red string

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:: i am wind woman ::

:: air daughter ::

:: dove child ::

i am bleeding ink and whispering prayers in the same breath,
learning to lean on windowpanes and not so much on sinking sand.

this is a Solid Rock kind of moment,
barefoot at the burning bush with knees pressed to grass.
leaning on me is futile. leaning on Him is essential.

they say that soulmates are connected by an invisible red string
and no matter how far they go apart, the string pulls them together in the end.

my Saviour and i are tied by the red rope of redemption,
drenched in His blood, one end around my wrist, one end tied to the cross.

and so i'm learning to rely
on red strings and winds from the east
on Lion's breath and eagle's wings.

blessed assurance

Jesus is mine

name-seen

{via pinterest}

we are all soul creatures, made to be seen; we are created to be cradled and tenderly adored. 

:: and yet we tremble at the thought of it ::

{the sacred life of rain}

the above passage from the lips of my bohemian sister have been haunting me since i first read them. i knew they were important, i knew they were resonating with me for a reason. 

i just didn't know why. 

but i do now. because now my warrioress spirit is churning up and my fingers and tangled with grief into thick dark curls and i feel like breaking down into two kinds of weeping. 

once for the joy of truth known.

twice for the agonizing grief of truth kept hidden.

dear Christian women of the world, stop. please, please stop. please put down the measuring cups and brush your hands down your aprons for just a moment, tip your heads back, and cry your name to the skies. i dare you. wherever you are, wail those beautiful syllables from earth to Heaven. your name, the one given by parents, the word known before the creation of the earth. 

the one etched in blood and ink on the pierced palms of the One who died for you, too. 

whoever told you that you had to blend into the woodwork, to be a wallflower and wait with lips pressed together in the silence and shadows...oh, sweet sister, they lied to you. 

because you are seen. and He craves to see you. 

did you know that? 

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did you know that your name is beautiful and that He speaks it with a smile? have you ever been told that His heart sings when He looks down and sees His daughters with open palms raised to the skies and a warrior-beat thudding between their ribs?

the introverts who peer up from swooping bangs and sing in the silence, the extroverts who leap to bare feet and dance up one aisle and down another. you are warrrioress, and you are too, sister. 

the veil was already torn, dearheart. why do you crave to cling to shredded fabric and hide there with your face shrouded and your eyes down to the stones by your feet. 

He is not down, He is up! He is risen, and you are raised to glory. so tip back those beautiful faces and speak that name to the sky. speak for your daughters, those ones who need a hand to guide them down the bravery path just for now. their feathers are still forming, these dove-daughters, and they need a map to follow. and He made it, and you speak it to their little ears. 

this is truth. open, honest, raw, beautiful truth.

you were made to been seen, to be heard, to be known. 

leap in the meadows and roar with your Daddy Lion. cling to His mane and sing His song at the top of your lungs. 

you were made be to loved this much. 

{linking this warrioress soul prompt with rain and emily}

the guy

i'm not sure how to start this post off. i have a lot to say, so much that it's brimming over and twisting my tongue into knots with the magnitude of how to begin. i feel like whatever i say, no matter how carefully thought out and prepared for your eyes, will fall entirely too short.

it's about this guy. this man i've spoken off in bits and pieces, mostly because he doesn't mind being waiting offstage while i write my soul in the center.

this man i call "husband."

and i'm ashamed to say, i've had the sun in my eyes. too blind to honestly appreciate just how much this man has done for me, and is doing in days of exhausted wife with piled clothes and unwashed plates.

he works in a factory, fifty hours of grind, and still has a volunteer's pager strapped to his belt for when fires start and cars flip over. he works all day, and sometimes late at night when the beeping wakes us both and he grabs for boots with bleary eyes and tousled blonde hair, barely time to press a kiss to my sleeping lips before he's gone out the door to save a life.

now he takes the piled jeans and puts them in the machine, and washes dirty plates and knives when my feet ache too much to stand. and when my stomach churns, he sits outside the door because it makes him sick too. but he does what he can because he doesn't want to leave me alone.

there's late-night runs for grape slushies and onion rings with ranch dressing, and countless nights of sleep disturbed while his wife tosses in discomfort and leaves little room for him in bed with the thousand curving pillows and left-side sleeping.

and still his strong fingers find that one spot in my back and press for relief, and rub my neck and brush my hair. this is man i share a booth with, pancakes and bacon and root beer every Saturday morning. the exhausted man, the hard-working man.

