prayers of the people {guest post for Osheta Moore}

{photo by Jennifer}

oh Mighty King,
step down and see.

oh Creator of all,
reach down and hold.

oh Daddy,
help us.

we are living in a land of divide, of lines drawn in the sand to keep the colours from blending together when they bleed, except when a boy of darker colour is bleeding on the pavement from a bullet fired from pale-coloured hands. and that's when it merges into shades of grey fog, and there's so much staggering, and so much confusion. and there's so much weeping, Jesus. there's so much weeping.

because there's hands up, clenched fists pounding against walls that should have been knocked down years ago, that should have never been raised at all. we're shuffling back into iron chains that You bled Yourself dry to corrode into flakes of rust.

{dear ones, today I'm over at Osheta's place, pouring out my prayers like water on the ground. read the rest of the post here, and then join me today in prayer for eyes to be opened, hearts to be healed, and peace to consume all.}

the silent moment :: everything

i remember the night i held a gun to my head. and it was the quietest moment of my life.

i was seventeen. the gun was plastic, a $2 knicknack from WalMart, one of maybe twenty just like it, tossed into a plastic bin and carried from one country to another. i was one of close to four thousand other teenagers all pressed closed and gathered in a Peruvian resort, all in pursuit of discipleship and missions. seven of us felt something tug at us. we were performing the Lifehouse Everything Skit.

it's burned into my head. standing on that stage, the music in the background, every step and movement rehearsed to an art. and how can i stand here with You and not be moved by You....and then came the lifting of the pistol to my head.


it was the most profound hush of my entire life. everything else seemed to fade out, a whisper in the background as i met with the Most High for the first time in the most sacred of ways. it was the first time i ever heard Him speak. and i was holding a plastic gun against my temple.

you're about to throw yourself at Me figuratively

darkness is holding death

throw yourself at Me literally 

i will catch You. 

let go of death, grasp tight to Life

i will catch You. 

{photo by Ron Nickel; property of dramaticelegance}

i was supposed to drop the gun to the floor. 

i threw it across the room. 

i was supposed to lean toward my friend playing Jesus, reaching for his hand. 

i flung myself at Him. 

there were other actors there, playing temptation, lust, deception, distractions. they were there to fight me, to keep me from Him. they were acting, and so was i. but there was something deep in me that was not acting. something had broken inside me. and it got loud inside me for a split second. it was a moment of warring, clawing and clutching for the hand of the Holy One.

and then He dove in and held them back. arms stretched out, He held back the flood. 

and the quiet came again. the hush of the Holy overcame me and something inside me settled. i was on my knees, three thousand miles from my American home and comforts, from my familiar church and my well-known faces. 

He met me there, silent in the crowd 

with a plastic pistol to my head. 

the hard thing // letting Him bleed

{via pinterest

{over the next several weeks, maybe even months, i will be writing here and there from elora's thirty days of prompts. this is something that i have never done before, something raw and fresh and gorgeous and potentially painful. so please, be gentle with me. you can find all posts i have written from these prompts here}

i'm a hypocrite. 

quite frankly, writing that sentence up there took a solid fifteen minutes and i'm still sitting here looking at those terrifying three words and considering deleting them and being a little less honest. but that's the point, isn't it? 

because i'm all about whispering soft to warrioress souls, reaching my fingers out to them, while locked down in my heart with my fingers curled into unrelenting fists. not of freedom but of tightness, of a strange sort of rebellion that doesn't make me all that eager to be transparent. 

i heard a spoken word piece {of sorts} when i was younger, before i knew what spoken word was and just how much that concept would have a grip on my soul. i remember being fourteen and sitting there in that room with my eyes closed and listening to the faceless voice speak. 

hands up, clenched, control. 

hands down, release, open palms. 

it's not that fist pumping of warrioress pride, it's that raging face to the wind that screams i will not let go and You cannot make me. the past several months have involved a lot of tears, a lot of weeping, and whole lot of unattractive raging that would put those of you who read my words far away from me. 

i'm willing to reach out and touch the broken ones like He did. but i won't let myself be broken. and if i am, if i find myself in pieces on the floor, He can't touch them. those pieces are mine, and He might cut His fingers, and then i would be responsible for cutting the Saviour. so i shut down, and slam the door behind me, and leave Him standing there

knocking.

and that knocking doesn't stop no matter how deep i press against the back of the wardrobe with a fur coat wrapped around my head. but it's scary to look at myself in the mirror on the inside of the door. because i want to be Lucy, little seeker lioness with Narnian renewal in my braveheart steps. 

