:: kinsman redeemer

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i wish i could reach down and smear my fingertips with paint and streak them across your eyes so you can see what i see.

i want to look up and count the stars, the ones tucked away in a sacred place that even my own human eyes cannot find them. the ones that were there the night among the piles of honey-toned barley where a whispered exchange passed between the lips of a man and a once-cursed foreign beauty.

spread your cloak over me, for you are my kinsman redeemer. 

and she slept that night on the threshing floor at the bared feet of a man who swore to save her, joining the ranks of the world-forgotten women that reached up and wept to be seen.

she was third of five, this Moabitess who begged for the covering from her saviour-turned-groom. they all bore the familiar shame, the whispers and pointed fingers. they were stamped with an ugly word, one too quickly spoken still two thousand years down the road. but from their blood, oft murmured "tainted," came the Life-Bringer.

:: the One who spoke to the slave in the wilderness, 

who rested hands on the unclean and whispered

dearest daughter

I knew you would not be long...

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there's a reason that Lewis wrote so often of the breath of the Lion on the face of those He treasured. the wind from the mouth of the Risen One against the cheek of His bride, the whisper in the night that He is coming to bathe me in Light. i am not forgotten.

the rocks on the seashore, grit and earth and dirt

until they are picked up by the fingers of one who knows

and then they are treasures. 

so i'm finding my own place on the threshing floor, under the stars with the moon as a witness, and speaking to the One who is not safe, but oh, so good

spread Your cloak over me, 

just let me touch the hem

// for You are my kinsman redeemer 

real beauty // you are not fat

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i have a formspring. you know, one of those places where people you know and people you don't can ask you any number of questions about any topic they wish.

and today there was a question sitting there in my inbox from that coward, anonymous. innocent words strung together to form something so much more painful.

so you've used pregnancy as an excuse to let yourself go, then?

and my blood ran cold. because in my mind's eye, i saw fifteen-year-old me crying in the dressing room because i felt so fat every time i tried on anything. and my sister could fit into clothes that i never could, because i was curvy. 

and then i saw another little girl.

a little girl whose face i couldn't see clearly, but that i knew better than my own all the same. and she sat there in the mall food court picking at the pile of lettuce with the dressing on the side that she called lunch and sipped at her water while she smelled the burgers and watched the other girls drinking their smoothies. 

i saw my daughter's face. 

and the blood turned to ice in my veins, and some strange mother-bear anger stirred in my stomach right next to the little rolling flutters that mark my daughter's current home. 

this anger was not for me. i'm growing stronger now. words, yes, they still hurt. but this anger was not for me. 

with hand on stomach and face curved toward the sky, my soul screamed

don't you dare call my beautiful little girl fat. 

don't teach my little one to count calories instead of the stars. because she has my genes, the curvy genes with rounder hips and fuller breasts. the ones that might not fit into the teenage carrot stick world into which she is being born. 

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and maybe there will come a day when you come to me with big eyes and slender limbs and say words like carbs and calories...too soon, too young, too early.

and i will pray for grace and i will pray to not break down until i am behind a closed door where i can weep for this world where little girls starve themselves and big girls stare in mirrors and whisper i hate you. 

and this is the letter i will read to her even before she understands the world, in which i have promised to not call myself fat anymore, and i pray that she will see her mama living in truth and not on the scale. 

beauty is not size 2 defined. 

beauty is health, not break-ability. beauty is dressing on your salad and chocolate for desert. beauty is forgiving eyes and kind smiles and a soft heart, and chins lifted with so much peace and warrioress pride. 

because there is a Lion in Heaven that roars with rage when people talk bad about His daughters, and when people whisper lies into little girl ears that are too innocent to know better. there are millstones for people like that, and He has them in a line and waiting with rope for tying.

don't you dare call My little girl fat.

{linking with my dear emily}

Unique

While we have the gift of life, it seems to me the only tragedy is to allow part of us to die - whether it is our spirit, our creativity or our glorious uniqueness. ~Gilda Radner

It's a strange puzzle, this idea of uniqueness.

It's one of those things that is so innocently simple while still being overwhelmingly complicated.

In fact, I think that sometimes people strive so hard for a certain grasp of their own intrinsic details that they loose their originality all together.

The idea of uniqueness is the epitome of Lewis' White Stag, leaping its delicate way through the forests of Narnia...it can only found by mistake. When chased, it darts deeper and deeper into the woods, eventually leaving its pursuer even more lost than when this strange crusade first began.

It takes that moment of patience...of standing still in the silence and waiting...for the illusive creature of uniqueness to captured and taken in fully.

So what is uniqueness, really?

It is that person you see in the mirror each morning. Every last inch of you is unique, even if you have no desire to be thus set apart.

How boring of a world would this be if we all were alike...if there was no controversy over movies or music, and if we all saw the same things in an abstract painting. In fact, there would be no such things as artistic interpretation, theater, or painting, for there would be no need of them. We would simply become bored with these familiar sketches of ourselves and slip into a state of colorless uniformity.

There is something so sweet, so delightful about the accidental discovery of your own personal style...your tastes...your loves....those things that catch your eye and make you stop and look for just one moment more.

And even more so, there is a pure jubilation that comes upon the discovery that each one of us are created as unique, glorious beings...showered in the delight and love of our adoring Creator as He gazes upon our beautifully artistic hearts and differently-tuned minds.

We are His symphony, each one a different instrument...

...a symphony of uniqueness.

So release the search for your own unique placement in this world...

...just wait, and it will find you.