the ocean and tug back the vile and leave the sand clean, i feel like i'm lying here with the Water rushing over me and drawing back the impure.

{via pinterest}

and i'm a lamb leaping in the Lion's shadow. no longer afraid, but living in Truth.

this is not a post to tell you that things have been bad, because they haven't been bad. they've been strange and foreign. this hasn't been a time of despair or excessive fear, just adjusting.

and so my clinging has come when i find myself inadequite, and seek my solace in the One who cups my face in His Hands and whispers

I have made you promises. now stand still, and see what I will do. 


so i've turned my eyes from the blur to the slow, and that is hard when things seem to be moving so fast and distractions abound.

but He sees. and i am standing still, hands raised and warrior cries flooding to Heaven.

and i'm slowly returning, not in this feeble power, but solely in the power of His might.

the Lord God is with me

the Mighty Warrior that saves. 

glorious emptiness

{via pinterest}

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. 

stony place :: ebenezer

{via pinterest}

i'm still in the stony place. the  rocky, rough place that i think we all touch from time to time.

the place where i'm learning to rest for a time, but i feel like i can't let myself breathe without guilt. 

inhale no rest

exhale too much to do

it's the funny place where we feel guilty for doing right, for stopping for a half a moment just to breathe. because i'm learning to embrace the do not need to do instead of dwelling on the must do now or else. 

and the whole day yesterday, i had a window open to write a new blog post. but i never wrote a word. and i thought it would be a bad thing, that i would wake up to negativity or a heart overflowing with shame for slacking. 

but i didn't. 

:: i woke up breathing ::

and that's what i'm supposed to do. and i made toast and coffee and ate both slices, slow and without worrying about the clock with the silence of the house and the whisper-scent of winter breezes that smell like springtime. 

and i still felt strange, but i didn't know why. but it was a good kind of strange, like icy-cold soda on the hottest day and the way it runs down from lips to stomach and you feel the coolness all the way down.

so i'm taking these stones that make my place rocky, and i'm building an altar. and i'm carving ebenezer into the bottom stone. 

here has my Lord helped me. 

{linking my broken prose with emily today}

unforced rest :: whispers

{via pinterest}

sometimes, it's good to be restless. it's good to pulse and feel and breathe.
but sometimes, you have to close your eyes.

i'm bad at resting.

even when all i should be doing is leaning back, eyes closed to recover, i don't want to stop. i want to keep tossing, keep turning, keep moving and doing until i'm thin as paper and torn into shreds.

and right now i'm sick. and i should be focused on recovering, tucking my chills under a quilt with a steaming mug of tea and a brand-new book. and t i'm snuggled under these blankets with tea and Hell's Kitchen and fluffy pillows, but oh, my mind is fluttering in a thousand directions.

why can't i rest?

so close your eyes

you can close your eyes.

:: it's alright :: 

how many times does He say be still? 

it's important to Him that i rest, that i be still and know. and yet, it's not important to me. is that not such a horrible slap in His face? what matters so much to Him means nothing to me? 

{via pinterest}

it makes me sick to realize how foolish i can be when my eyes go on me and dart to the lists instead of closing to serenity for His whispers of 

courage dearheart

breathe deeply, daughter.

because this Lion's song is what i should be singing, instead of this thudding drum of 

go now 

go now 

go now 

go now. 

it's this restless mind, this broken spirit that aches to overcompensate. 

i strive too hard to fix my own mistakes instead of sitting in His hand and listening to the whispers that linger past the storm, the wind, the fire. 

i must rest

in these unforced rhythms 

of grace. 

understanding brave :: being

{via pinterest}

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 :: 

{via pinterest}

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.

resting Christmas :: five minutes

if i'm not careful, December can wear me to the bone.

it's that way with beautiful things. if we aren't careful, we can loose ourselves in the miscellaneous of the year and let the big picture fade into a ruined negative. 

i can become full of calender dates and evergreen, making endless plans and fretting over budgets that never seem to end. 

and when Love comes, my oil is all gone, because i realize that i've forgotten to store up any for myself. and Love is there, and He takes me still as broken and worn. but the blessing that could have been...that's faded and forgotten.

it's fear that brings me racing.

must be perfect

it's Christmas...my perfection.

no more resting until the work is done. oh, how weary, how tired this makes my soul.

i need to remember. i need to take the time to reflect upon another weary young woman, the one who strove through confusion and exhaustion.

the little one with the heart of a King beating in her womb.

the tired pregnant woman who found her rest close to the tiny feet of the newborn Messiah.

whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will rest in the shadow of the Almighty

so i'll join her there, in that place of tears and stable straw. and we'll gaze with wonder and awe. 

this is the right kind of peace.

the right kind of tired.

