come in.

why don't you think of God as the one who is coming,

who has been approaching from all eternity ... ?

-rainer-

"when a heart breaks ... does your heart break?"

the words bounce from the hardwood floor I'm crumpled upon to my ears and down deep into my soul.

 "can you hear your people, Lord? does Your heart ... break?"

I mouth these lyrics through my sobs, and stare at my open hands sitting heavy on my lap - my eyes catching on the band wrapped around my finger. How did I get here? I know the question will not be answered as it rises from my broken heart. In one moment of gut-wrenching emotion, I am able to feel completely lost and completely grateful. Don't ask me how. But I know he's here. I've made it this far.

In my weeping, my body tenses every single tiny muscle, like my spirit is moving, yearning to escape and break free from whatever this is - this beast that is far greater than just emotions and anger and exhaustion.
and right here, I am begging him to come in. Come into this hole that was burned into my sweet child self. Come into this frustration. Come into the offenses. Come into my broken heart.

Oh, won't you come in?

I am searching for him in the abstractness of Christmas. This year has been different than previous years. I am more distracted, less attuned to the little whimsical things about the season. More heaviness that I'm brining to the manger scene. More hurt that I'm lifting alongside my carols and praise. More darkness and cold surrounding me. More unfamiliar things I am experiencing.

It's here in all this more and hard and struggle that I am met by a precious, innocent child.
And I am told that he, this baby, is God.
God has come in to my world, and he's vulnerable. He, with his mind and hands and cries of a newborn - he has come to make me new, to show me truth, to heal me. This child.

It's a beauty and miracle that my mind rejects, but my soul's rejoicing is too loud to linger on any specific doubt. It brings tears so unlike the ones I know ... tears of love and joy and thankfulness. Tears that emerge from a heart that is satisfied with not knowing everything - just the love of such a God who would plan something as complicated as this and yet as simple as this. To become like us. In order to overcome that which overwhelms us. To experience and remind us that he also felt. And feels. And he still knows.


"... but he goes down to come up again and bring the ruined world up with him. One has the picture of a strong man stooping lower and lower to get himself underneath some great, complicated burden. He must stoop in order to lift; he must almost disappear under the load before he incredibly straightens his back and marches off with the whole mass swaying on his shoulders."
[C.S. Lewis]


On Thursday night, I watched a man perform O Come, O Come Emmanuel. As he slowly and perfectly sang the first verse, my hand gripped Kip's a little harder. I was swept into the great cry of humanity - into the great promise of deliverance and restoration.
Ransom.
Tattooed on my back and into my heart, this word encompasses Jesus for me.

He came.
He comes.
And he will come for us.


caught up in our everything of life, let's ask him to come in.
let your soul finally feel its worth.
hold this baby & let him give you comfort and joy.
embrace the mystery of the one who has been approaching from all eternity.


he comes to set you free.

In Which I Re-post an Entire Entry by Sarah Bessey

Ok, another blog that I am totally and completely in-love with, thanks to a forwarding by my very soon to be mama-in-law. Sarah Bessey, everyone. She's amazing. I hope you enjoy the following words from her heart - I cry every single time (in a good way).

Here, come and stand in front of me.

Stand on your own two feet, let’s look each other right in the eye. It’s a beautiful day outside, warmer than it should be in October, and the trees are slowly staining scarlet, the gold is shaking down, and the early autumn sky is already far away from us. I picked a nice spot for us, the wind can take your breath, and your eyes are not satisfied with seeing, I know.

Stand now, head up, you are loved, remember? You are loved, and you are free. No shame here.

Let me stretch my arms out wide, like an Old Testament prophet, my hands are worn and lined, I have mama-hands, and let’s do this properly.

I commission you.

In the mighty and powerful name of Jesus, I commission you, for the work of the Gospel, as a minister of Jesus Christ, to live in your world as an ambassador of the Kingdom.

I commission you in the work of healing, and serving, and loving, and reconciliation. You are an emissary of justice, and your work from now on is to put things right, to call those things that are not as they will be.

I pray that the God of hope would fill you with peace that passes all understanding. I pray that you will be drawn into community, so rich, so deep, so diverse, that you will disagree and fight and remain in fellowship together anyway. I pray that you will bring casseroles, and prayer, and laughter, and tears, to one another. I pray that you would have your toes stepped on, your feelings hurt, and that you would forgive. I pray that you would be given the gift of realising you were wrong about some things. I pray that you would be quick to seek forgiveness when you are the transgressor. I pray for messy living rooms, for late nights, for dirty dishes littering your counters, and I pray for a faithful handful of friends and family to call when the darkness presses in close to you. I pray that you would be quick to show up at the right time for another person.

Come a little closer, I’m about to get all charismatic on you. Oh, yes, I want to lay my hands right on your head, let’s do this.

I call you to joy, friend.  I set you apart in your regular, walking-around life for the daily work of liberation and love, proclaim the Gospel with your hands and your feet and your voice to every soul in your care and influence. May your soul long for prayer and for the Scriptures, may you keep secrets, may you give away your money, may you share your meals, may you sit alone in silence outside under the sky and be satisfied, may you change the bedding in the middle of the night after yet another childish accident without anger, may you hold babies, and comfort the dying, and be the voice of knowledge tempered with grace and wisdom, and may you never forget how to sing and be silly. May you make room in your life to be inconvenienced and put-out, may you be Jesus with skin on for a few people. May you be fearless, and may you eat good food.

I pray that no matter your tool or method: mothering, preaching, cooking, writing, organising, washing, teaching, building, money-making, all of your whole life encompassing it all, that you will walk in knowledge of the sacredness and purpose of your calling. I pray for dreams and visions, for the active leading of the Holy Spirit, and I pray that you would never ever ever forget that Abba is very, very fond of you.

I pray for perseverance and for discipline, I pray for speech seasoned with salt and goodness. I pray that when you are bored, and you are tired, and you are discouraged, when you feel futile and small and ridiculous, I pray that you will never, never, never give up.

Your ministry, your work, begins now, and it began long ago, in your world. Turn around, and face your life. Look it in the eye. This is it.

If you are surrounded by jelly-faced toddlers or thousands of longing hungry souls, or if you lift your head to find yourself in a hospital or a back alley or a church or an orphanage or your own suburban kitchen, if you are given a voice for dozens or only one other soul, you are a minister, feel it, say the words, roll them against your teeth: you have been commissioned for the work of the Gospel, in Christ Jesus, you have.

I send you out.

I send you out to the spot where you are, right now. You are right where you belong, you have everything you need to begin, and we will walk it out together, you and me.

Blessed be His Kingdom, now and forevermore. Peace be with you, my friend, peace.

Keep your eyes open for the signs of God’s presence, he’s already at work in your world, revealing his ways to us all. You get to be a part of it, and me, too. We’re in this together, let’s do it together, we’re calling people outside to the bonfire.

-Sarah Bessey-

tell me a story

This God made us all in our diversity from one original person, allowing each culture to have its own time to develop, giving each its own place to live and thrive in its distinct ways.
His purpose in all this was that people of every culture and religion would search for this ultimate God - grope for him in the darkness, as it were - hoping to find Him.
Yet in truth, God is not far from any of us.
For you know the saying, "We live in God, we move in God; we exist in God."

