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.

moon-howler // be still

{via pinterest}

daughter

be of great courage

for your faith has made you whole.

i forget He said that.

it's funny, the more i pour through familiar words, the more i'm okay with passing them by. maybe because they whisper a little too close for comfort, maybe i'm afraid of what they say. 

am i afraid of being made whole? 

am i too comfortable with brokenness? 

because being healed takes more work than maybe i want to invest. maybe this thing of building wings while falling is too scary...too many of the "what if's" clouding my eyes like midnight fog on the windshield making it hard to see through the night.

after all

i might drop the feathers

howling at the moon is a brave thing, but what if my voice cracks? what if i'm less of a Lioness and more of a kitten on a rain-soaked back porch? the scars make a pretty picture, but they tell a story too, and what if i don't like the words they speak? 

:: because if i start, then i have to finish. 

{via pinterest}

oh

He will fight for you

you need only be still

so sometimes you have to leave your shoes somewhere in the blackberry patch and just run out in the soft dew-damp grass. because you have wings hidden in your hair and stars in your eyes, and the Son who made the moon wants to dance with you because you're His lady-love. 

and He'll hold your hand while you howl at the moon, brave-hearted beloved, fingers curled against His pierced palm while He sings His song in your ear. 

the world might whisper 

do you know Him? really?

and i sing

He knows me.

driftwood

{via stylemepretty}

these days i have felt very unpoetic, very uninspired.

all of my artistic energies have been focused on my NaNoWriMo novel, and all of my strength has been poured into the care of my precious warrior-daughter of now eight weeks.

and then the doctors said i needed more surgery. my gallbladder quit working, as though it wast just as tired as i was. and i went under the knife again two days ago. my body is rung out like a rag in the bottom of the kitchen sink, tossed and crumpled and completely without strength.

i am weary. i am without poetry. i am simply exhausted.

i am driftwood.

lead me to the Rock that is higher than i.

and i am tempest tossed and oh, so forelorn.

i am a ship and the waves are swelling. 

but there is One who calms the waters with a word.

peace. be still.

for I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel.

and He has gone before me, unsurprised by a single thing that has occurred over the past month. and all i can do is whisper "thank you" to the stars that illuminate my night. because the Cross is what i cling to without ceasing these days, or i would be smashed to pieces against the shoals, carved with lies. 

insufficient becomes :: enough

broken becomes :: whole

empty becomes :: filled

and i am driftwood carved to elegance, leaning against the Rock that is higher than i.

real beauty // you are not fat

{via pinterest}

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. 

{via pinterest}

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}

alive underwater

it's a funny thing, this concept of drowning.

to be entirely underwater is a fearful thing on its own. to have the water close over your head and to sink down so low that the sun is a glimmer above your head, and the waves playing the oddest of games with your head.

and then you come up again, dripping and gasping for breath. and then you laugh and do it over again. and it feels like drowning, when your lungs are screaming for air and your eyes are fogged with water and far-away sunbeams and something else...something mysterious that i'm not sure i ever want to figure out entirely.

and it's a fear thing, to let go of the dock and sink when every corner of your mind is screaming

don't let go. 

don't you dare. 

and so we haul ourselves out of the water for dry land instead, preferring the solid turf beneath our feet to the ever-changing waves that could take us down and out of control for even just one second too long. 

and so isn't it funny that He stands on the edge of the pier, holding our hands in His, eyes fixed deep into ours and speaks a message that seems so foreign to our hearts. 

trust Me.

let go. 

you don't dare not to...

and the way to Aslan's Country lies over a river. and it lies below the surface of the darkest of pools with no bottom to speak of...

and it takes so much bravery to just dive right in. and to get there, you have to let the waves sweep over you and 

and He whispers

die with Me. 

die to live. die to self, arise in Me. 

and then we arise from the bottom of the sea, dripping wet and pouring glory from head to toe, hand in nail-scarred hand. the dove wings brush against my cheek, and the Voice from Heaven speaks a roar in my soul.

this is My beloved Son. 

in Him, I am well pleased. 

and He's holding my hand. 

unheard :: not unknown

{via pinterest}

there are a thousand beautiful sounds in this world.
and i ache to hear them all.

sometimes it's a whisper of wind in the trees,
the Voice speaking courage, dearheart. be still. 


other times it's that symphony of noise, be it music or laughter or so many voices
it's a triumph and a rejoice in the key of F and C and B and G

or it's that hiss of steaks on a grill or the sciff of a scoop through a tub of mint chocolate chip
the edible noises that comprise more than one sense at a time.

but who knew a rush on a small hand-held device could be such music
such a symphony that culminates in fierce love for something yet unseen?

because a fourteen-week heartbeat proves life when there already was.
and worry breathes a final breath when something concrete is held in the ear.

my frame was not hidden from You when I was made in the secret place, when i was woven together in the depths of the earth. 

Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be. 

::psalm 139:15-16::

i feel like i am part of something sacred, something precious. and i'm overjoyed with this preciousness that is the soft rushing of my unborn one's heartbeat. 

it has sealed something on my soul, something magnificent. 

i am mother, and i have been for some time. but now i understand and i feel it deep in my core, where i am treasuring these things in the darkness. 

so i whisper through my tears of overflowing joy to the small one moving, unfelt but dancing beneath my skin, just as my Father has whispered to me. 

courage, dearheart.

for He has overcome the world. 

meditate

{via the sacred life}

yesterday, i wrote about how i need to learn to rest.
today, i can't.

because i'm sicker than i was yesterday, and my head is full of a pounding like tribal drums but much less beautiful and far more painful.

and i spent an entire night tossing and turning against a pillow tower and sneezing through a swirling patterned box of Puffs.

but lack of sleep has given me time to think. time to reflect and meditate, even on this word itself.

:: meditate ::


because it all goes back to be still and know, as i sit with patchwork quilts draped over always bare toes and the twisting swirl of fragrant tea steam slowly fill the air with soothing.

and i let the television sound fade to a mumble and the music to a background whisper. 

:: and i meditate ::

maybe not with crossed legs and crooning chants of syllables repeated. today i find my peace with candleflame flickering and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

why have we pushed meditation out of our faith circle? when did we stop allowing peace into our hearts?

{via pinterest}

one thing I have asked from the Lord, 
that i shall seek: 

that i may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, 

to behold the beauty of the Lord

and to meditate in His temple.

:: psalm 27:4 ::

it's when we open. it's when we refuse to close, no matter the hour. when we are unafraid to shiver in glory, and when the scared becomes the sacred. we stop looking at the mirror that seems so ground, and we turn our gaze inward, upward. 

when we stop and inhale. when we became brave to approach, to contemplate this thing of so much boldness and so much peace all at once. 

i'm embracing Him, i'm inhaling glory.

i'm meditating. 

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.

brave :: oneword 2012

my word scares me. 

it's not brash or strong or resilient.

it's not the one i anticipated, or the one i would have chosen. 

it's not fearless or determined or radiant. 

it's brave. 

i obsess over strength. weakness is something that terrifies me. wouldn't i want to be something gripping, something changing that would shake the world's foundations? 

but this is a shaker, in His way. because this world is made of rock and ice. it's fearless or nothing.  courage has been left roadside, ached to be forgotten. 

because courage isn't fearless. courage is being afraid, and standing. 

and i want to dig roots down deep into the soil at the foot of the Cross and wind this vine around the blood-stained wood. 

because i'm seeking courage, and i'm seeking strong found only in Him. 

courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; 

courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.  

:: winston churchill ::

so 2012 will not be a year of squelched fears, but of eyes met and courage found in the sacred corner. 

it will not be a year of silence, of bound tongues and captive hands, but of freedom and voice in the darkness. 

it will be a year of new. 

a one-worded year of Light, of sacred touch and inhaling glory from lungs to tongue-tip and back again. 

2012, a year of brave.

to live is the rarest thing. most people just exist, that’s all.

// oscar wilde //

safe and sound

have you ever reached into the fire for gold with dross pouring over your fingers
as it burns away flesh and earth and leave behind sacred?

have you ever dared to take a flower petal in your fingers to study the lines

the ones that spell life and sun and Light and little things?