{photo of myself, taken by Photography by Kjelse}

but i'm Edmund with a belly full of darkness weighing heavy. i'm a scaled Eustace with a smug sort of blaming everyone else for my failtures. i remember the words they shared on the beach. "you weren't as bad....you were only a jackass, i was a traitor." me, see, i'm both. 

but then i realize that they were changed. and that Lion bared His claws and ripped the vileness from the skin of he who was too weak to do it himself. i want to shed my skin. 

He's okay with cutting His fingers and bleeding for me. after all, He already shed every drop with my name shivering with sacred Love in every cell. 

i just need to let the control slip from my fingers. i need to let Him bleed. 

i'm leaving a pile of burned dragon scales, ugly and broken, on the sand. and i'm stepping out on the back of the Wind, His back, broad and soft and warm. 

and gently He hums into my hair
the worst is over. 
there is no need to talk of what has past. 

fall fresh on me // avocado

{via pinterest}

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

{via pinterest}

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

ashes :: what wondrous love

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what wondrous love is this 

oh my soul //

oh my soul //

i've been softly singing these words as i wander though my morning. it's been notes that have hung on my tongue since Saturday afternoon when i stood and watched as tongues of fire devoured my in-law's barns and vehicles. 

but the wind turned in the nick of a second and spared the house. melted slightly, scorched and warped slightly. whispers of what could have been, but were not. what wondrous love is this.

and now i find myself on my knees as i ponder what He let me see. i walk a line between grief and awe, of sorrow and wonder. because i'm learning first hand about refinement through fire, and seeing things that i never connected before. 

beauty from ashes, life from the ground's barest places. this is the thing He has been pushing on me in recent weeks. i have the firebird on my ankle, placed there the night that we remember His cry of it is finished. 

and He spared the house like He spared my soul, with His breath and His wind and the rain that came pouring down like tears as He saw the grief and wept Himself for love of His own. and as i walk through the ashes and embers and charred remains of wood and metal, i realize this more and more. 

{via pinterest}

deeper and deeper i am sinking into impossible Love that is almost wordless, inexplicably powerful except for when you experience something beyond yourself. 

He dwells within her

she shall not be destroyed.

::psalm 46:5

because my soul is something tucked away, and He lives in every corner of me, and i'm learning to let Him paint my soul His colours instead of mine, and gently mold me into something more beautiful than i could ever comprehend. and if that takes ashes and ink and clay and soot, so be it. 

and so i'm back to the words that i've been singing for three days. 

what wondrous love is this

// oh my soul

// oh my soul

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. 

the third page :: the Father's beginning

{via pinterest}

{to read the first chapter visit here}

{to read the second chapter, visit here}

sometimes i don't feel like getting ahead, this thing of push and pull and jerk and tug that seems to be so prevalent this time of year.

sometimes, i feel like hanging back a bit, because there's power in beginnings because it shows where you've been, where you used to stand and who you used to be.

because stories rarely start with once upon a time and end with and she stayed the same forever.

:: there is a change :: 

and sometimes i think we need to go back past the first breath of Saviour Child, before the word spoken to the cosmos when dark became light and nothing became something.

to before the beginning, even, when Heaven crossed swords and one thing lower sought to be Highest and overthrow the One who made him. when sonic booms and broken skies led to the the tumbling down of the once bright star and a third of his followers until they struck the earth and still kept sinking past the earth's burning core and into a vile black place of their own.