... when they heard ... some shook their heads and scoffed, but others were even more curious ... 

Acts 17:26-28


I love these stories - these organic, dramatic, weird stories of old from this Great Storybook. These stories are not for children. Or maybe they are. Maybe its anti-exclusivity is what makes it the most beautiful. We like to change the story so it makes sense. We assume things. Or we ignore the mystery. It's always been hard for me to ignore. For whatever reason, I have not been a scoffer at hearing such things as divine creation, unfailing love, and redemption. Maybe it's the poet in me that appreciates such language - a poet's heart that somehow believes such nonsense in the face of our real life tragedies.

This theme of "story" has been present in my life for a while. I have at least one thought every day of how can I be intentional about what's happening in and around and to me; how can I both embrace and create a great story, for there is one already happening, and there is also one yet to be told. Yet to be birthed and lived in and given a chance.
Both of those stories are me. Both of those stories are you, too.

I happened upon a most curious sight last weekend, strolling in the chilly wind with Micha and Kip. A few people were huddled under a bridge with this large canvas sort of thing. Curiosity (and the love of this city and its interesting people) got the best of us, and we ventured closer. We became part of a wonderful phenomenon called public art, where a brave and inspired artist provides a piece for you to create and bring their vision to life. Maddie is both brilliant and brave. We weaved our strips of burlappy fabric in and out to form, in the end, a lovely quilt. And we did our required part of participation:
we told her a story, while she listened and recorded them.

For me, the specifics of the stories were not as grand as the whole piece as we experienced it this past Friday. Sitting in a room (with exposed brick, I might add) while story after story after story was being told over the sound system was nothing short of awesome. The parts I did catch, between meeting and talking to our new friends, were simply amazing. Seeing this creation that hung over us in that room, a thing that had been manufactured by not just hands but by people with deep emotion and deep hearts, stilled me. And I couldn't stop smiling. Couldn't stop celebrating the greatness of it all. So much came together that night, that week. So much is still being formed and connected and woven. Creation. Hope. Purpose.

Another fabulous fact about Maddie's quilt is that it's compostable, so those of us who participated can have some of the rich soil that will eventually come from this project. Recycling. Restoring. I have so many thoughts around this, as you can tell. The theme of story also has another part for me and that is "full circle"ness. Many of my desires to be connected to Minneapolis via its broken and beautiful people seem to finally be landing and resting here. Here being a specific place with specific people - people who long to be who they are, be creative, be friends with the different, and take part in healing, in genuine family, inhaling and exhaling, moving and having their being in Jesus.
Like this art, there are times and seasons when all of these components of us, of our stories, seem to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, and we cry or laugh or both, knowing that in a strikingly holy way our lives are much grander than we thought, and our God seems much smaller and closer and into the details than we've previously experienced - the intricate weaving of hands and hearts and stories. And he's also into the great and glorious big picture of everything - us working together towards wholeness and life and re-creation. His full-circle story.

Today I feel as though I'm adding significantly to my story, and more fully accepting the truth that every moment is a choice to sail or stagnate.
Today I feel like I have chosen in little, intentional ways to not just pass by but to stop and let curiosity woo me into mystery and thus deeper into my life. As Fred says...



"two stories then - our own story and Jesus' story, and in the end perhaps they are the same story. To cleave the truth of our own lives, to lift and look beneath our own stories, is to see glimmers at least of his life, of his life struggling to come alive in our lives, his story whispering like a song through the babble and drone of ours... our stories are the best parody of his story, and if as Paul says we are the fragrance of Christ, then it is like the fragrance of the sea from ten miles inland when the wind is in the right direction, or like the fragrance of a rose from the other side of the street, with all the world in between.
yet they meet as well as diverge, our stories and his.
that's what we have to tell finally.
we have it in us to work miracles of love and healing as well as have them worked upon us... to bless with him and forgive with him, and once in a while maybe even to grieve with some measure of his grief at another's pain and to rejoice with some measure of his rejoicing at another's joy, almost as if it were our own...
it is our business to bear witness to, and live out of and live toward and live by the true word of his holy story as it seeks to stammer itself forth through the holy stories of us all."

-Frederick Buechner, A Room Called Remember


let us live our stories
and live them well.
amen&amen.

Click here for something artistically brilliant.
I love celebrating creativity! Hope this brings life to your heart as it has to mine.


Spoken words: from G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy


"The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again!" and the grown up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony.

It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again!" to the sun,
and every evening, "Do it again!" to the moon.

It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike.
It may be that God makes every daisy separately but has never got tired of making them.

It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy;

for we have sinned and grown old,

and our Father is younger than we."

donuts

I have developed this pre-work morning routine.
It usually includes getting off the bus and heading straight to my new favorite coffee shop- People's Organic- then taking the skyway over to my building.

Remember skyway Jesus from a couple months ago?
I haven't seen him since that post. I honestly started to believe he was an angel that showed up in Macy's just for me.

And then today, I heard him singing with that familiar gospel sound, and my heart lightened from its load. I will now refer to him as Arthur, since that is his actual name. Arthur gave me a huge hug, recognizing me immediately. I told him I had missed him. He had not been feeling well, he told me, but he was good now. He was so anxious to come back to the city and do the Lord's work - spreading his joy, making people smile.
I told Arthur I was on my way to get coffee, and I asked if he liked coffee. He said no, he's hyper enough as it is. So we agreed upon OJ and a donut, if I could find them where I was going. I was thrilled to find another soul who seemed to care for sugary breakfast items as much as myself. And even more thrilled that I could serve him as he served everyone walking through Macy's, beginning their work day.

So away I went, and back I came, supplies in hand. I told him he was doing such good work here.
As I walked away, he yelled my name and told me he loved me.

There in that hallway, stretching over and above the road, a path to get from where I am to where I'm going, I was filled.
I looked at others differently. I smiled at strangers with new enthusiasm. I felt loved in a new way - loved by a brother, loved by our Father. I felt unified with people on a deeper level. I felt courage that no matter what, no matter who, I could connect and feel it in my bones - feel this connection and unity with all. Feel the greater purpose found in all - the truth that He's everywhere, and we're a grand story.

A friend like Arthur is not merely a compilation of words in my story - he is a sweet, sweet song; the break in the middle of a storm or a conflict or a commotion of feelings.
He is the bridge that reminds me to breathe, to see, to know... that all is well and all will be well.

Just smile,
tell people you love them,
and don't let anyone or anything steal your joy today.

"Yes the Lord... the Lord... he's been good to us..." 

Friends,

Gathered around our fire of love, we welcome you to come and listen...


It almost gave out.
And it's not the first time.


Our love story has been one of closeness and distance, depth and shallowness; feelings of great love and feelings of complete, rip-my-heart-out-right-now despair.

Abba, we look to you as our hearts remember...

remember earlier this week... that time when my face was blank and my heart was stone? The time that he wouldn't leave for fear that something had flown and we had lost...

By this time, we've experienced each other enough that we can hold to the poet's truth: no feeling is final, even when we feel like we're dying. We can get up the next day and keep moving and eventually our hearts will find their way back again and our minds will regain healthy thinking and we'll once again be in-love. We'll once again choose to love.