{via pinterest}

these are the things we forget to remember. that Light erases darkness and flower veins spell mystery, that value is found where money is missing and silent touch is often more important than too many words? 

don't you dare look out your window, darling

everything's on fire

 the war outside our door keeps raging on

 hold onto this lullaby

 even when the music's gone

// safe and sound :: the civil wars //

it's about seeking Him where He may be found, in all sacred corners that are most often forgotten. because if He wrote in the dust, why can't i?

 it's about holding on to music when everything burns, and all that's left is you and Him and the lion's song, ringing clear in the night, crying

see, I am doing a new thing.

all things are made new, dearheart. 

i'm spinning in these dustmotes, cape in hand and candle in the other. 

i'm closing my eyes and leaping into crystal pools. it's His country i seek. i'm safe and sound, drowning in His glory. 

illusive

{via pinterest}

i feel illusive.
like wind on pavement or dust in darkness.

it's there, and i know it's there. it's fact.
but i feel like it's invisible, like secrets

it's my word for 2012.

down to four days and still only silence. i've sat with Bible open and candles lit and tea cup steaming with fragrance, and i've listened. but this lack of noise, this time of peace, has only led to my heart being filled and peace on white feathers roosting in my soul.

but it's been precious.

because want can sometimes translate to need in that language that only souls speak.  it's one of those mystery, known but unknown. the way Light shines the brightest when there is none and the way words that don't leave the lips can sometimes be the most beautiful.

you are not bound to loss and silence.
for you are not bound to the circles of this world.
all things must pass away,
all life is doomed to fade…
 :: and yet you are not without hope ::

// breath of life :: howard shore //

{via pinterest}

so i'm still wordless. and i'm not rushing it anymore. i'm going to sit and breathe in the tea steam. i'm going to inhale this invisible Glory called grace and dance in the swirl of dustmotes in a sunbeam.

because it will come, just as He promised me it would in that night when He whispered

we will choose, you and I, dearheart. 

i'm rooted in that hill where death was trampled and the Word prevailed and veils tore from sacred top to bottom.

it's a beautiful sort of turbulance, the kind found when storms are settling and everyone feels it deep inside. the wind is hard, but slowing. the rain is tossing, but sweet.

and so i seek. and i wait. because when the word comes, and i know it will, it will be that sweet perfume after a cleansing rain.

it will be worth the wait.

the fifth page :: mystery

{via pinterest}

{to read the first page, visit here}

{to read the second page, visit here}
{to read the third page, visit here}

{to read the fourth page, visit here}

conviction is a powerful thing. it's something that can come out of nowhere, something that you never saw before a hand touched yours and words were whispered, you should look.

today, it took a whimsically tangled ski trip and a sacred blog post to grip my soul and turn my head toward you should look.

it's time to look at ourselves, the sisters and the brothers and the sons and the daughters of the Mighty One. it's time to look at who we were and the mold into which we are squeezing ourselves just because we think we have to fit. have we gotten stuck in the place where sacred gets sidelined, talked about in whispers and not fully understood anymore? 

{via pinterest}

because it feels as though we let it go, and we stopped seeking when we stepped through the church doors. 

we have somehow entered the place where candle-lighters are greeted with wrinkled brows and those who seek the holy are the strange ones who look to hard for "the emotion." because mystery in the Word, not understanding everything that greets our eyes and tugs our souls...

is this wrong?

shouldn't we just know?

we need to step back and breathe and seek. we need to be free to acknowledge that it’s okay to be a mystic, a seeker in this dark world. where candles make your soul ring in the darkness and we invite the Creator to come and create WITH us.

this season is God with us, celebrated and overwhelming with candlelight and silence in the beholding. this here, this is the time where we find ourselves willing to open our door to the fragrant and cast aside the understandable. and for this, i raise shaking hands to broken clouds and whisper, 

come have me, won’t You?

droplets :: rain

{via pinterest}

i love the rain.

some find it gloomy, overbearing. almost depressing when the sun is blotted out with grey and fog, when water pours like tears from Heaven's eyes and there is nothing bright anymore.

but in my experience, tears heal.

and the rain cleanses.

there is no sun seen, but it's still there. it's just waiting for the healing.

driving in the rain is complicated. the roads are slick and damp, and there are puddles that gather in the low points that lead to a skid or a tidal-wave splash. but it convicts me, too, when i drive while the water pours from sky to ground.

but there's that blur when the water patterns the windshield and for that moment, you can't see the road. and then the wipers glide over the glass and all is clear again.

and that's the way it should be. the tears come and for a moment, all seems blurred and unsure. and then the fingers brush the tears aside. the bottle in Heaven fills with a few more drops, and peace descends.

