I looked down at my feet in front of the perfect, white chapel and felt my breath hang caught in the middle of my throat. The air was sugar heavy and heated as it swirled with the mosquitos around my head. I felt like a small child seeing a new place for the first time - how was it that I had traveled to Georgia so many times before and never taken note of the red hues of the dirt that covered the land?
I put the toe of my sandal down into the dirt and traced swirls and curly q's over and over, again - just to see that the red was intentional and meant its color.
A family gathers in a wood floored chapel and a girl in white says "I do" to a boy whom she loves deeply. I recall looking over my shoulder behind me and seeing generations of families collected together on creaking, wooden benches and thinking about all the vows that have come before this moment; I think about the grandparents that aren't able to sit among their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren as a brunette girl with blue eyes whispers vows to that blonde boy in the coral bow tie.
Fans swat the warm air back and forth, back and forth across foreheads glistening with Georgia heat and I wipe tears threatening to rip down my face - and I see, for the first time, perhaps ever, that this is such a gift worth waiting for.
I think back to the red dirt at the foot of that church in the middle of this state I know so very little about - and I think about the pink and purple, candy colored sunsets I grew up looking at, but never really seeing, and how about those snow-filled Christmases and humidity-laden summers and here I am wishing away the now to get to the next part and just what exactly am I so hurried for? When that dirt is red and those sunsets are water colors in a sky and who exactly do I think I am to try to rush the One who created all these things and created each if us with such purpose - what is the dang gone hurry?
I sit in Dayton now - in a room with four walls that I have made my own and I am still thinking about that dirt; and I'm thinking about a tree that Mal and Casey poured soil into from each of the places they've called a part of home - and I remember that preacher's words - saying something fit and true like this tree would grow from the soil of the places that built each of them to create something new and of their very own. And isn't that just what all our lives are littered with? Moments of greatness and agony and the soil beneath our feet to help us remember where we came from and that will always compass us to where we need to go ...
The same God that breathed life into my lungs, has my name written on His hands, and gives me new chances each morning is the same One who paints the sky each night in a slew of hues of orange and pink and purple; He is the same God who made the dirt in Georgia red and the air in Colorado dry; He is the same God who brought Mallory and Casey into each other's stories and He is the one who started my whole story with a high school senior named Max and a high school freshman named Sara.
Each night, He calls out the stars one by one, and they listen. And He closes doors for us that allow new beginnings to flourish and He is always writing, writing, writing and He never changes His mind.
I swirl my foot in that imaginary dirt and remember the soft melody that carried a new Mr. and Mrs. back down an aisle and I smile at the picture of all of us together - and this is what makes the world go 'round - this is want makes the world all right, again.
The one who can decorate the sky in sorbet-colored promises is the same One who can heal a wounded spirit and bring pieces of a heart from all over the states to one piece again. He made the cornfields grow and the dirt that deep red.
And while He was doing all of that and while He keeps it all thriving, He managed to change the map of a weary, broken heart - and He gives hydration to a dusty soul. And He will keep on fueling this broken world and allowing it to spin.
I'll sit in Dayton and dream about that dirt and smile at memories snapped by a camera and remember that a day should begin with intentional recognition of just all He is capable of - with wide-eyed wonder and pure glee at what He accomplishes.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Revelations in the Rain
Raindrops splatter and tap dance across the windshield of a van with Pennsylvania plates. Mother moon has kissed sister sun goodbye and the stars have been called out one by one - 75 South has never felt this smooth, this solemn.
Raspy voices stream seamlessly into the canal of my ear, singing of hair decorated with flowers and shadows on the walls. The man next to me used to be a boy with a clean shaved face and cowboy boots always on hand. With each mile marker we graze past I am reliving his maturation and shifting.
Semis hover too close and sleep plays hide and seek with me - it ever hiding and I ever seeking. It is too dark to read of dysfunctional families in the blackened van's interior and I find my thoughts wandering toward faces and expectations.