{linking with Lisa-Jo for these five minutes of Love}

{also, the November giveaway winners will be announced this weekend. thank you for being patient!}

weakness // glory

{via pinterest}

this world values strength.

it has taken the world by storm, this ideal of power and strength. especially for women in the world.

the calm and collected ones are given the stand, speaking effortless on how they have found their perfection in Christ.

the broken ones are quietly shown the door.

but what about me?

because i am one of the broken ones. i cannot even pretend to be one of these perfect women who have it all together.

because i'm not. i am not a rock by any means. i am fragile and broken and in constant need of some sort of support.

i am not Wonder Woman. not by any means.

i never seek to hide my imperfections -- i readily admit my need for a Savior, or else i tumble groundward and find myself lost again.

and sometimes i look around at all these amazing women whose blogs i follow, and i feel so intimidated. they seem to be so together, such strong and beautiful creatures with children and husbands that all fall right into their places.

{via pinterest}

and then there comes a post on brokenness. a post that makes my heart break as i read, as i understand what this precious sister is currently enduring.

and i am reminded that

His power is made perfect in my weakness

and so I will boast in my weakness

to give Him the  greater glory.

we are imperfect women. this cluster of souls knit together by the invisible bonds of Love 

there is power in a shared story. there is strength in knowing that you are not alone. 

there is sufficiency in the arms of the Lover of our souls. 

 we are the broken ones. holding fast to one another and to our Cornerstone.

resting lists {119-128}

at the time i'm writing this, it's 12:30am.

and for whatever reason, i can't sleep.

actually i know why i can't sleep.

i have lists in my head. like a tumble drier, all the things i must do and all the things i must not forget are passing back and forth and back and forth through my tired mind.

i have lists. and i am making more lists.

i leave for my best friend's wedding in a little more than 16 hours. my suitcase is gaping open on my bed right now, overflowing with too many blouses and not enough shoes. everything i need to be a maid of honour, everything that is required of me to be gone for a week.

what to pack. what to leave. what needs to be done at home. programmed coffee pots and eight loads of laundry.

i can't forget anything.

so i make lists.

and then i remember. oh, precious recollection.

today is Monday. and i have another list to continue. a list that won't make my head ache or my fingers tremble as they grip a pen.

a list that will refresh. renew. give me the grace of energy and the sweetness of sleep in one swift movement.

and so i write it now. at 12:36am. 

• 119. oversized suitcases

• 120. one more late night phone call

• 121. answered prayers and gifts restored

• 122. unlocked apartment doors on days when i locked myself out

• 123. warm quilts and downy pillows that call my name at this late hour

• 124. Alex. the beautiful bride-to-be. she remains my dearest friend. 

• 125. a great-grandmother that clings to life...perhaps a chance to hold her close and whisper my own goodbyes before she goes to Him

• 126. my father's laughter, robust until the humour strikes and then the squeaking and the tears and the uncontrollable joy that spreads like wildfire around our tiny ice-cream laden table

• 127. airplanes. oh, how i love to fly. 

• 128. sleep. rest. 

it's time now.

time to let the lists go and the sleep to come.

no more lists. 

only these blessings to comfort and rest.

today is just beginning. 

collapsed melody

{via pinterest}

i have hit a strange point, a point that i rarely ever acknowledge.

i take no pride in my weakness but i can no longer deny that i...