{via pinterest}

You have taken account of my wanderings

put my tears in Your bottle. 

are they not in Your book?

{psalm 56:8}

these are not just our sorrows, i think. He keeps our joys in this bottle, too. and i think one day that He will take me into this room, this place where this bottle is stored.

and He and i will talk, and He will take this bottle off the shelf. and He will pour them into His palm where my name is written and smile.

i keep Your tears

of sorrow and joy and Light and pain and beauty and confusion

so that You could see

that I am greater

and I love you. 

so this is why i love the rain. the knowing that while it is unsure, there is beauty. and while the joys overflow into water down my cheeks, or the pain trickles down in the only release i can understand

i can stand. secure and dry in the Light of the Son. 

waiting and joy :: mary

{via pinterest}

i spent this morning thinking about Mary.

this innocent girl has been on my mind so much these days as we count down the seconds, the minutes, the hours until Christmas.

because our anticipation lasts from the final dish on Thanksgiving Day until the twenty-fifth wooden figure is hung on the Advent calender.

but hers was for nine long months. 

do we forget that sometimes, that this was not a humble woman with eye aglow with pregnant anticipation with friends pressing eager fingers to a swollen belly, anxious to feel a kick?

this was a frightened child with big doe eyes and a secret told to her by an angel -- one that she could only hide for so long before the world would know and come running with big, sharp stones and cries of "whore."

this was her culture, her people. she had a strong man who loved her and sought her for his bride, but this baby was not his, and he would know, and then they would know.

but oh 

there was joy. 

this young woman of wisdom and grace, this little one with the heart of a Messiah beating inside, wrapped her arms around the place where the Sovereign One grew fingers and toes and eyelashes and a tiny smile, and cried

my soul doth magnify the Lord. 

my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour. 

she baffles me. standing in the shadow of so much uncertainty, she praised. she turned her face to the skies and sang of her joy. because she KNEW.

she knew her soul was wrapped tight with the Hand of the Master. the protector of the innocent, the Father to this Son.

and so she waited in the silence. hand on her stomach to feel the kick of the One who would save her soul from Death

:: and clung to unceasing joy ::

mismatched vessels

{via pinterest}

i have two sets of dishes in my cupboards.

they could not be more different.

one is round, blue and green and flecked with brown.  the other is square, with deep strokes of tan and chocolate.  there are chips and cracked edges. they are far from perfect.

but i can't help but run my fingers over the edges and ponder these imperfect servants of mine.

because they resonate. i feel as though we converse at times, as i wipe them dry and stack them carefully again.

from one cracked vessel to another. 

i marvel often how my Jesus teaches me through the simplest of things. 

how i can look at this unusual collection of plates and bowls and matching mugs and find my reflection in their surface. 

because isn't that what we are in Christ? a mismatched collection of imperfect people, these chipped pieces of china and these pottery plates. 

{via pinterest}

these broken, beautiful ones who join hands and whisper

lead me to the Cross.

and so i cannot help but stop and run my fingers over each fragile corner, every lasting stroke that paints the portrait of Love on each ceramic surface. 

i don't claim perfection. i claim Christ. 

and so i stand with the strong and the beautiful.

i stand with the mismatched. 

 but we have this treasure in earthen vessels, so that the surpassing greatness of the power will be of God and not from ourselves; we are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not despairing; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.

--2 Corinthians 4:7-9 

{linking with emily and all my imperfect companions.
freedom in brokenness}

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.

paper cranes

{via pinterest}

some people are laden with much, and they buckle. the pressure overwhelms them and they fall to the ground, crying

no more. 

please no more. 

and then there are some that are given so little. and they take these scraps of paper and string and make something so beautiful from their bits of nothing. 

these are the paper cranes. 

the ones made from just paper and string, and yet they rise. they are the lucky ones, these origami people. 

my best friend is a paper crane. 

her paper sweet and her ribbon worn with love and pulling. because people like to pull at precious things and see how long it takes them to break. 

and so they gripped her wings and pulled like little boys to tug the wings from a helpless butterfly while it flaps and weeps for pain and grief

but her wings held fast. 

my paper crane girl. 

she stood holding His hand, and his, and sang like a bird to the skies 

soon red paper turns to white, faded pink ribbon to lace and pearls. 

and she will hold His hand, and His, and whisper i do 

and take to the sky to start anew. 

a bit worn with tear filled eyes, but never torn.

because her man is a paper crane too.

another hard-pressed one whom i admire and love. another one who hasn't torn, but has tended to her wings to make sure she did not rip in two.

i wish you blue skies always, love. but i know, when the rain comes, he will hold your umbrella, and He will hold you both.

my paper cranes in love. 