Who knew this is what the end of 26 might look like for me - but I am here, riding in a van with a family I no longer live with, but love and miss in a deep, aching chasm sort of way.
Mere months ago a long, darkened trip like this would've led me to think fondly on experiences that did not deserve the pedestal with which I had so gently, so gingerly placed them upon. But this June has brought new breaths of life, new waves of thinking, and the same God to believe in, but with a completely transformed trust to kneel before Him with.
I may remember blue eyes and roughened hands, but with a sense of complete removal - they no longer create longing and loneliness within me - they are simple a part of a past that was the catalyst for my present.
Southbound on 75 and the windshield wipers slap a rhythm only the night can keep time with. Strings and drums and creaks of a voice fill my eardrums and my eyelids flutter and then are left wide open. I can't tell how many miles this white van has laid down, but with each new exit sign up ahead I succumb to the humidity dancing outside of my window and exhale a little easier knowing I can only move toward a mind clearer of lies and confusion.
Each mile marker we graze past I realize I'm less of that little girl who sought so much in places and people who could only give a little. Hallelujah.
Raspy voices stream seamlessly into the canal of my ear, singing of hair decorated with flowers and shadows on the walls. The man next to me used to be a boy with a clean shaved face and cowboy boots always on hand. With each mile marker we graze past I am reliving his maturation and shifting.
Semis hover too close and sleep plays hide and seek with me - it ever hiding and I ever seeking. It is too dark to read of dysfunctional families in the blackened van's interior and I find my thoughts wandering toward faces and expectations.
Who knew this is what the end of 26 might look like for me - but I am here, riding in a van with a family I no longer live with, but love and miss in a deep, aching chasm sort of way.
Mere months ago a long, darkened trip like this would've led me to think fondly on experiences that did not deserve the pedestal with which I had so gently, so gingerly placed them upon. But this June has brought new breaths of life, new waves of thinking, and the same God to believe in, but with a completely transformed trust to kneel before Him with.
I may remember blue eyes and roughened hands, but with a sense of complete removal - they no longer create longing and loneliness within me - they are simple a part of a past that was the catalyst for my present.
Southbound on 75 and the windshield wipers slap a rhythm only the night can keep time with. Strings and drums and creaks of a voice fill my eardrums and my eyelids flutter and then are left wide open. I can't tell how many miles this white van has laid down, but with each new exit sign up ahead I succumb to the humidity dancing outside of my window and exhale a little easier knowing I can only move toward a mind clearer of lies and confusion.
Each mile marker we graze past I realize I'm less of that little girl who sought so much in places and people who could only give a little. Hallelujah.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
A Letter to the Mourning
You rise with me most mornings -
You rise with me and then you rise within me; the most crushing aspect of this truth is that I allow this of you.
As the sun kisses the sky hello and then lets loose her long, buttery hair you sit in the bottom of the pit of my stomach and stretch out your sharp handles and wrench into that section of feeling that seems to convulse through my body. And I let you.
Through the routines of packing a lunch, buttoning pants, the brushing of hair - my reflection begins to take note of the effects you have on the pallet staring back - with each stroke of a brush I feel you making yourself at home within my property - though it is not for rent. I do not hit you with a notice of evacuation.
Your colors are dark - vibrancy isn't something that is attuned to the image you wish to maintain - I can mask you with every shade of coral and yellow I own, but the heavy cloak of your presence still bleeds through.
Some days I find the courage to snuff you like a menthol laced cigarette - and a sort of warmth begins to embrace the back of my throat - like the swift, but consoling, burn after a shot of tequila.
You're there in the evening, too . . . Often times biting harder and sharper than in the light of day - and my defenses are down. So you usually triumph over me; I imagine you dancing fine tangos across the fractures of a battlefield responsible for pumping life to the extremities.
I've let you dance - soft and slow, then fast and hard - and so often, I must fight the fingers from hitting particular numbers as you are the victor over me.
