letter

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little girl,

i've started keeping my eyes open since i discovered your existance. i started with fingers pressed to my stomach, listening and whispering prayers from the very first moment of forehead pressed to steel bathroom stall door as the dark purple "X" whispered that you were coming. 

but when pink crumbs and white frosting spoke baby girl, little warrioress,  i found myself on my knees more often. because there are so many things i want for you, so many things i need you to know...will you hear me when you're here, will you listen to your mother like i never did until the days were past and i looked back down dusty, bloody roads and realized, "my ears were off when they should have been on..."?

i want you to hear mama's voice now, babygirl. 

:: i want you to hear me :: 

in this house, the things we count will not be calories or inches or grams of fat or how many notches the scale on the floor strikes. we will count to a hundred moments on our fingertips, and then start over when we run out. we will count the freckles on your nose and call them angel kisses. i will count your bumps and bruises, and call you always beautiful. 

i will teach you that life is more than that man at the end of the tunnel. it's about being you and being His before ever being his. and there will be late night whispers and chocolate ice cream when first-time fingers touch and teenage lips brush and the shame will not be there. it will be love, and it will spill over. 

i will paint His colours on your canvas, and then i will put the brush in your hands, and say, "now you paint your own picture of Him. make His love yours." 

because my footsteps are mine, 

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and yours will be yours. 

and you will make mistakes. and your face will hit the floor when i can't turn fast enough to catch you. and toddler tears with kissable boo-boos will turn into big things that my lips on your bleeding knee cannot fix. 

and i promise you, i will hold you and cry with you, because my heart breaks already thinking about your heart breaking. and i will cling to your daddy on Earth, and i will cry to your Abba-Daddy. 

and mommy will make mistakes too. and i beg Him now to make me supple, to hear your hurts that i caused by mistakes and to always beg for forgiveness from you, no matter how big or little the slight. if you are hurt, and i hurt you, then i want to make it better. 

and i promise you this, above anything else that could ever come on shifting sands of the unknown and dark-clouded paths that lead who knows where. 

i will ALWAYS love you. 

i loved you the minute i knew i had you, and i love you still, and i will love you forever. fiercer and stronger every waking second. 

meet me in Heaven, daughter of Aslan.  

seek justice, love mercy, walk humbly with your God. 

i treasure you, Marian Abigail. and i will never stop.

bedtime stories :: peace

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some can look back to little girl moments and think of stories read. they can remembering hearing whispered once upon a time from parental lips and smiling with fairytale princess pride.

but me, i look back at one story that was told me over and over. because it was my favourite. and it was not the one with glass slippers or spell-breaking kisses or even tumbling rose petals. it was the one where the little girls died, and their daddy wrote a song.

i can still hear my daddy's voice in my head, even now, as he told the tale at bedtime. the storm that rocked the vessel that sent three little girls to the bottom of the ocean, a wife's broken telegram of three words that screamed of a whispered broken heart.

:: safe but alone ::


and a broken father who boarded a ship to the place where his daughters passed the veil and entered their Father's arms. and the words that melted together with the tears that splashed into the salty tomb that bore his children.

when peace like a river attendth my way

when sorrows like sea billows roll

whatever my lot, Thou has taught me say

it is well.

it is well 

with my soul

this was my bedtime tale. and i never felt safer when told this story of the little girls' drowning and their father who found peace in the storm. because when Daddy kissed my forehead and turned out the light and i snuggled beneath my bright blue tye-dyed duvet, i would smile.

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because Jesus loved little girls, and He loved their daddy too. and i was a little girl, and i had a daddy. and if something happened to me, i would be with Jesus. and if something happened to my daddy, i would be okay, too.

and now i'm all grown up, with a patchwork quilt and a dark blue and gold duvet of my own. and sometimes when the night feels darker than it ever has, and the world seems empty and so much like a billowing storm, i go to the window and look out into the frozen night.

and my lips form the words that my daddy taught me.

when peace like a river

and when the notes are formed in church, the tears drip down. because it's still my favourite hymn. i still feel safe when the melody fills my ears and i mentally take my daddy's hand and squeeze it the way he used to do, and still does when we are together.

because i'm a woman now, not a little girl. but i still love my daddy. and so does Jesus.

and i need to call my daddy and thank him for teaching me this song. because my eyes are full of unshed tears as i write this.

because this is not a fairytale with happy ever after. 

this is truth with eternity like a cloak for my shoulders. 

this is peace like a river.

freedom :: press send {220-227}

no one told me it would be this hard.

barely two days, and this thing of brave already has my fragile fingers shaking. and all it took to make my heart beat faster was pushing that button. 