So here, around our warm love-flames, we want you to know that it's hard work. You might know this already, but I didn't have a clue. And honestly, no one knows until they feel it. Until they feel both the soaring glee of wantedness and the falling feeling of being forgotten.
And it's somewhere in the middle of this soaring and falling and slamming down and shattering and picking up, that we find ourselves. And we find each other. And we find a community of others.

I've watched Kip make fires many times, carefully placing the wood and the kindling, so specifically setting it up for a successful flame. The initial burst of heat and beauty is breathtaking, and doesn't seem to last long enough. With time, it settles. The wood breaks and falls away, and we must keep adding to it, keeping the flames bright and warm. But sometimes, either purposefully or not, the fire seems to falter and the coals grow dim. The flames are barely alive and look lifeless with their lack of strength. We grow cold in this stage... and sometimes the chilling lack of fire causes bitterness;
sometimes it's like I'm frozen right where I'm sitting and I'm staring into it, like I know what I could do to save it, but my position is one of passivity. I choose to ignore it. I choose to stay cold. I wrap things around myself to hide, to somehow get warm again without the fire. And in these moments, I fear.

And in these moments, I can either invite heavenly light or welcome a darkness that will surely overtake me.

The Light is the work.
The darkness is always there.



The flames of our love are purposed to draw others into their warmth, bringing them into our story - a love story built on authentic brokenness and healing woundedness. It's an ongoing story - one barely beginning with our initial meeting, and one that will continue on, always progressing, always challenging, always transforming.
As we move deeper into our story, as time passes, we'll continue to stoke the dying embers. We'll watch in amazement as what we thought were just ashes rise up and set fire again. And we'll learn to take better care of it. Of us.
As we grow, may we dream once again of a love so great, not mourning the lows, but standing back and watching the change and calling it good.
May we see His great love alive and active in our small campfire.
May we add to it, letting it crackle and pop as it will.
May we be so bold as to risk getting too close, able to see the dancing fire in each other's eyes.
And may we move together, even closer, diving straight into the all-consuming, wonderful flames of Love, letting it burn away at our once frozen-solid hearts.

& he set me on fire

I am burning alive

with his breath in my lungs

I am coming undone.

Love's taken over me

and so I propose:

letting myself go.

I am letting myself go.  

You are my joy.

-David Crowder-

follow me, follow me down

Will you take a few moments and read this post? Because she puts it beautifully. And because she's way more honest than I think I could ever be.
[ at least for now ]

----


These are my words for life ::


people & their eccentricities -
Downtown Minneapolis is ideal for watching people move at their own paces, to their own secret rhythms. I noticed two extremes across the street from me: an older gentlemen in white shorts and a crisp polo, casually enjoying a smoke outside of a classy building, and then waltzing past him, paired with an unusual walking stick, went a purple-haired man. I watched the two - watched polo guy glance purple-haired guy over a few times, then glance back again after he had passed. I couldn't help but wonder to myself... maybe polo guy sensed that purple-haired guy somehow had more than him, even if his exterior seemed to prove a lack thereof. Maybe, just maybe, polo guy thought to himself...
 he's more free than I'll ever be.

So goes my mindful wanderings regarding the monetarily rich and poor of our world. I continue to believe that those who seem to have less really have more. And they have so much to teach me. I must continually remind myself that people are people, like me, like you - whether they are holding a sign on the side of the road, or walking beside me on their daily commute to work.


feathered faith -
a few weeks ago, I, in a moment of profound empathy and spirit-nudging, texted a dear friend and told him to be on the lookout: there are whispers and signs of our Lover everywhere. And to specifically pay attention to feathers - he's leaving some behind for you.
Well, maybe, just maybe, that word was more for myself. I have spotted his feathers everywhere - stepping off the bus, walking downtown, in my backyard, at the lake. These are burning heart moments for me, when I remember my words to my friend, when my soul sparks with surprise at His thoughts toward me, too - my precious reminders of his love, reminders to rest under the shadow of his wings.
(psalm17:8)


hiding and fighting -
some days, this war within me is more than I can overlook and ignore, which I'm learning to be thankful for. The struggle toward authenticity will be ever before all of us. I guess it just depends on whether we want to keep going or whether we want to sit down and decide that we've come far enough. Sometimes I do that - just sit and refuse to move. Sometimes that's okay, because I probably have much to think through, much that I haven't let myself feel, and that kind of sitting can be transformational. But sometimes, I am fighting to be the center of my world, fighting for recognition, fighting for peace (total oxymoron), and fighting to remain right where I am so that I can be seen, heard, and validated.

I'm realizing that healing a heart is a long, committed process. I'm realizing that tears can be like a river that forces me out of my tightly held position - tears and pain and floods of emotion can help me to see the truth of myself, and more-so, the truth of these hurts and mistakes and bitter memories that I'm still holding onto.

Just let it flow in and around and over and out of me.

Let go like a confession, see what you were born to find... 

( Elenowen: Flying for the First Time )



holding close -
I'm going to marry the bravest man I know. We're learning so much about the other - two very separate souls longing to somehow merge ourselves together, hoping for a greater understanding of love and wholeness that we've never known on our own. Though we, in our very individual ways, still sometimes long for independence and a lack of accountability, we're discovering the beauty and enormity of this journey. A journey with enormous challenges and an unending supply of opportunities to be good to each other - living a life of goodness that mirrors the gracious, unconditional goodness our Abba displays towards us.
We are conditional, however.
And we are limited in our love.
And we are needy in our uniqueness.
But we're seeing, even now, even after so little time (in comparison to a hopefully long lifetime together) we change our tones more quickly, and we apologize much more often. We want to be consistent: taking in forgiveness and pushing out our selfish motivation.
I want to hold him closer, reminding myself that I am worthy of his love, marveling at the strength of his heart, the depth of his questions, and the wonder of his creativity.
I'm so grateful that we are not only attempting to merge our lives, but we're intentionally creating this unified life - pursuing passion, admiring adventure, seeking treasures in ourselves and for our future home, laughing and crying, ebbing and flowing.

Oh, what our future holds...

Hope.

Skyway Jesus

I saw Jesus again today, in the skyway by Macy's.

I was wondering why I was walking that way - it was a beautiful morning and I should be outside as much as possible, my weary self longing to soak in every second of sunshine and fresh air.

then, I heard him singing.

I don't even know what the words were, all I could hear was his sweet voice, calling out to each person as they passed, reminding them of the beauty that is easily missed in today.

I bee-lined for him, outstretching my hand so that I might catch this infectious disease that made him sing so beautifully and triumphantly.

He looked  me in the eye, and he said I had a beautiful smile.

Good mornin' sister,

don't let anybody steal your joy today!

Ok, I'll try.

No... you can do this.

Words for my soul.
I'm so very thankful he met me there.

he finds me

... when I'm hiding 

behind all my disguises.

& nothing is hidden from your sight
wherever I go
You find me.
You don't miss a thing.

You know me.

Hmmmm.. this one... here... yes! Perfect. 
Arranging flowers is one of my favorite hobbies. Finding the right colors, or all the mixes of colors; the huge and the small, the wild and the perfectly groomed. Flowers are my favs. And there's something about putting them together to form a brilliant, blooming creation that reminds me of the patience and practices of the Master gardener. My Abba loves to garden, especially with me. The patience, the toils, the delight in flower babies when they fiiiiiinally show their little buds with peeks of color - a small glimpse into their unique, created beauty. I have literally, tangibly, felt his mutual squeals of joy as my forget-me-nots and zinnias popped up one after another.
Watching them grow week by week has stirred these words in my heart and mind:

"I want to unfold. I don't want to stay folded anywhere, 
because where I am folded, there I am a lie."