Did you know you did that to me?
You sit in the nest of my collarbone - feigning comfort and solace, but really you're the taxi driver of my strength and sanity - I watch as I realize you're heading toward a cliff.
You are similar to a sound proofed room - somehow I lose track of words of comfort and affection because you vibrate in the drums of my ear so loudly -
Your survival depends on my belief of fallacy.
I'm catching on now - are you frightened? I wish you would be . . .
You may rise in the morning, but prepare yourself for a duel.
I will no longer wear your uniform of breaking - you've played house for much too long...
I'm corrupting this system and the rules you've set up - the rules I've blindly abided.
You don't get to steer the course anymore - you've outstayed your welcome. The comfort you provide no longer satisfies - and we may meet, again, but I will no longer sit in the bottom of this well -
Because I've been asked to cry out.
You rise with me and then you rise within me; the most crushing aspect of this truth is that I allow this of you.
As the sun kisses the sky hello and then lets loose her long, buttery hair you sit in the bottom of the pit of my stomach and stretch out your sharp handles and wrench into that section of feeling that seems to convulse through my body. And I let you.
Through the routines of packing a lunch, buttoning pants, the brushing of hair - my reflection begins to take note of the effects you have on the pallet staring back - with each stroke of a brush I feel you making yourself at home within my property - though it is not for rent. I do not hit you with a notice of evacuation.
Your colors are dark - vibrancy isn't something that is attuned to the image you wish to maintain - I can mask you with every shade of coral and yellow I own, but the heavy cloak of your presence still bleeds through.
Some days I find the courage to snuff you like a menthol laced cigarette - and a sort of warmth begins to embrace the back of my throat - like the swift, but consoling, burn after a shot of tequila.
You're there in the evening, too . . . Often times biting harder and sharper than in the light of day - and my defenses are down. So you usually triumph over me; I imagine you dancing fine tangos across the fractures of a battlefield responsible for pumping life to the extremities.
I've let you dance - soft and slow, then fast and hard - and so often, I must fight the fingers from hitting particular numbers as you are the victor over me.
Did you know you did that to me?
You sit in the nest of my collarbone - feigning comfort and solace, but really you're the taxi driver of my strength and sanity - I watch as I realize you're heading toward a cliff.
You are similar to a sound proofed room - somehow I lose track of words of comfort and affection because you vibrate in the drums of my ear so loudly -
Your survival depends on my belief of fallacy.
I'm catching on now - are you frightened? I wish you would be . . .
You may rise in the morning, but prepare yourself for a duel.
I will no longer wear your uniform of breaking - you've played house for much too long...
I'm corrupting this system and the rules you've set up - the rules I've blindly abided.
You don't get to steer the course anymore - you've outstayed your welcome. The comfort you provide no longer satisfies - and we may meet, again, but I will no longer sit in the bottom of this well -
Because I've been asked to cry out.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
The Adjustments of Silence
It is quiet here, in this space with hard wood floors and naked walls. In the in-between of shuffling from room to room humming to myself and triple, nay, quadruple checking door locks and dead bolts before I retire to the evening - it is quiet. On chance that one would look into a window, they would find a girl carrying around her cellular device with music turned to the loudest decibel.
All the same, it is quiet here.
And those shades that we decided on for their inexpensive qualities - they fell last Thursday morning - or perhaps it was in the midst of the night; perhaps right as the moon kissed the sun goodnight and shone brightly in all his fame and glory, my front window shade fell down and I did not hear its crash because I was listening to something to aid falling asleep. It is quiet here.
So there lay the shade that next morning - baring the bare living room for all who wanted to see, to see, and I panicked. These windows, they're tall and old and creaky and just the sort of look I like in my windows - but they are tall. And I, I am not - and I panicked. The sense I have acquired over the last year of my independence and my life and the beauty that may unfold if I merely allow it flew, like a lonesome, caged bird, right out the window that was now baring my living room innards and I made myself comfortable in a pool of pity.