:: send ::

because the first thirty pages of my book just went to an interested publisher. it took a precious one in my life to get me to get the courage to click that mouse and let it fly from security to unsure. it's my fragile soul, a month of bleeding onto the paper and turning thought into word and imagination into fiction. 

and now it's out of my hands. and i'm petrified. because i don't do rejection well. 

really, does anyone? 

but i'm bad at counting blessings etched on my soul when i'm too busy shaking in the corner with fingers draped over eyes whispering

please don't let me fall

i can't do this.

but i count anyway, one and two and three and four...

• 220. courage. knowing that courage is more than doing, it's being. 

• 221. vulnerability. 

• 222. the voice of a precious friend, urging me to be brave and leap. press send.

• 223. grace. so much grace when i deserve it not. 

• 224. warm soup on a day so cold that noses go numb and fingertips shiver. 

• 225. fresh starts and clean slates. brand-new year, 2012. 

• 226. puppy kisses and The Bachelor on winter nights. 

• 227. healing tattoos, eternal reminders of my place on His palms. 

so i still count. because nothing stops my racing heart more than drowning in eucharisteo, in letting the focus slide away from fear and up further, in further. 

because it's being brave. it's being, all on its own.

it's surrendering in the darkness, waiting for the Light to come again.

{linking with Ann and my sisters in gratitude today}

deconstructed fences

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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. 

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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. 

brimming with grace {165-175}

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i've started carrying Ann's book wherever i go.

it's small enough, which baffles me how a book so small can carry such a powerful weight of truth. it fits in my purse, but my soul can barely contain it all inside.

i'm full to brimming after only another four pages.

these pages were about pain. about this God we serve, and this mystery of pain.

this mystery of God's grace.

i know that we aren't supposed to know. but sometimes i want to know.

doesn't everyone?

i've been counting my blessings for several months now. i never once mentioned pain or aching hearts or any of those things that tend to make us shake our fists and scream at the skies. 

maybe i should start. 

because His grace is sufficient. His Word will not return to Him void. 

i look back now over my blackness and see where His light kept me walking when i wanted to crumple and die there. 

and so i'm learning. every sunrise brings me a lesson. and this one is hard, and i'm not sure if i like it, or even want to admit that i've been shown this truth. 

this is one i want to ignore. but i can't. 

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because i'm still counting...

• 165. God's grace. 

• 166. the darkness that brings the sun into greater brilliance 

• 167. a sky full of stars on a cloudless night

• 168. homecomings and reminders that alone is never again an option

• 169. learning Him more, deeper with time passing. 

• 170. His lessons, painful and beautiful. knowing that He knows, and i will learn when that right time comes. 

• 171. first winter's snow, just enough to dust and melt away, but more than enough to light warm Christmas candles on the hearth of my heart. 

• 172. intercession for one another. moments of hands clasped over a thousand miles as one covers the other in blankets of prayer. 

• 173. thirty thousand words

• 174. rolling pins and the aroma of fresh pie dough. 

• 175. learning to be transparent. authentic. His hands slowly unveiling me. 

i'm going to keep a pen in my hand always. i'm still barefoot in His glory, because its starting to clear in darkness as well as light.

because these windows in my soul have been washed. 

and i'm still counting

because i'm seeing clearer. 

{counting to a thousand and beyond with Ann and my sisters there}

warming to the words

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this month is already so rich. it's only the third day.

it's November. it's that transition month, that time when autumn and winter are warring for equal time on the Earth and the world can't make up its mind.

when the leaves are fading and falling. no snow to hide the awkward, ugly sticks that poke up from the ground where trees used to be.

grey skies more than sun. it's as if even the world grieves in confusion.

what am i now? 

i write, sometimes collected and sometimes aimlessly, until i reach the end of the thirty days of frenzy, and then i sit back and stare at the masterpiece that i did not make, even though i tried so hard that i nearly broke. 

but this year is different already. 

it's only the third day of the month. and the skies are grey, as always. and the leaves are tumbling down, and the rain and ice are mid-battle outside my window.

but i'm warm here. 

i'm hearing this Voice clearer this month. i'm seeing hard decisions laid out at my feet made clear, made sound, made safe.

He's teaching me things

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things like Trust. in others, in myself, in him and in Him both.

i'm learning to see words as a gift. not a frantic race to 50,000. this time to write, to pour out, is a gift that my King and November have joined together to give me as the most precious of presents.

i feel like a child, little hand clutching a pen while a larger Hand wraps around mine.

little one, see? write like this. 

I've got you, dearheart.

the  Lover of our souls has not forgotten us. the clouds hide the sun but not the Son. He sees us clear, unchanging.

i'm warm here in Him. 

i think i'll go write more words with Him now. watching my word count rise, and His mercies rise alongside.

we're a team, He and i. writing this book together, Father and daughter.

oh, what a place to be.