Nearly too deep a thought for me to express what it means. To unfold... to reveal my true self to the world that can (and will) trample, laugh at, point out imperfections... to unveil, to release, to just be. Be me. Such small simple words for such a huge, heartbreaking and courageous journey. "because where I am folded, there I am a lie," speaks volumes to my insecure self that so longs to be authentic and longs to love what he has made, for it is good. This is my greatest quest.
For now I will say, I'm just a settling soul, still moving around and getting comfy in her own skin, remaining open to discovering beauty both within and out and around; soaking up the sunny moments and soaking up the sometimes refreshing, sometimes sorrowful, rain, believing that I am unfolding all the while - though some of the process is microscopic and unseen.



Several experiences have happened recently that have made me laugh, or catch my breath, or just sit in silent, reverent awe, because they are things that happened at the perfect time, created for me in what seems a perfect, simple moment. One experience happened on a morning I was hanging out in Dunn Bros before work. As I was sitting at my mini table, writing in my calendar, the instrumental Time After Time came on in the store. This song has melted my heart ever since seeing the timeless classic, Julie & Julia. I reveled in the beauty of the music as it sweetly serenaded me and my cranberry-orange muffin, remembering a seems-like-long-ago life and thanking him.
Another lovely moment was sitting in a room of awesome people for the launch of an amazing initiative in our community. Meeting and greeting so many purposeful, aspiring humans in one night is an awesome occurrence all its own. To top it off, one of the tunes of the evening was Electric Feel, which holds a very special place in my heart from very special friends. I haven't heard that song played in public before, especially didn't expect it to be played in that setting, which made me rejoice all the more. And then there are countless, almost daily, moments of checking emails and receiving so many needed words of encouragement via close friends and friends I've never met before but with whose hearts I am deeply connected through the typed words they freely and vulnerably share with the world. One such post was this one: The Mad Season. Words to my feelings right there, folks.

So all of these moments, magical as they seem, are just moments, like small arrangements in my grand bouquet of a life. I am choosing to be more aware of the interconnectedness of it all. Sometimes it's just one lonely yet strikingly beautiful flower, and sometimes it's a whole bundle of strange and wonderful types. In each vase, in each situation, in each life, He is bringing us all together, loving us all as his own.


:: More inspiring and comforting words from my online bffs ::


"You do not have to change in order to love yourself. You have to love yourself in order to change. That means embracing yourself completely, right now at this moment - as a bitter, scared, disorganized, faithless mess. This is called radical self-love and we will be practicing it here."

Sister G



I want to be shiny and new, all put together, but I just can't get there... I'm a lot like my old house : cracked and mismatched and patched over. On my worst days I start to believe that what God wants is perfection...

I practice believing that, bottom line, God loves me as is, even if I never do get my act together. I put my hand on the plaster wall, numbly and textured, and I think thankful thoughts about the walls. Then I put my hand on the floor, and I think thankful thoughts about the floor, even though it's scratched and ridged, and you can see where one of my black heels lost it's little cap and the metal part left tiny round divots in the floor, over and over, like confetti stamped into the wood.
I imagine that God does that to me, puts his hand on my head, on my heart, on my savage insecurities, and as he does it, he thinks thankful thoughts about me.

--Shauna, Cold Tangerines

& I'll be comin' your way

Dear world,

I am taken,
and I have taken many courageous, mostly scared, very sacred, steps toward my taken-ness.

If you do not know my whole story... well, that's for another time. 23 years of life recollection seems a bit much for here. But I can surely summarize the year of 21 until now. On the week of my 21st birthday, my mother had a heart attack. I was in Texas celebrating with a friend, and I was planning on leaving the great state of Alabama soon after my vacation and returning to where my heart had stayed a couple years before: Denver, CO. Needless to say, the health condition of my mama stirred fear in me, but nonetheless, my heart called my name from the far away mountain range and begged me to go back. I also feared this going back was a backwards step that would leave me in more of a fluster than on a focused path. Further still I went. Away and back again. To recover my passion. To learn. To be soaked in community and hopefully acquaint myself better with Jesus, who I hoped would give me answers and restore my forgotten joy.

Fear & insecurity held tight to me as I re-entered a very familiar place. This time I knew less friends. This time I felt completely vulnerable. Less excitement, more anxiety. My third YWAM school was intense. I had gone with another expectation-- to be face to face with a guy-friend that I knew but didn't really know, and with whom I was very intrigued by. I wanted to try this dating/ relationship thing, but I also wanted to stay in my safe, protected bubble. This is also a story for another time, but just to give you context, I was nervous upon nervous and strangely prepared for something & someone to come into my life, break down my ridiculous walls, and show me such persistent, accepting love that I was left humbled and defenseless, clinging to a version of faith I'd not yet known.

My heart experienced quite a journey in those 5 months. Way, way up and way, way, way down. So many tears and so much snot, you probably wouldn't believe it. Provision. Prophecy. I was rocked. And I once again fell in-love with this place and these people who were on unique yet similar journeys, and who lovingly embraced each other-- heart to heart, snotty face to snotty, blotchy face. And we were all changed, further still.

In the beautiful country of Brasil, another journey began, though not to my knowledge at the time. Kip Jones was a mostly quiet, seemingly light-hearted and funny soul who I had overlooked for the previous 3 months. Though he was in my school (and there were only 12 of us) I did not see much of him. He later confessed that being one of two males in the school was a bit overwhelming, so the not seeing each other was mostly intentional. He had an amazing smile that totally gave away the precious softness of his heart. He captured my attention at times, and I quickly dismissed the silly girl thoughts. But in the land of strange creatures and wildness unknown to all of us, I found myself lingering beside him on long walks through thick trees and sitting next to him on crowded bus rides into the city, blindly enamored by him. It was during a night of watching the movie Date Night, sharing headphones and deep, gut-laughs; during days of talking to each other about home and friends and family, realizing that we really couldn't be more different; afternoons of lying in hammocks silently & very much aware of the other's presence; him picking minuscule thorns out of my hand, and me later watching him sear his foot-wound closed (like a real man); rainy afternoons teaching us how to play Texas Hold'Em; dance parties; and best of all, witnessing both tenderness and crazyness as we shared playtime with the kids nearly every day. Watching him exhaust himself to their fun & benefit left me weak in the knees & confused in the head. Didn't I want this other person? What the hell am I doing?

The journey back from Brasil was somber yet entertaining as I taught him to play Dutch Blitz on a plane ride, dreading the separation that soon would be between myself and all of these beautiful new friends of mine. Kip had agreed to stay at Cassie's house after the trip-- a lovely friend we both drew close to during our school. I held tightly to the thought that he liked someone else, and I still liked someone else, and that our differences would never, ever allow us to have the phenomenal friendship that I had glimpsed and yet refused to believe was possible. After all, we were going back to completely opposite sides of the United States, and everyone knows... Yankees and Hicks don't get along. Though we hit it off, who knows what would happen if our friends & families met each other. :)

We parted ways on the streets of Boulder-- leaving him with Danny and me climbing back into the car with Cassie, exchanging sarcastic words of "I guess I'll never see you again" and me shedding a few surprising tears at the possible truth of that thought. Upon my arrival to stay with family in Illinois before going home, I received a hopeful phone call:
Kip, staying in the snowy tundra that is Fargo, calling to tell me that he feels a certain way towards me and wants to respectfully back away should I not share in those feelings. I happily (and shakily) confessed that I did, indeed, share in those same feelings. And we talked until 6 am.