{via pinterest}

when a Father touched His Son's shoulder 

and knew. 

because we see virgin mother and awestruck mortal father and tiny infant hands and feet tucked in manger straw with angels singing and shepherds worshiping. but there's another sacred corner. another Father, the only One who truly knew what must be done.

because He held the future in His Hand, and saw the coming. saw the scream of crucify Him crucify Him and saw the blood as lashes struck and thorns pressed into His Only Son's forehead as His sinless blood flowed into His eyes merging with the tears.

and He heard the wail of a broken Son crying out

My God, My God, oh, why have You forsaken Me? 

and still He touched His Son's shoulder and knew. and still He stood at Heaven's gates and gazed down upon this scene of nativity with moral flesh clothing His precious Son.

because His love for His broken ones, His people wandering in the darkness with hands outstretched and whispered pleas for deliverance...it overcame all.

so this is Love

not that we loved God

but that He loved us

and sent His Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. 

{linking this imperfection with emily and all my dear ones}

the first page :: havah

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i've been reading a book.

it's not all that uncommon for me to be found reading a book, actually. i'm an avid reader as well as an author. can you be one without the other, really? can you write well without the example of fluttering pages and the comparison of knowing where one has gone before you, and soared?

i'm reading Havah. this volume gifted from the heart of a sister to my mailbox this week. and i cannot put it down.

Tosca Lee put pen to paper and wrote this book, her own heart's picture of the beginning and end through the eyes of the first Woman.

Havah. 

Life. 

Eve. 

and as i pour through these pages, overwhelmed with the beauty of the first portion, my heart swells. this connection to the Creator they feel, their bonding with the One who Spoke them to life...it makes me crave this same communion with Him. because the beauty is almost overwhelming to my soul.

and then the anvil drops. and i can see it coming in slow motion because i know the story and i know what's coming and i know, oh how i know what the cost will be, and i want to scream at her to stop and open her eyes because how could she not know?

but then comes a bite. and a second. and feminine hands outstretched toward husband's lips, and another bite. and with simple movements of lips and teeth and throats, their fate is sealed in darkness. but not just theirs -- ours. every last breath becomes thicker, harder, and every last heart is now blackened with sin.

but there is hope. there is Light.

for with darkness comes a glimmer of Hope. for with the disconnection from the Holy One comes a promise of reconnection.

you will bruise His heal 

but He will crush your head. 

even in anger, God knew. and God would not let His people, His newly-broken ones, go without a hope. do we forget this part of the story? we weep with horror and wail if only if only. 

{via pinterest}

but in a week, we celebrate that hope. 

the hope of all things new. 

for unto us a Child is born

unto us a Son is given

and the Government will be upon His shoulder

and His name shall be 
Wonderful Counseler, Mighty God, 
Everlasting Father

Prince of Peace.

and He came to save and live and walk and die as one of us, so that He might rend the curtain and let the Light in again. 

this is one of the pages in the Christmas story that we forget. the darkest of pages that we swiftly attempt to overturn in our hurry to get to the angels singing and the Child coming into virginal arms. but it's a big picture story, this thing of Jesus' coming. 

because even her name -- Havah -- it means Life. a promise from the beginning, a hope so sure as to not be shaken. 

and Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight

the clouds be rolled back as a scroll.

the trump shall resound and my Lord shall descend

praise the Lord, praise the Lord

oh, my soul.

deconstructed fences

{via pinterest}

i encountered adventurers yesterday. 

they weren't thrill-seekers with their parachutes or wooden walking sticks. they didn't seek to change the world with fists held high or picketing signs up and down the sidewalk.

they just wanted to be free. past the fence and into the world to see what they had never known, but had long gazed upon from so far away.

did i mention that they weren't even human, 

but equine?

two of them, huge and dark brown with eyes like deep pools of melted chocolate, if chocolate bore intelligence and perhaps it does, actually.

and somehow, they had broken through their hill-top paddock fence and made their way down into the middle of the winding country road. 

but that was as far as they went. the world was so big around them, so expansive and beautiful with grass and hills and rolling fields. but they stayed there, on the pavement, barely a hundred feet from their original enclosure.

they were free, but they did not choose to act in freedom. 