It is quiet here, as I fold memories into picture frames and put them on display, as if to remind myself in the quiet, quiet, quiet, that I am not alone, I am loved and I am a friend and a daughter and a sister - it is quiet here, but I light a candle and breathe its vapor and I -- breathe.
I burnt my first batch of cookies, ever, in this foreign oven in my foreign kitchen with the teal tile that makes my heart heat up - and it was quiet here - even with the wailing smoke alarm and my stupid, embarrassed chuckle at what I may look like swinging a cookie pan around to air out the smoky remnants of those cookies; cookies I probably didn't even need to bake in the first place. The wailing and coughing and chuckling, but I promise - it is quiet here.
Even now, Claire de Lune plays in the background and the heat of a candle flame flickers as my hot chocolate cools and the tap-tap-tapping of a keyboard shows mastery of typing and it is quiet here - I am here, in this quiet, and I'm thinking and knowing and wondering so many a thing; how long has my humming been so off key? might my neighbors hear when I sing in the shower like I wish I was Adele? is it as quiet across this street and down this corner and just next door as it is here?
It is quiet here . . .
It is quiet here and I am here and these spaces will speak the volumes that are missing.
It is quiet here. But here I am.
All the same, it is quiet here.
And those shades that we decided on for their inexpensive qualities - they fell last Thursday morning - or perhaps it was in the midst of the night; perhaps right as the moon kissed the sun goodnight and shone brightly in all his fame and glory, my front window shade fell down and I did not hear its crash because I was listening to something to aid falling asleep. It is quiet here.
So there lay the shade that next morning - baring the bare living room for all who wanted to see, to see, and I panicked. These windows, they're tall and old and creaky and just the sort of look I like in my windows - but they are tall. And I, I am not - and I panicked. The sense I have acquired over the last year of my independence and my life and the beauty that may unfold if I merely allow it flew, like a lonesome, caged bird, right out the window that was now baring my living room innards and I made myself comfortable in a pool of pity.
It is quiet here, as I fold memories into picture frames and put them on display, as if to remind myself in the quiet, quiet, quiet, that I am not alone, I am loved and I am a friend and a daughter and a sister - it is quiet here, but I light a candle and breathe its vapor and I -- breathe.
I burnt my first batch of cookies, ever, in this foreign oven in my foreign kitchen with the teal tile that makes my heart heat up - and it was quiet here - even with the wailing smoke alarm and my stupid, embarrassed chuckle at what I may look like swinging a cookie pan around to air out the smoky remnants of those cookies; cookies I probably didn't even need to bake in the first place. The wailing and coughing and chuckling, but I promise - it is quiet here.
Even now, Claire de Lune plays in the background and the heat of a candle flame flickers as my hot chocolate cools and the tap-tap-tapping of a keyboard shows mastery of typing and it is quiet here - I am here, in this quiet, and I'm thinking and knowing and wondering so many a thing; how long has my humming been so off key? might my neighbors hear when I sing in the shower like I wish I was Adele? is it as quiet across this street and down this corner and just next door as it is here?
It is quiet here . . .
It is quiet here and I am here and these spaces will speak the volumes that are missing.
It is quiet here. But here I am.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Rejoice - Because I said I would.
How was your countdown last night, dear one? In those final moments of 2013 - those 5-4-3-2-1 moments, what were you thinking? What were you feeling? Were you making resolutions? Were you excited at the prospect of a kiss or a hug? Were you in the warmth of a home or in the heat of a crowded dance floor? Did you whisper a prayer of hope or shout a cry for help?
New Years seem to be all about resolutions - what's your new year's resolution this year? I have been a perpetual cycle of "lose weight," "get healthy," "eat less fried food," and the list goes on and on and on. For most of my adult life I could be counted as one of those crazed women who ran to the gym for that shiny, new membership to FINALLY get fit! Only to stop going with such intensity about one month in and then stop going altogether at about month marker three.