...i am gorgeously exhausted. 

and i'm not even sure what that means.

i'm in a place of extended fingers and ever-moving feet from here to there and a dayplanner that i ache to fling into the sea but find myself returning to its spiral-bound organization again and again.

i awoke this morning with a literal loss as to what day of the week it actually was.

yesterday felt like a Monday...or perhaps a Thursday?

where am i?

this tumble-drier of plans and household chores and social events and washing sweater upon blouse, tugging my oversized suitcase and travel trunk from my closet as i prepare for a week away from this place.

a place of chaotic solace that i know awaits me...but i can't even think that far ahead.

i'm in a beautiful place of sheer and utter collapse.

i'm relying on me, and sinking into the ground...aching to open the lid of my luggage, crawling inside and curling up away from the world for five minutes together.

i'm already small...and now i feel smaller.

i'm in a place of overused ellipses and inkblots on my brain.

{via pinterest}

i have a song in my heart, bursting and pressing against these walls. i can feel it burning. but the lyrics have escaped my soul. i can't conjure them up, no matter how hard i sit with pen and paper and endless sticky notes of

to do and 

must do and 

don't forget and

so i find this place of rest. not curled in a suitcase or between the pristine lines of calenders.

this place on my knees

where the silence caresses and He and i converse in endless dialogue of rest and comfort and silence.

find me there today. 

this hope of instrumental piano and acoustic guitar. He sings over me.

there it is.

there's my melody...

...He had it all the time.

{linking with my dear emily today}

wings

"And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! Then would I fly away, and be at rest." ~Psalm 55:6

i'm in love with the Psalms.

honestly, David had such power in his written word. there are so many times that i am tempted to be intimated by this king-turned-poet. 

his words resonate so deeply in my soul and seem to flow from some unknown spring of wisdom and God-touched power...it is almost enough to make me afraid to write another word in my lifetime.

but then i remember that David was not a king-turned-poet.

he was first a poet.

first a nothing.

first passed over.

second passed over.

passed over six times before he was remembered to be out in the field with the sheep.

but he was the chosen. not the first, nor the second, nor even the sixth. but he was the one picked.

he was the man after God's own heart.

how this man feared. how he fled from death and murderous men. forced to hide in caves, the dankest and darkest places of the earth. almost a tomb for him and his poetic light.

and oh, how he cried to the Lord.

how he begged. how he wept.

but how he praised. 

even in his darkest, he knew his King was his brightest.

he begged for his own dove wings. to fly away.

but his King said

I will carry you Myself. on My wings will you find life.

i am a nothing turned something. picked last, but soon to rise. a poet turned princess. 

and i will let myself be carried

from darkest caves to heaven's heights 

on His wings.

He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. ~Psalm 91:4

linking up with my dear Jen and the other beauties at the sisterhood of Soli Deo Gloria
as well as Hear It On Sunday, Use It On Monday

rest

via Pintrest

five minute fridays. we write for five, and only five, minutes. no editing, no overthinking, no backtracking. linking up with the gypsy mama.

the word

REST.


now GO...

i was not going to do five-minute Friday today.

no, no, no. i had plans for this morning's post. 

inspired by this song i heard last night in a moment of iTunes inspiration. never before heard, just letting go and letting this song flood me and my exhausted heart over and over again until i was full.

i was going to do my thing.

and then i awoke this morning to see the word of choice. and i wept.

oh, what delight my King must take in me. He knew i must write on this thing called "rest." 

because i don't do it enough. not ever ever ever.

i like to fill myself to the brim and overflowing with plans and life and dreaming that never seems to run dry. i'm overcome by my own busy and to-do lists. 

even this day has so much packed within in, and it's barely half-past nine. 

i am restless. so so so restless. 

i just need rest.

i sit here weeping with exhaution and refreshment as it pours over me. this song plays in the background, one that brought this whole dream to a head. i cannot begin to express what mercies my King shows me this morning.

oh, how He knows what i need. even before i ask it.

i cannot stop this weeping at His love. how He knows me!

oh Jesus, how i adore You. how i ache, i yearn, i crave this thing called rest.

i cannot find it anywhere else

but in You. 

let me rest in You.

(also, i should tell you. on my iTunes, the song's length is five minutes. exactly.)

Still my heart / hold me close / Let me hear a still small voice / Let it grow, let it rise / Into a shout, into a cry / And I'm restless, I'm restless / 'Til I rest in You,  / let me rest in You / I'm restless, so restless / 'Til I rest in You, 'til I rest in You / Oh God, I will rest in You ~Audrey Assad, Restless