So began a new journey.

I was ruined after that. "Where do I go now? What should I do here? Should he move here? I need to know him in real life!" Stir crazy is an understatement at its finest. Apparently my heart couldn't get enough adventure, so we planned a road trip to Canada with some of my besties. First time together since YWAM, and never have I felt so awkward and at a complete loss of normal function. And he still liked me. A lot. And I was so uncomfortable! Awkwardness is a great way to describe the early days of our dating relationship. There was much fun at the newness of being downtown, in the uncertainty of what I was actually doing. Later came some defiance, closely followed by miscommunication, forced affection, and boundaries... what boundaries? I felt really lost at times. We were both angry. I slowly began to separate myself. My thoughts were one thing, my feelings were another, and my soul was suffering quietly, at least for a time. Little to my knowledge, I had deep things in me that were planted there at a young age and had grown all of these years-- like thorny weeds hiding in the underbrush of a garden, sometimes you don't find them until you start digging around. Or until the flowers finally wilt away and nearly die. It's difficult to put words to this time in our relationship. I was deeply wounded, crippled by my own shame and pain that was finally brought to the surface after years of stuffing, shielding, and shunning it. None of these tactics worked. What did work was experiencing betrayal. Feeling betrayed by everyone and everything under the sun, feeling hurt and lost and unknown. Feeling like I could never be fixed or forget or forgive. Feeling as if this person who I had made all of these "sacrifices" for, invested all of this time and effort into, did not see me or understand me at all... nor did he love me enough to pursue me in the ways I desired to be pursued. Betrayal. And I had very much betrayed him.

I entered a "dark night of the soul," so I'v heard some call it. I doubted everything. I gave myself permission to feel everything, mainly deep sorrow and furious anger. I let myself be completely broken, for the first time ever. I didn't try to keep it together or hold it in. Shame showed it's ugly face. And with the support of so many: counselor Tom, small group friends, far away friends, and most of all, Kip, I stared It in the face and refused, even in my frail broken humanness, to let It win. I decided to weld the two me's together, melting my head knowledge into my whole being-- trusting more with each breath that God is great, that He is my Abba who loves and cares and heals and feels and acts. I chose to believe even when it wasn't, and isn't, the complete truth of how I felt or what I currently experience.

Emerging out of the inner darkness, I realized how totally loved I was and am. Not just by my gracious Abba but by this man who has seen the best and absolute worst parts of me. He has seen my pride, my lack of compassion, my superficiality and my hypocrisy; he has heard my ridiculous fears and seen my impulsive self-salvaging habits. And he loves me, not for those things, but in & through them. And I love him in all of it. Choosing to keep stepping forward, together, has brought us to this next part of our journey, which is a story in and of itself.


July 9, 2012. My 23rd birthday. A boring prime number, yet there was nothing boring about this day at all. Expecting to have a counseling sesh, only to find that I apparently made up the appointment in my head, I drove back to my house to gather my supplies for the day and pick up Kip for our breakfast date.Wilde Roast was my request. Driving over the Hennepin bridge, Kip pointed out Nicollet Island and nonchalantly mentioned that we should walk down there after breakfast. I agreed, knowing I'd probably eat way too much and a stroll would be helpful for my birthday gluttony. We were bummed to see the patio already full of happy guests, and made our way to the counter then to the bar to better scope for an opening table outside. These two nice gentlemen greeted us after a while and gave us permission to hover over them while they finished their coffee. I didn't really hear the part about hovering-- I just grabbed my stuff expecting to sit down right away, to which they joyfully received our company. Warren and Jonathan, you will forever be part of our story, and we'd love to come see your beautiful yard and your highly taxed home. And we promise to vote No. :)

Post-breakfast (with an achingly full tummy) we walked down and around to the river, commenting on its color and correcting Kip's assumption that the Gulf looks similar. No, not at all. After some small talk and a bit more walking, he abruptly stopped me.With a very serious & gentle expression on his face, he began speaking words not uncommon to my ears or my heart. He expressed his deep desire to do something extra special on my birthday, to which I replied how much I loved my gifts, to which he seemed to ignore me and kept talking. The speech took a steep turn when he referenced a special conversation with his papa, including biblical references about women and men and love and longing and completion and togetherness. And with more words that my mind did not absorb because my heart was beating way too loud and my lungs were not functioning properly and my thoughts were racing in nervous anticipation, he bent down in humility, vulnerability, and hopefulness, and asked me to one day become his wife. And without hesitation, with a whole lot of joy and a burst of holy confidence, I accepted his proposal.

We are engaged to be married! Transitioning from a journey of friendship & curiosity, from intentional time together to an honest-to-God promise to each other, we are thrilled and fully ready to continue our journey. We are thankful beyond thankfulness for so many faithful friends and family who have encouraged us along the way, giving us the right words at the right time, letting us question and be upset and praying so fervently for the best outcome. And we whole-heartedly believe that this is the best-- that our challenges have shaped us in hard ways and changed us immensely, creating new people who better know how to love, serve, and give of themselves. People who are present and honest, who want more than anything to live graciously, respectfully, and love like Jesus.

The following post greatly blessed my heart and so brilliantly illustrates what we both believe is the purpose woven into relationship, specifically between life-partners, and it's what we want our love to be a window to: the ever present, constant, radical, audacious, and unending love of the Father in Jesus Christ our Lord.

"And three years later, with dust in all the cracks of his sturdy, peasant feet,

He walked a long and rocky trail to the top of death hill.

Because that is where His chapel was and He was going to get married.

But His vows of love needed to be written in blood; red ribbons of split-wide sacrifice.

Cross-eyed and crossed-out and criss-crossed in pain, six ways damned til Sunday, he said,

'I take you...

to have and to hold...

from this day forward

in sickness and in health

in riches and in poverty

... as long as we both shall live,'

which is nothing short of eternity.

You, together, represent the image of Christ.

The image of Christ.

You mean the one I just detailed? This was and is the answer my soul was desperate for hearing. 'Why marriage?' Because I would give my living and dying breath to reflect an image like that--

an image of a marriage declaring an insurmountable love. 

When we re-fastened ourselves one to the other it was with intention that we,

together,

are a mirror of the risen Son on his wedding day."

--Erika

amen.

I love you, Christopher Alan Jones.

today, we got it wrong.

we did.

but tomorrow, there is grace waiting,

and we can do much better. 

-Elora-

This morning, I get to work, first one here. Turn on the t.v. to watch the Olympics, of course, while maintaining full multitasking function. But the channel had been changed and the 700 Club was on. Yes, it's embarrassing, but I really liked the 700 club at one point in my life. I still appreciate a lot of things they have to say & the resources they share. Oh, but today... I'm still recovering from my stomach dropping and tears filling my eyes, pain overwhelming my heart. My heart is still beating at an unusually fast rate.