{via pinterest}

they were still caged. 

do i do this? 

do i still live caged when in truth i am surrounded on all sides by open fields of Love and Grace and Mercy and Truth and oh, so much Light? 

do i chose to cower in the darkness right next to the broken Death-fence, whispering

but i know this. i know here. i know now. 

i don't know anything else. 

but i have freedom.

for all those who have dwelt in darkness have seen a Great Light. 

because He used the nail and hammer to tear down fences, and the wooden beams to deconstruct the cages of fear and death. He tore curtains from top to bottom, death working backwards. 

i need to grasp, and inhale and exhale and inhale again

and run free. 

prisoner of hope :: always

{via pinterest}

i am hope's prisoner. 

i am Light's conquest. 

and i seek no freedom. 

sometimes i wonder how people muddle through this world without the glimmer of hope behind their eyes. i see it, you know...that look that slips across their face when i meet their eyes with a smile. 

that look of want. of plead. of empty. 

and then we pass and they are gone. but they stay with me even after i've passed and am home under covers. because that look of hopelessness coats my soul with the grief that only loss can bring.

i want to go back and touch their shoulder and draw them back to the place i call Home and the One i call Father. 

but as for me, i will 

:: always :: 

have hope

for You have been my hope.

i cling to Him tightly in those moments when the world rocks and i have nothing but the pounding cries of uncertainty. what do they do, when the waves slam them against the rocks until their grasp loosens and their dreams flow from their eyes like water?

{via pinterest}

in my nights of darkened grief when all i can do is weep until my pillow floats and my hair is moist with salted sorrow, i know that my fingers can upward reach and grasp those of the One who holds me close.

this tangled kiss of hope that binds me against His chest. 

hope stays perched on the branches of my soul, singing like the uncaged bird, this phoenix of hope rising from the ashes of Death, killed and conquered and fingers sliced from off my shoulders. 

in the dark, i have hope. 

i'm running to Your arms

the riches of Your love

will always be 

:: enough ::


i hope you will forgive me, but again, with the holiday rush, i am simply going to reveal the winners here instead of in a full post. 
item no. 1: Ashley
item no. 2: Jennoelle
item no. 3: Ashlyn Nicole
item no. 4: Lucia
just shoot me an email, beautiful ladies.

sacred conversations

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ever since my dear rain wrote this post, i've had my eyes open.

every place i go, i study the people who surround me.

do i know you?

i catch myself staring now, perhaps more than i should. 

and i'm overwhelmed with soul. 

did i forget that we all had one, this thing of soul? that strangers have stories too? 

have i simply been ignoring? 

i want to know you

because i know Him. 

i go to Him in prayer a lot. prayers of gratitude, broken pleas for want and need. 

but i forgot that we can have conversations about the day. i can come to Him and sit at His feet and just talk.

just communing. 

God and i have been conversing a great deal lately. 

on tuesday, i wrote about my encounter with meeting broken eyes, in finding honour where shame tends to resides. 

it's becoming a theme

a symphony of sacredness, of humility at the foot of this splintered blood-stained cross. 

what are you seeking? 

are you daring to converse with the King of Kings?

unexpected

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

UNEXPECTED

now GO...

i'm in a place that i never expected to be. 

i never thought it would take me this far into my Christian walk to start to embrace this thing of sacredness. 

as a little girl, i wanted to be a Christian because i loved Jesus and i wanted to belong to Him.

i didn't know or understand what i was doing until i got much older. 

i was embracing the unexpected by become His child. 

because who would have expected a King to put His crown on the floor and step from Royal to humble? from Eternal to Mortal...and yet still remain Eternal. 

who would have expected Sinless to become sin for the very ones who pushed His already-broken body against a splintered beam of wood and drove iron nails into his wrists and feet? 

He was nothing like what they expected. 

i'm awed as His ability to break those barriers -- not to destroy what was written, but to fulfill. 

this Rabbi of Peace -- fighting the ultimate war with Death. 

 so much victory. 

this is my unexpected, which has now become my understood. 

this has become my Embraced. 

covered

{via pinterest}

what we speak and what we do can often be so very different.


how often have you heard a plea, a heart crying out for something that seems so distant, and murmured 

i'll pray for you.

and then life comes and sweeps this way and that, and takes your mind to other places. and your promised prayer is long forgotten. 

have you experienced this gift though? this one where a tender sister grips your hand tight in hers and begins the whispered words

let me pray for you.

this touch of love that far surpasses. the touch of God of Earth. He intercedes still for me. my King still kneels to His Father and prays for me.


on Thursday, Sarah {Emerging Mummy} a dear cyber-sister who has never beheld my face or drawn me for a comforting embrace, prayed over me. 


precious words from St. Teresa of Avila, for my heart and for all those who have pressed "follow" at her corner of the world. 