{via pinterest}

the one who kisses my nose and brings home chocolate when he knows i'm overwhelmed. the man who holds me in one arm with the other hand on my stomach, waiting to feel the kicks for himself.

and my daughter carries his genes. oh, how honoured i am to carry the strength of this man's flesh and bone merged with mine to create a whole new tiny warrioress for the world. she is not all me -- she bears more than my feeble strength. she has his too, and i am so glad.

this is the man i'm having a baby with, the one i'm sharing my life with. the one that waited in a white suit with a red rose on his lapel at the end of a long aisle two and a half years ago.

this is my husband. this is my hero.

so the nights will still be long, but he will still tangle his legs with mine and run his fingers through my hair while he rubs my back and waits for a little kick to remind him that he is "daddy."

 he is altogether lovely.

this is my beloved, this is my friend,

    daughters of Jerusalem.

expectancy

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i am learning about expectancy.
not the act itself, but rather the level i dare to have.

because i don't have nearly enough, because my Jesus meets His loves at the level of their expectancy. i didn't notice that my tank was brushing e, that i didn't have nearly the amount that He aches for me to have.

the man whose daughter slipped from Earth to death, he begged Him to come and heal, to come and raise. just come, don't linger, just come now.

:: and Jesus went, and raised :: 

the solider who took a knee on dirt path and stone and whispered, "i know the power, i know the authority of a word. speak here, and my servant is healed."

:: and Jesus spoke, there on the road, and healed ::

the woman who bled, and reached out two trembling fingers just to brush against the hem of filthy fabric that composed the Saviour's robe. "if only i can touch, i will be healed."

and Jesus whispered in the pulsing crowd of a thousand fingers, 

:: "who touched Me? power went from Me, and I felt it go." ::

and i do not have her level of expectancy. i do not hold enough. i am the needy child who tugs His arm again and again and cries, "come now, Daddy...can You fix it?"

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i don't expect enough from Him. i whisper "maybe You can...can You?" i should reach out with two tiny fingers and touch, and know. all i have to do is touch, and He will give.

and so i let the branches of self-doubt and human reasoning twist so that no more hope can seep out. it's just too risky, you see, to expect so much. too much gets lost, too much me gets forgotten, i think.

but oh, and then i realize that light is unconstrained, or else it is darkness. and expectation becomes the knowing, the watching and waiting not with maybe but with will come.

and i let my dreaded soul open, and run, and wail joy and knowing to the skies.

i'm kneeling in the dirt here, barefoot and broken. i'm reaching out for the hem of His robe.

and i know.

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.

daughter rising

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i forgot what this felt like. to write my heart, i mean. i've been so tired and so worn for so long that these words seemed to have faded from me, illusive like grass on the wind. and as beautiful as they were, they were lovely to watch float away, too.

and so i let them float, maybe a little too long for some, but just long enough for me. because this life within me, this little tiny heartbeat that we have since discovered beats the warrioress rhythm like mine, has been drawing much from me, and leaving little behind.

yes, i am carrying a girl-child. another daughter for the world, another pair of feminine hands for the Kingdom's banner. and all i can do is wrap my arms around my ever growing stomach and whisper

courage, my dearheart

you are not a daughter alone.

i am almost afraid to bring another woman into this world. the burden already placed upon her tiny shoulders almost breaks me down to weeping at every thought. for who knew that so much would be required of innocent eyes and fragile fingers?

rain has told me to blurt. to impulsively speak my heart to the wind. and maybe that's what this is, a blurting out of my heart's overflowing emotion that has been building up and flowing through my veins at a pace too fast and to the tune of some music that i've forgotten that i've missed for weeks. 

{me large with our daughter, 18 weeks}

but this much i know well, and i know strong in my soul.

i will not raise a quiet daughter of sewn-shut lips and discreetly bowed eyes. i will raise an earth-pounder, a piller-shaker, and a battle-crier. 

if she is the gentle warrior, let it be and i will love her. ::

if she is the loudest singer with hands raised to broken clouds, let it be and i will love her.::

 i will not dictate her steps; He has that laid smooth without my desperate attempts to push and prod His mighty Hands. 

her path is on Him, and my smile is on her. 

my Marian Abigail. my evening star, her father's joy. 

my little girl growing. my warrioress rising. my unborn champion, my silent voiced miracle. 

my daughter. his daughter. Aslan's daughter 

silent eyes

i know i've been quiet. i know that this blog has sat dormant for so long that you may have forgotten that i exist.

but i have an excuse, and it is the most precious one in the world. and today, for the first time, my eyes beheld the unseen.

20 wks, 3 days. 

gender comes tomorrow evening, when we cut cake and see blue or pink. and i promise that things will become louder here soon, as my body and my mind level out again.

{giveaway ends tomorrow. please enter, if you wish}