Chik-fil-A. 

Enough said, right? 

Wrong. I have so much to say, and I say it with conviction and out of a broken soul that has been shown more grace than we stubborn humans ever should be given. I speak from knowing other precious souls who are the beloved of Christ, who have endured much pain in their life and have overcome, and now they have chosen their path in life which is different than mine, but our struggles to be close to our Creator could not be more of the same. 

I am not upset with Christians. I am so grieved about the ideas of some Christians, the opinions of some Christians. Why is it so terribly hard for us to just accept each other? Love each other? Welcome each other despite all of our baggage? Because, news flash people, we ALL have baggage. 

Where I stand, before an Abba that is defined as love not hate, a Being far beyond us that is both mother and father, lover and friend, so very close to the hurting and hungry and ignored, I cannot continue to make judgments. My thoughts, my views, are completely irrational in the presence of love. Because love does not condemn. Nor is it easily angered. Nor is it exclusive. Nor does it care about fried chicken in the midst of a never ending battle that is turning more people away than humbly beckoning them to come in. 

I heard a man who is employed by some research group comment about this whole extravaganza. He spoke about GLBT people as a forceful group who just wants to pick a fight, stir the pot, experience even more brutality from Christ followers. Regardless of whether that is an honest stance of some, I understand. If I had experienced what others have experienced in life - hatred, rudeness, blatant rejection - I'd be out to pick a fight, too. Wouldn't you? 

Where is the love, people? Seriously. Can we continue (or start) praying for these bridges of humanity that have been burned to be reconciled in Jesus? Because that's what he came to do. This is the exact message we carry in us-- these broken, fragile bodies. It's not about us and them. It's about us and Him, all of us, and how we can restore what's been destroyed. 

Not keep destroying.

Healing.

Mending.

Loving.

"If you stick with this, living out what I tell you, you are my disciples for sure. Then you will experience

for yourselves

the Truth

and the truth will free you."

John 8:32

We are born
by some strange, miraculous conception.
With friends having babies, I cannot get this mystery out of my mind. I float between two extremes : immense joy and complete terror.

How on earth are we trusted to bring other people into this world?

I hear people talking ... "How many do they have now?" Almost like children are property, or simple things. Oh... these little beings are precious beyond measure, and we are somewhat recklessly creating them and hastily ushering them into this horrific world that we ourselves are struggling to navigate and come to terms with.

Dramatic? I would think so! Have you heard what can happen to a child? Do you remember what happened to you?

Yes... "people are fragile things you should know by now. Be careful what you put them through."

And as I was contemplating the drama and awfulness of it all, I couldn't help but let peace peak through and mingle with my anxiety.

We are miracles. From dust we were brought forth and to the dust we shall return. Our time is short but can be sweet for certain, should we so desire to fight long and hard for ourselves and the ones we love. This mess of a planet is able to destroy us and delight us, break us and build us. How can we witness the powerful, awe-inspiring beauty of a dazzling sunset, then hear news of the latest mass-shooting and not sense the quakes of an eternal battle between love and hate, goodness and darkness?

We are born as children of a vast, vast universe. As vulnerable as we are, so strong is He. As we painfully bring life after life into this time-capsuled reality, may we find freedom in knowing that this is not the end. With each cry and first time breath of harsh humanity, may we continue to release these tiny people (and ourselves) into the arms of the unknown, the unpredictable, the Un-perishable.

Though tragedy takes, may we trust we're not left empty-handed.
Though sickness suffocates, may we trust in a final healing.
Though all may abandon, may we trust Love is here.
And we will find love there, too.

Though we are daily dying, may we know : we will rise, as Christ was raised to life.




[ PS: this story brings hopeful tears to my eyes: everything matters.]

Rachel's wells

hi. welcome back to reality.

If I could write a love-note to who I was a week ago, it would go something like this:

Dearest Self, 


Hi. I want to kindly and not-so-gently (but sort of gently - I know your tenderheartedness) remind you that the world does NOT revolve around you. Your bitterness is not helping you or anyone else around you. Rest in His love, rest in knowing you are not alone, even when you feel forgotten. News flash: you're never forgotten. There is a rich community both near & far who support you.


Be kind to yourself. Forgive your fiancee. And for the sake of all of us, stop brooding. Rejoice in today.


With love,
Yourself. 




I have seriously been consumed with emotion. I'm allowed to be emotional, but for goodness' sake, it's driving me crazy! I've been considering medication. *not kidding*

I was listening to a song today, as I labeled car air fresheners at work, and nearly burst into tears. After Elenowen's anthem of What We Hope came the song, Cripple Me. It was one of those sacred moments where the reality of your life, the reality of what you've been feeling and thinking, sinks in deep and awakens you like a punch in the gut.More emotion for the already emotional - hooray!
For reasons so far beyond what I know, I am being crippled. Not for the purpose of inflicting pain - that is just cause & effect - but for the hope & promise of "breaking out of the darkness and out of our skin." My Abba is drawing me in tight while simultaneously letting me wander into the hard, dark places, for my growth and my benefit. It freakin' hurts. And I've been freakin' angry at times. But I'm over that [for now].

Now, dear self, be patient. Be loving. Be gentle, especially with others. Most importantly with your own soul. Hold everything - the events of today, the plans of tomorrow, the hurts and the joys from yesterday - close to your heart, for all is good. And all is holy. And all is grace.

My Love,
cripple me
so I cannot keep running
away.



"let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going. No feeling is final."

-Rainer Maria Rilke-

celebration

THIS is very near and dear to my heart. Maybe I mentioned it last year around my birthday as well. I follow and support these amazing people too, who are also working alongside the Sudanese people to protect, restore, and heal their land, their bodies, their precious hearts. May peace continue to come to them. May we stand with them, believe with them.

I was grieving a bit last night, as I stared into the sky with wonder, watching the fireworks. My dear Kip mentioned how amazing it is that we were able to have the day that we did-- a day filled with ease & ending in such a sweet time with family and hundreds of others who were gathered to simply sit and enjoy the night, enjoy the freedom. My empathetic, tender heart (or that of the Spirit in me) was still, but is rarely forgetful.


There are so many who will never experience this kind of sweetness-- the richness of ease, wealth, and happiness. Don't forget. 


My thoughts wandered to those at war. Those in the middle of extremes, sharing in the goal to protect but lacking the peace. Not sure how to restore or heal when their job is to tear down, destroy, and remove the enemy. Those living every day in the midst of conflict; the equally precious people who had to spend yesterday's holiday away from the joys of family and close friends, burgers and fireworks, boats and fun.

It's not my intention to ruin a celebration. These thoughts of mine increase my gratitude greatly. And they also move me to live from that gratitude, to live from the reality of what's happening in our world and move towards a better world-- to pursue the peace my heart desires, to help restore in others what I desire to see restored in me, and to trust that His protection is strong, His love is stronger, and the healing that He brings is happening all around me on levels far beyond what I could see or know.

Whether it's my brothers and sisters in Sudan, or my brothers and sisters in Iraq, or my brothers and sisters on the streets of Minneapolis:
sweet Savior of mine... let me be moved with your amazing compassion; moved to powerful action. Let my eyes see, my ears hear, my heart feel, my feet go, my hands serve, my life love.


dream through us, Abba.
recreate in us so that we may recreate our world with you.