So as 2013 drew to a close this December I began to think about what my resolution would be this year - what dutiful promise was I going to make to myself and spout to the world, to only awkwardly manufacture lousy justifications as to why I left said resolution crying for help in the dust as I made strawberry cupcakes in my stretchy pants?
I began to think about 2013 in a review-like fashion and considered what it had done to my heart and how that might reflect my upcoming resolutions . . . Here's what I came up with.
2013 was probably one of the most, if not THE most, life changing years of my life. I slugged through valleys that I had never even imagined before; I made myself vulnerable to a group of people I barely knew; I let my heart hang out outside of my body and stood by and watched as it got scratched and ripped and tattered; I gave my body to men who didn't deserve it; I got a job that will be my career; I get paid to write; I made new friends; I'm moving out, on my own; I stood up for myself; I gave my heart to the Lord.
So as a result of all the changes, in honor of this transformed heart of mine, I resolve to make my year of 2014 about one word - rejoice. I will stop letting the weight of everything I don't have in my life keep me down and I will begin to wake up every morning filled with the promise of a new day and everything that I have been given.
I resolve to stop talking about what I'm going to start doing and begin to stop doing some things . . .
In 2014 -
I will stop deciding what the perfect jean size or scale weight is and just be happy in my skin.
I will stop listening to the enemy when he tells me I'm going to be alone forever, that I don't deserve anything, that I might fail and just remember that my Father has never failed and He won't fail now.
I will stop procrastinating on writing and just put my hind-end in the chair and my fingertips to the keys.
I will stop saying I'm going to learn to play the banjo, learn another language, submit work for publication, run a mile without stopping and just actually learn, submit, run.
I will stop being too tired to rise earlier in the morning to spend time with Jesus and just get up.
I will stop remembering all the hurtful things that have been said to me, the relationships that went wrong, the number of years it's been since I've had a boyfriend and just fling affection to all - no matter if it's reciprocated.
I will stop the fat talk, the put downs, the picking apart and just pray that I can begin to see myself the way God does.
I will stop worrying so much and just pray more.
I will stop defining myself by these culture's standards, by what my friends have accomplished, by where I think I need to be at 26, 27 and just be still.
In 2014 -
I will be a little more kind, I will laugh a little louder, I will push myself off the cliff of my comfort zone, I will REJOICE.
Here's knowing ya, 2013 - thank you for rocking my boat, breaking me down, shifting the plates of this heart, and filling me with skyward bound whimsy.
And here's to you, 2014 - to praying more, learning to cook, following through, and living much, much more encouraged, inspired, louder . . .
because I said I would.
New Years seem to be all about resolutions - what's your new year's resolution this year? I have been a perpetual cycle of "lose weight," "get healthy," "eat less fried food," and the list goes on and on and on. For most of my adult life I could be counted as one of those crazed women who ran to the gym for that shiny, new membership to FINALLY get fit! Only to stop going with such intensity about one month in and then stop going altogether at about month marker three.
So as 2013 drew to a close this December I began to think about what my resolution would be this year - what dutiful promise was I going to make to myself and spout to the world, to only awkwardly manufacture lousy justifications as to why I left said resolution crying for help in the dust as I made strawberry cupcakes in my stretchy pants?
I began to think about 2013 in a review-like fashion and considered what it had done to my heart and how that might reflect my upcoming resolutions . . . Here's what I came up with.
2013 was probably one of the most, if not THE most, life changing years of my life. I slugged through valleys that I had never even imagined before; I made myself vulnerable to a group of people I barely knew; I let my heart hang out outside of my body and stood by and watched as it got scratched and ripped and tattered; I gave my body to men who didn't deserve it; I got a job that will be my career; I get paid to write; I made new friends; I'm moving out, on my own; I stood up for myself; I gave my heart to the Lord.