{linking with the beautiful emily and her imperfect prose}

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}

woman

{via pinterest}

{note: this post was inspired by this post from the beautiful Sarah at Emerging Mummy. it lit the candle under me. i can't be silent now.}


we are more

these Christian daughters of this world, these women and girls and widows and wives and mothers and sisters and singles and barren and overflowing with love regardless of this cobblestone we stand upon.

we are more. 

we are more than these invented definitions of femininity. we are more than kitchens and apron strings. we are more than decorators and mothers and wives.

we may be these things. but we are more. we are not silent. we are not insignificant.

we crave like you.

we crave voice. we crave depth. we crave more than modesty lectures and reminders to be the weaker ones. we need more than cooking classes and socials.

we do not have to have one extreme or the other.

either sex symbol or wallflower.

this must not be. 

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.

He chose us too. 

and not only the housewives or the silent servants.


every woman has a calling.

and He chose us ALL. 

{via pinterest}

Martha, Martha. 

follow your sister, Mary. for she {this sitting enraptured seeker} has chosen what is right. 

he took those broken women. those defiled women.

those prostitutes at which the world painted whore. those vagabonds with broken homes and no husbands. those eager follows who sat and listened and yearned for Him. those water-bearers and thirsty souls.

every walk. every phase. every calling.

those hem-grabbers. those cross-clingers. those outcasts. those reachers. those tender open hearts who wanted Him and Him alone.

we are women. we are vessels, full of Him and aching to overflow.

we are brave and strong and beautiful and beloved.

we are more.

we are voice. love. power. 

His. 

Let us RISE to the questions of our time. Let us SPEAK to the injustices in our world. Let us MOVE the mountains of fear and intimidation. Let us SHOUT down the walls that separate and divide. Let us FILL the earth with the fragrance of Love.

Let us be women who Love. 

{quote from here -- more words to be read}


{linking with michelle, laura, and jen today}

Illuminate

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all. ~Richard Wright

There's this thing with writers. It's something I've noticed with almost every blogger, poet, or novelist I have ever had the pleasure of knowing over the years.

We write what we know, not what we see.

When we write, we sit down in front of our computers or take our pens in our fingers, and begin to express everything that our hearts are feeling...that our minds know...that our souls ache to reveal. Every written document in the world has the personal stamp and touch of the writer brushed across it like an invisible watermark.

Recently, I took the time to go back over my blog and read the past fifty-two entries that I have published since May of this year. It was a bit frightening and a bit like revisiting an old friend.

It's similar to the feeling a young woman might get when going back over some old private diary or rereading old unsent love letters. There are sprinklings of amusement, maybe even a flush or two of private embarrassment. However, it also brings with it a fairly large portion of self-reflection and recollection.

The same was true for me. As I went back over my old posts, re-reading my ramblings, I was reminded of how far I have come in the past eight months. So many things have changed, and I will admit, my life is in an entirely different direction than I ever could have anticipated.

And then I sit back and look at what I had written and marvel that God allowed me to see a peak of something so sacred...so marvelous...as a fragment of His plan for my life in the months that have passed and in the years yet to come.

It's like He's given me this "gift" of writing as a sort of illumination to help me see the road He has laid out for me.

Sometimes, it's a flashlight...a broad beam leaving nothing to the imagination.

Other times, it's a flickering candle...a tiny little splash of light cutting through the darkness, just enough for me to follow His footsteps on the path.

But either way, He gave it to me. I just have to keep moving forward...

...upward, inward...

...closer and closer...

I have no way of knowing what the end of 2010 holds for me. Nor do I have even the faintest idea of what 2011 will look like -- where I will go, who I will become...

...all I know is that I have this candle of words in my hand, the King of Kings at my helm, and an incredibly valiant team of warriors on every side.

I'm gonna keep writing what I know instead of trying to write what I see.

I'm gonna make it.

One word at a time.

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God...in him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind...the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." ~John 1:1,4-5