"and since we are people of expectation, we are so convinced that another world is coming that we start living as if it were already here."

I claim love & He claims me

from sweet Henri :

"Calling God Abba Father is a cry of the heart, a prayer welling up from our innermost beings.
It has nothing to do with naming God
but everything to do with claiming God as the source of who we are.
This claim does not come from any sudden insight or acquired conviction; it is the claim that the Spirit of Jesus makes in communion with our spirits.
It is the claim of love."



My journey all along, specifically since January, can be summed up in this short paragraph; not fully explained, but fully felt and experienced, thanks to Henri Nouwen's superb wordage. Emotion welled as my eyes moved forward past each group of letters...
He is the Source of who I am. Not the me as I see-- the me He sees. And he has claimed this me.
His grip is strong but never forceful or angry.
His grip is simply gripping to keep me from slipping back into a slur of unfortunate s-words. The dark places. The lonely places. The foolishness of forgetting his fondness.

As I inelegantly seize moments of vulnerability, sometimes most unhappily,
I feel a steady shift in my soul. There is movement. There is change. There is life.
And he is the reason for it all.


from Rob Bell's, Love Wins :

"What is John telling us? It's the 8th sign, the first day of the new week, the first day of the new creation. The resurrection of Jesus inaugurates a new creation, one free from death, and it is bursting forth in Jesus himself right here in the midst of the first creation.
The tomb is empty. A new day is here. A new creation is here. Everything has changed. Death has been conquered. The old has gone. The new has come.
John is telling a huge story, one about God rescuing all of creation.

When we say yes to God, when we open ourselves to Jesus's living, giving act on the cross, we enter into a way of life. He is the source, the strength, the example, and the assurance that this pattern of death and rebirth is the way into the only kind of life that actually sustains and inspires. He talks of the life that will come from his own death, and he promises that life will flow to us in thousands of small ways as we die to [ourselves].

There can't be a spring if we're still stuck in the fall."

come on New Man

where have you been

help me wriggle from this self I'm in

and leave it like a skin upon the ground.

Who will I be?

On my final day as a full-time nanny, my thoughts are focused around the idea of being a parent to my own children one day, in the not-so-near future. I've tried to gather some aspirations of who I will be when that day comes. Which means that I should probably start becoming that woman today, because she sure isn't going to appear suddenly after she births a baby. Amen?


My hopes of parenting far exceed my list of 20+ names for my future children.
I hope to be a mother who will be on their level, spending extra strength in understanding. I hope to be a mother who listens. I hope to be a mother who is constantly reminded that sometimes I must let go of my own plans and agenda, and that this letting go can be the perfect soil for miracles and for more love to grow. I hope to be conscious of my own pain, willing to be vulnerable with my kids, never forgetting to show & tell them that I do NOT know all; letting them unmask the perfectionist and see my tender, broken places; living out the truth that I am just another traveler, sometimes struggling beside them and sometimes confidently & joyfully leading them. And sometimes laid out on the floor, not able to give anything else, choosing to accept their belief in me.
I hope to embrace my humanity, but never use it as an excuse.
I hope to be a mom who will turn up the music louder, dance longer, and laugh harder. I hope to be a mom who gets out, who plans adventures regardless of inconvenience or missed nap times or improper hygiene. I hope to rise early and rejoice with the morning (this is a lofty aspiration!)
I hope to fiercely protect the love that brought them life-- maintaining a deep, intimate, honest relationship with their papa. I hope to be a mother of great affection, of loving in healthy boundaries and refusing to let boundaries become walls that separate and seclude.
I hope to be a mother of open opinions and unrestricted faith. I hope to cultivate conversations without controlling the outcome. I hope to love through the disappointments, the failures, the hurts. I hope to forgive quickly and completely.
I hope to be a mother who some days lets her house get destroyed by imagination and creativity, and who teaches her children how to care for and respect and enjoy ALL things, especially each other & this beautiful earth in which we live.
I hope to invest and help grow the knowledge of their true Abba's love and acceptance of them...
that His love for us is not based on what we do but who we are. And we are His. Forever.


I hope all of these things & more, knowing my fragile condition as well as theirs, knowing that all families have their own s***, and there's no way of completely escaping that truth.
And maybe it's the s*** that will bring them closer, draw them deeper, make them softer. I hope they will put forth the energy to be propelled by this s*** and not get stuck in it. I hope they will have the ability to see a great story, His great story, being told amid & amongst their s***.
I greatly hope that for myself as well.



May we love like that. Each and every day, with each & every person we know & newly meet.
Amen.

a bit dicey

Reminder:

"the life you've been waiting for is happening all around you.
This is it,
This is life in all its glory, swirling and unfolding around us
disguised as pedantic, pedestrian non-events.
But pull off the mask, and you will find your life, waiting
to be made
chosen
woven
crafted."

--Shauna Niequist



It's interesting to me how predictions can be so wrong,
i.e., the weather.
Today it was predicted that it would rain. If I noticed correctly, it mildly sprinkled for 5 mins earlier this morning. But the rain could still come, for the day is not yet over. So sometimes it's not about predictions being wrong but that they are wrongly timed.

I've avoided making many predictions for my life. Well maybe that's not true. I haven't had many specific predictions for my life. I think I remember having conversations at the age of 16, saying I wanted to be married by the age of 22 and have my first baby before 25. WHAT was I thinking?! Approaching the ripe old age of 23 this year, I cannot imagine that life for me. Possibly the marriage part, but definitely not the baby-making part. I am coming to terms with the fact that everyone's stories are so, so different. And we cannot predict or define what is best for us, for only One knows that, and His ways are very unconventional.
Unpredictable, in fact.
[ note: looking up "unpredictable" in the Thesaurus, I found "hanging by a thread" and "whimsical" both as synonyms. I would never put those two together. ]

I've been obsessively and repetitively reading Shauna's speech to a group of college graduates. (see; above)
It fit for them on graduation day and it fits for me right here in a different graduation of sorts.
I'm moving on from the life of a nanny to working at an office downtown. I'll soon be living with not just one other person but two lovely friends. I am moving down from one layer of my heart deep into the originally created me, going scared but going nonetheless.
And when the going gets tough, I need to be reminded of truth like this:

"Commit to being a lifelong learner, a person of relentless curiosity.
And become a student of your own developing self. Pay attention to what moves you, what you love, what makes you angry, what makes you exhausted. There are no right answers to those kind of questions, but if you don't pay attention, you may find yourself several years down the road, living a life that looks good on paper but doesn't ring true to the deepest parts of you. That's a terrible place to be.
Become a student of what you love, because what you love flows out of the way God made you.

That wiggly, sometimes scary feeling like anything could happen and you don't totally know what's next, that feeling is called Life, and it would be best for you to make friends with that feeling
because it will be with you forever. It would be best, as well, for you to remind yourself that you're not the only one feeling it.

You are more than dust and bones.
You are spirit and power and image of God.
And you have been given today."

Slayer

Today: more from a followed blog. This brought rest to my soul, knowing that in my current mind/heart battles, I am well-equipped to overcome. Not only that, these current mind/heart battles may not be life and death after all. They may just be the mirage of a giant wall, not really a giant wall at all.