So as a result of all the changes, in honor of this transformed heart of mine, I resolve to make my year of 2014 about one word - rejoice. I will stop letting the weight of everything I don't have in my life keep me down and I will begin to wake up every morning filled with the promise of a new day and everything that I have been given.
I resolve to stop talking about what I'm going to start doing and begin to stop doing some things . . .
In 2014 -
I will stop deciding what the perfect jean size or scale weight is and just be happy in my skin.
I will stop listening to the enemy when he tells me I'm going to be alone forever, that I don't deserve anything, that I might fail and just remember that my Father has never failed and He won't fail now.
I will stop procrastinating on writing and just put my hind-end in the chair and my fingertips to the keys.
I will stop saying I'm going to learn to play the banjo, learn another language, submit work for publication, run a mile without stopping and just actually learn, submit, run.
I will stop being too tired to rise earlier in the morning to spend time with Jesus and just get up.
I will stop remembering all the hurtful things that have been said to me, the relationships that went wrong, the number of years it's been since I've had a boyfriend and just fling affection to all - no matter if it's reciprocated.
I will stop the fat talk, the put downs, the picking apart and just pray that I can begin to see myself the way God does.
I will stop worrying so much and just pray more.
I will stop defining myself by these culture's standards, by what my friends have accomplished, by where I think I need to be at 26, 27 and just be still.
In 2014 -
I will be a little more kind, I will laugh a little louder, I will push myself off the cliff of my comfort zone, I will REJOICE.
Here's knowing ya, 2013 - thank you for rocking my boat, breaking me down, shifting the plates of this heart, and filling me with skyward bound whimsy.
And here's to you, 2014 - to praying more, learning to cook, following through, and living much, much more encouraged, inspired, louder . . .
because I said I would.
Friday, December 13, 2013
A Thank-You, A Love Letter, A moment of reflection
" I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life." -John 8:12I have spent so much of this life complaining about what I don't have, missing what isn't there, dreaming about what the future holds.
I have spent far too little time enjoying what I do have, holding close what is here, and cultivating what my day holds, today.
Self-proclaimed lover of snail mail, I am, far too often, in my letters to Jesus held tight, desperately praying for this, this, this, right now, now, now and how does this heart hold up to all the wanting instead of all the having? It is bruised and battered because I'm wishing away the now to move forward to the unpromised.
We were not guaranteed today, yet we woke up to sunshine and crisp air - so why am I so concerned with tomorrow's holdings and that apartment I want by February?
We were not guaranteed today - but we received it.
We were not deserving of this life - but we were given it.
We were not worthy of light - but darkness was removed.
So today, and I hope everyday after, I will remember that I have just what I need and am just where I am supposed to be, I will remember that I am not the architect of this plan, and I will remember that there is grace in every moment of my life - and blessings, too.
Today, I will shake off this title of entitlement that I have knighted myself with and wrap myself up in the knowledge that I have been given a life of light because of a love unfathomable.
This moment, I will put out a love letter for the world to see - because this is not a love, a relationship, that should be held captive to privacy or whispered in secret in the dark.
I have the light of life - because I am His, because He loves me so, because Grace.
Thank You for this life of light, sweet Father, a hundred thousand fevered, thank Yous.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
A Life of Yet
For as long as I can remember, words have mattered to me - my childhood, my various stages of girl-child yearning to be a woman, found me nose to the broken spine of a book, sitting as close to the book shelves of the school library so as to get to the newest, freshest smelling book first, searching, searching, searching for a new character to connect with, a first kiss to be visualized in my head, discoveries of a craft, I had no idea at the time, that would shape my coping skills and therapeutic habits.
For as long as I can remember, words have mattered to me - and I was often too smart-mouthed to think through those that came out of my mouth - but mattered to me, they did, all the same.
My twenties found me in classrooms, in lectures, in workshops - writing, writing, writing - and eventually learning to love the painful, intense process of editing and revising - because that's life, right? Live out a sentence - and then revise your steps, your breaths, the position of a cock-eyed head and a bit lip - revise it and edit it for the next time - if there would be a next time.