{linking with Laura at The Wellspring. this precious playdate with me and Him}

greatness.

Walking on the moon. They said we couldn't ever.

He walked on the water.

Artificial heart values, prosthetic eyes, mechanical limbs. They said it was "against nature."

He healed the sick. Gave sight to the blind. Made the lame walk again.

We fiddle with concepts of life support and how to save those we love from death.

He spoke, "rise," and the dead opened their eyes.

We seek selfishness, how can we love without giving anything of ourselves? No commitment, no attachment.

He let Himself be ripped apart, bled dry, and tortured to death...all because of Love.

We weep and plead at the end of our lives, wailing in fear "this is the end. There is no more."

"Death is swallowed up in victory....where is your victory, oh, Death, where is your sting?"

I serve a bigger God than this. I serve a King above all others. I have a Father forever to hold my hand. 

I follow Jesus. 

To the ends of the earth and back again.

am

dear self: 

you have to hear me now.

this is what i am not.

because this is what you keep telling me i am. 

knife-point. razor edge. whispered screams that never stop chanting this mantra, as though you are tucked between my earlobe and my throat. 

i'm sick of hearing what i am not. 

your voice is too sweet. too smooth. too easy to take in, this poison pill.

empty. broken.

measured in loss.

worthless to all. 

you have been weighed. measured. found wanting. 

no. one. loves. you.

i hate to break it to you.

but YOU. ARE. WRONG.

because you have failed to take into consideration

the other voice.

the stronger voice.

the gentler voice.

the voice of Love. 

Strong. Beautiful. 

Fixed. Repaired. Adored.

Loved THIS much. {arms outstretched to fit the rugged cross}

I love you. 

Mine. 

your voice will fade to white noise.

you will be one day be forgotten.

it is His voice that will endure 

through eternity. 

Linking up with Emily: imperfect prose on Thursdays
Yes, this now a weekly song for which I wait each week. 

Mirror/Reflection

Appearances are not held to be a clue to the truth.  But we seem to have no other.  ~Ivy Compton-Burnett

Reflections are tricky things. It honestly all depends on the medium we use.

If we chose to seek our reflection through the smooth surface of a body of water, we will find that we look more than different...

...distorted features, easily broken by a dropped pebble or the touch of a finger. 

What if we pursue a less easily disturbed method of vision, such as a polished piece of mirrored glass, or even a storefront windowpane?

...dirt and grime can thwart our purpose, and we may not even understand or enjoy what we see. 

For so many, reflections are our greatest enemy. 

In them, we do not see our greatness or our beauties. Instead, we bring emphasis to our multiple flaws and microscopically examine ourselves to yet another detriment to our self-esteem and self-worth.

I am not what the mirror says I am. 

Seeking our only reflection in any sort of clear surface is nothing if not dangerous...heart-breaking...discouraging.

We need to stop looking down into puddles to catch a glimpse of what we think we are...

...we need to gaze upward toward what He knows we are. 

Our reflections on this earth are dim and deceitful. 

It is in Him that we see ourselves in truth...

...beautiful, precious, beloved daughters and sons.

When the world sees me, they should see Him.

I want to stop looking into the dim mirrors of this mortal plane.

I want to become a clear, shining reflection of His glory.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known. ~1 Corinthians 13:12

(Don't forget -- today is the last day to enter July's Inspired Monthly Giveaway! Giveaway closes at midnight CST.) 

True

Have you ever thought about how God sees you?

...ever sat down beneath a spreading tree and gazed up at the pale blue sky, spread lightly with wispy clouds, just to think about someone for whom you care deeply?

...danced under a midnight sky, sprinkled with the delicately burning stars?

...opened a leather-bound book that has sat on the shelf for months, and felt as if you were becoming reacquainted with a long-missed friend?
That is a picture of God's delight in you.
Have you ever had a broken heart?

...wept until you were out of tears over the struggles of a beloved brother, fighting his way through old memories, stamped indelibly in his mind...if only you could free him...if only...?

...carried the secret pains of a friend on your own heart, wishing you could fight her battles for her...wishing that you could make her understand how beautiful she is...?
This is a picture of God's pain at your sorrow.

Have you ever experienced true love?
...had someone love you so much that they would give up their comfort, their freedom, their dreams, their very lives to keep you safe?

...had someone wrap their arms around you and just let you cry your heart out into their shoulder, knowing that their heart is breaking because you are suffering?
This is a picture of God's love for you.

This is a picture of my God.
True delight.
True sorrow.
True love.
"And God demonstrates His love for us in this...while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." -Romans 5:8
"Great love has none than this: that a man lays down his life for his friends." -John 15:13