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i am humbled by this gift of supplication.

this knowing that i am loved by one whom i have never seen and never shared even a mug of steaming coffee with in this lifetime.  

these precious moments are not just in the comfort of our living rooms. 


we share this friendship -- this sisterhood -- from afar, with those who hold our hearts whom we have never met. 


this knowing that, one day, we shall kneel in praise together in the realms of Heaven. holding hands in love, as sisters, over the coffee and cinnamon buns that i know must be waiting for us there. 


no more lip-service from me now.


you are covered in prayers, dearhearts. from me, and from Him.

as my sweet sister Sarah did two days ago, i do the same now for you.

May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May today there be peace within.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.

May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

May you be content knowing you are a child of God.

Let this presence settle into your bones, and 

allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.

It is there for each and every one of you.

~ St. Teresa of Avila

taken name

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sometimes i struggle with my name.

not the one my parents gave me, nor the one that changed when i became a Mrs.

but the one i took when i became His. the name that has been stamped upon, sullied, and desecrated until i no longer am sure i want to bear that banner.

Christian

i don't like be associated with that name. i am not ashamed of Him. oh, please, God, never would i be ashamed to be known as His. 

but the name itself. 

i am a Christ-follower. i belong to Jesus Christ. 

but what once was a badge of honour, literally speaking little Christ to the darkness of the Roman empire and then to the world at large

has now become a mark of hate.

people with picket signs and waving Bibles in the faces of frightened girls as they walk up toward a building to end the life of their child. 

it has become the shield for people -- dark-hearted villains -- who stand at the funeral of a young gay military officer and scream 

god hates you

god hates gays

god hates America

god hates everyone

i always capitalize God. i did not do so above. why? 

because this god they speak of is not the One True God. this is not the God i love, worship, and serve with my whole life. and this book they read cannot be the Holy Word of God. 

these goats and blind guides will stand at His feet one day. His eyes will flood with tears as He looks away and speaks 

I never knew you

my God hates sin. He hates the darkness. 

but He loves people. He loves the ones trapped, even if they have no idea. 

we love Him because He first loved us

church, where have you gone? what have you done? 

to be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable

because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you

-c.s. lewis

i am His. make no mistake. 

there is a Hell. it takes a choice to step from Death to Life. 

but doors are closed to no one. no sin is so great that He cannot forgive.

Love is everlasting. 

so drop the picket signs covered in marker scrawl, reach out a hand, and drawn them in. speak to them Truth, but in the firmness of Love. 

hide no realities of death and Hell, but show the alternative....show them Life. 

show them Him. light a candle. 

little sparks can light great fires. 

{linking with Michelle today}

lowercase wood

{via pinterest}

i spent some time today going back over some old blog posts, some old work, some old scraps of paper upon which i had scribbled my moments of darkness of whimsy.

all properly ordered.

all with the appropriate punctuation. all in perfect lines. uppercase and lowercase, all where they belonged.

but then i hit a point of real. a point where the mask came tumbling off and shattered against the floor. and i found my crevices again.

i realized that i was cracked and marred, like well-weathered wood. fragments of me have broken off and been left behind. little scratches and cuts where life has left its mark. 

and my lowercase began to appear. slowly, just a bit at a time. as the polish was scrubbed away, it became frightening. painful. 

but the beauty was apparent. the weathered wood was coming alive, telling a story like polished perfection never could. 

maybe it's okay to be wooden. 

{via pinterest}

to be a story told again and again. to wear my life for others to come and read, pieced together by my skin-scars and soul ripples. it's okay to not be smooth all the time.

bumps are part of it all. 

but the past has made me strong. fire burned me hard, but let my heart stay supple to His tender carving. oh the pain that came with each brush of the knife against my soul. this Carpenter knew what He was doing when He made me this way. 