Thankful.
Enjoy these reassuring words:

My best friend sent me a sword a few months ago. In the card she told me I could slay dragons with it. When I got it, I instantly thought, "Psshhh. No I can't. Not these dragons..."

I felt a nudge in my spirit. You know that feeling, the slight correction from our Divine Madman. The whisper came quiet.

Oh, daughter. Yes. If you only believed in you as much as I do. If you only saw the strength... 

Wait, me? Can I? My heart started pounding in response--

her own war dance in preparation of our battle.

Yes.

She joined in the whispers of the One who holds her hand when I've forgotten.

I've learned something over the past few months. You know when you're listening to the wrong voices. You get antsy, confused, dragons come out of nowhere and their fire-breath feels hot and your heart gets all blistery.

Even your body responds-- nervous stomach, headaches, exhaustion.

Danielle Laporte mentions in her book The Firestarter Sessions, that the phrase, "It just doesn't feel right," has been down-played by far too many people. I agree. I've also heard that the "gut feeling" we experience doesn't come from our actual gut, but from our brain.

Hmm.

So this brick wall of conflict you're experiencing... could it be a mirage? Could it tip over with just the slightest touch? What would happen if you just tried to give it a little nudge?

Sometimes, the man behind the curtain is just that-- a man behind the curtain. There are no monsters here. 

And if they do show up? (because they sometimes do, they're pesky like that)

You have what it takes to slay them.

Amen, Elora.

the man in the middle

"Please remember ...
there's a Creator standing the middle of your story. And he doesn't want you to die alone."
Louie Giglio



I spent yesterday evening pruning and digging through the garden boxes in my backyard. It seems that few other tasks help clear my mind, or focus my mind, like gardening. Particularly weeding.
The box above and to the right was especially thick. Thick with what? That is the question. Grasses, chives, other long plant-like species. One such species has nearly microscopic thorns ALL over it. I mean, covered. Even the leaves. I hadn't seen such a plant since my days in the Amazon. It was beastly. And I was determined to conquer it.

I can still feel the tingling in my fingers from the still present teeny thorns that have made their home in my hand. I couldn't help but think of this experience in a deep, metaphorical sense (as I usually think about simple things in life. God forbid anything to remain simple, practical, or without a gargantuan life lesson buried in it for me).

My brokenness runs deep, like the tough & lengthy roots of the thorny weeds in my garden. And unless you take care of the roots, the weeds will never fully disappear. And still, even after removing the roots, the dang weeds will most likely come back. Because what is a garden without constant maintenance? Where is the joy gained from beauty and growth without the pain of digging, pulling, cutting, and getting a few thorns in your hand?

I guarantee you when that box is filled with flowers or vegetables or whatever my little heart desires to grow in there, I will not focus on the memory of the thorns or the strange bite marks or the fear of re-discovering the enormous, brown spider that made its presence known to me. Nope, my thoughts in those days will be of accomplishment, of "it was worth it," and "what spider?" I will be so consumed with the greater purpose of having something come from that soil than of what hurt me while working through it.

Which brings me to tonight and my opening quote. There is a man in the middle. He stood in the center and made a world around him; made all things through his presence. He created from a pure heart. He worked in love. And He still works in love, for our benefit. He still creates, for our beauty. He toils alongside. He tarries until it is finished. He will be here forever.
Do not forgot, dear soul, that He is the most important. No other can stand in that center. No other can complete His work.
One day you will find someone who shares your heartbeat.
For now, commit yourself to Him who formed you in darkness, who made your being from the dust, who called you by name, who clothes you in his perfection, who extracts purpose from all of our broken hearts.


Maybe we all should garden more. :)




if you have endured great despair...
getting a transfusion from the fire
picking the scabs off your heart
then wringing it out like a sock...

You powdered your sorrow
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

-Anne Sexton-

story time, kids

Today:
"She knows that Jesus is comfortable with broken people who remember how to love."



an excerpt from Brennan Manning's Ruthless Trust:

A water-bearer in India had two large pots. Each hung on opposite ends of a pole that he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other was perfect.

The latter always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house. The cracked pot arrived only half-full. Every day for a full two years, the water-bearer delivered only one and a half pots of water.

The perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments because it fulfilled magnificently the purpose for which it had been made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its imperfection, miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After the second year of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, the unhappy pot spoke to the water-bearer one day by the stream. 

"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you," the pot said.

"Why?" asked the bearer. 

"What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all this work and you don't get full value from your efforts."

The water-bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed as they went up the hill, the cracked pot took notice of the beautiful wildflowers on the side of the path, bright in the sun's glow, and the sight cheered it up a bit.

But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad that it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, not on the other pot's side? That is because I have always known about your flaw, and I have taken advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path and every day, as we have walked back from the stream, you have watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. 

Without you being just the way you are, he would not have had this beauty to grace his house."

If you only look at us, you might as well miss the brightness.

We carry this precious message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives.

That's to prevent anyone from confusing God's incomparable power with us.

2Cor4:7

New favorite:

I found a treasure, friends.
Another beloved woman who writes, most descriptively, about her life. And I am so overwhelmed by the power and beauty of her words.

Maybe this is one of my shortcomings... I spend so much time drooling over other people's gifts that I rarely share my own. But I love sharing the treasures that I find on the world wide web, so this will always be a part of what I do here: copy and paste the beautiful stories that I so enjoy reading myself.

This is Erika.
She has lots of good things to say. Unspeakable emotions welled in me as I read her bio. I hope you go visit her space and receive even just an ounce of the inspiration that I have.

"I am The Life Artist. 

I came by this name in the unusual way. The WAY that is defined by the voices of holy, devoted friendship attached to The Voice that spoke my knitting together. Twenty friends (plus a few more) with the rough and tender fingertips of the Spirit, told me it was okay to say, “I am”; to believe in the un-earthing of truest self; a self named not by parents of flesh, but Parents Triune. 

And I believe, I believe that God would give a name to His children.  What earthly parent, even, wouldn’t do that? These double-dozen friends and Father held me and heart-deep-traveled with me while we jointly explored what the mixture of my dust looks, feels, moves, breathes, contributes, speaks like. I wept myself dry; discovered myself unbelievable; broke my pride-back six-ways-to-resurrected-Sunday. And the name heaven gave me awoke from slumber in my belly, yawned deep and opened eyes new to the world. Not a thing has looked the same since Father blew His breath on the dormant seed of myself . . . Life the voice whispers strong . . . I need you to be Life . . . The weary world needs to see My Life.

For this reason I am passionately audacious about LIFE; living. You know, the kind when and where you’re awake – in all respects.  I gather stories and symbols and Spirit interaction from my microscopic, mundane and mystery filled moments.  I live with the great hope that each molecule, every word, every choice, each individual thread of circumstance, gesture, dance, phrase, laughter, soul-crack, brow-pain, sea, mountain, rain, shine . . .  is woven together intricately and deeply with a deeper story of love, as expressed by The LIFE of Jesus."

Amazing, right? My heart lept and my chest constricted at her telling of the journey to our deepest, truest selves. It is a long time comin', this finding who you are. But may we each choose again today that we are still going, still treading, still stepping, still climbing... we're going further still, until we see the glorious sight, feel the amazing awakening, and hear the holy whisper... 

"You shall be called by a new name, which the mouth of the Lord will announce."

Is. 62:2