He left a line or two, a reminder of my weathering, lest i forget Him and grow brittle.

this lowercase imperfection is all i need to remind me that He is God and i am not. this dancing soul which He has carved for Himself, this daughter of Light and Love and so much forgiveness. 

He never said he would erase our past. that was never a promise.

only His glory was assured. 

and so these imperfections.

 they do not glare, they glorify. 

they do not scream, they sing. 

they do not humiliate, they humble. 

and they do not disgrace Him. 

they amplify Him. 

{joining this beauty of imperfection with emily and other soul-searchers today}

seeker // wrestler

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i am tired of being the condemned seeker.

when did it become a broken thing to be the one who searches? when questions are met with rolling eyes and huffing sighs.

you should know this already.

i am weary of tears being scorned. 

i am weary of wrestlers being watched with indignation. 

church, where have you gone?

broken daughter, where do you stand now?

judging souls, are you so flawless that scorn is something you are free to cast about like rocks into a rippling lake?

if we knew, we would not need an Answer. 

if we lived in a perpetual place of strength, would we still need a Rock? 

Jacob's wrestling gave birth to Israel. the fingers of the Son on his hip gave him lifelong pain and weakness.

for greatness to come, weakness must be accepted. 

i'm overwhelmed at this place in which we stand. 

we are the King's chosen. we did not walk up to this throne and demand our birthright. 

we came on hands and knees, torn and broken. dirty and abandoned by this world that never let us call it home. 

to love is to be vulnerable

-c.s. lewis 

not one of us was born here. we were all swaddled in grey and black and brown of sin and death and darkness. 

{via pinterest}

but He gave us His garments of Light. but we had to come first. we had to crawl to His feet and reach out shaking fingers to brush against His hem.

be free, love. 

it's okay to let shaking knees and legs give way. it's okay to seek, to ponder, and to muse over Him. it's okay to not know it all.

be a seeker. 

be a muser. 

be a wrestler. 

let go 

and be. 

veil

hidden.

discretion tucked away behind yards of spiritual fabric.

so much silence found in place that should be flooded with joy

locked in the somberness of black and dark and 

walk this way

fit this mold

be this person

it's what He wants?

did we forget just as i am?

did we forget that this veil has been torn already

not by us from the bottom

 but by Him from the top?

no more cowering required. 

no more dark laces and segregation. 

this is freedom found

hair flowed loose, any colour allowed. silver jewels in ears and nose and lip. 

there is so much shouting here. so much colour here. so much life and love and freedom. 

there is no more condemnation. He sees all, forgives all, if only asked. 

did we forget where He looks? 

not out but in. 

so let this veil go. 

freedom is this song. 

{linking up with Jen and my loves at Soli Deo Gloria}

spoon

sorting through my silverware drawer, running my fingers over through the neat little rows of shining utensils.

freshly washed, freshly rubbed dry with soft red towels.

ever since i was a little girl, the silverware has had personalities all to themselves. the forks are knights, with their tine-made helmets. the knives are warriors with swords built in. they are fierce, these implements.

and then there are the spoons. no sharp edges, no points. the smoothness and the polish, but without any type of defense for themselves.

and so today, i went to my drawer of soldiers and warriors.

and to my two little rows of spoons. 

and i stood and stared at those small little pieces of silverware. and at first, i began to think i was a lunatic for putting so much stock into bits of metal with which the world eats.

but then i began to see myself in the reflection of one little spoon.

and i heard a Voice, so soft in my soul.

do you see you, dearheart? 

do you see Me and Mine?

and i saw me as a spoon. 

surrounded by warriors, people with influence to the world. and by soldiers, reaching out with power to the corners of the earth with shield and sword.

and then there is me. a spoon in a drawer.

maybe my edges are smooth and rounded, not the best for a defense.

but there's nothing better for comfort.

spoons serve up mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

and tomato soup. 

and all those things

warm and cold and soothing. 

spoons are soft and gentle.

i was made by Him to be a spoon.

and a spoon i shall be.

linking up with emily at imperfect prose on thursdays
my weekly moment to touch my real

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