Live out a sentence . . .
In the midst of growing pains that have far less to do with aching joints and much greater matter and emphasis on the heart and the repercussions of broken promises - words still matter a great deal. Sentences get strung together as I think out loud for others to read about what happened that one night, in the room I should have never been in - the conversation that happened in the quiet of the sunrise with the only One who loves me through every dirty digression I commit - in the quiet room with only the almost silent clicks of keys - words still matter . . .
Sometimes a life feels like it might need a quick CtrlAltDelete . . .
It used to be quotes - I would comb websites and books for them; I can still remember the painstaking time I took to select my senior quote for the yearbook - this is how people might remember you, Steph - this may be the only and very last thing they have to remember you by . . . And so I poured over letters and words, artists and writers, singers and actors - because words mattered and this quote, this single line next to a posed photo, that really didn't look all that much like me to begin with, was so important - detrimental to who I might go out and grow up to be.
I often wonder just what people thought of me after reading that quote - did they think at all . . .
College made me quite aware of how key the selection of words can be - to a young girl who wishes to set the world on fire with the very tidbits dancing off the tip of her tongue; phrasing matters, timing matters, sentence structure matters - and are you sure you really don't want ANY dialogue in that piece? It feels like it's missing something - oh, no, it's entrancing, it's divine, it's . . .
College made me question every word I put into the universe - so much that I almost just stopped . . .
Big girl job comes along and I am with children - teaching and mentoring and trying to make a difference and I am always questioning those words - that was too harsh - cut them a break - really? I mean, REALLY? did that just flow out of my mouth! But, I love you all, I do, I do, I do - I love you and I want to help you - you just might need to tell me how.
Words matter - a whole heap and bushel and peck - they matter . . .
Habakkuk wrestles with the ways of the world - He is troubled that the things that are happening around him are being allowed to happen at all. Much of the book named after him is a deep dialogue between he and the Lord - a little back and forth, if you will. But here's how I know that Habakkuk was a man who knew words mattered:
Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
18 yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.
Habakkuk said YET. He realized there was reason behind the distress, there was a story unfolding within the disorder, there were joys to be sung.
You see, words have always mattered to me - but they've seemed to have existed in planes in which they were formulating excuses; they were easily manipulating justifications; they were of important matter because they were falsehoods I was clinging to.
So much time is perpetually filled with me throwing parties of pity for my singleness, my full-figured-ness, and I'm not understood, but I'm too tired, and I want what I want now, now, now, NOW - Do You hear me? Why am I being punished?
Just who do I think I am - I'm not so special in my messiness; and no one is punishing me - He's just waiting for me to leave it with Him.
Because - aren't I given a brand new day with each sunrise? And haven't I grown since I moved past that sorry excuse of a relationship? And don't I know that He fulfills His promises? And just who am I kidding - because one day that one cookie just might ACTUALLY kill me - if I do not get up and MOVE. And I am in this valley because this is where the change happens, where the molding is done, where I need Him the most.
Words matter - because my buts need to become yet's - and my heart needs to seek His face in every situation - because He is not done with me.
Because He will never give up.
Because I disappoint Him, I hurt Him, I wander from Him, yet He loves me, cherishes me, and knew every move I was going to make before I came to exist.
Words have always mattered a great deal to me - because I believe life is not defined by the buts and the or's - life is thriving in the yet's.
For as long as I can remember, words have mattered to me - and I was often too smart-mouthed to think through those that came out of my mouth - but mattered to me, they did, all the same.
My twenties found me in classrooms, in lectures, in workshops - writing, writing, writing - and eventually learning to love the painful, intense process of editing and revising - because that's life, right? Live out a sentence - and then revise your steps, your breaths, the position of a cock-eyed head and a bit lip - revise it and edit it for the next time - if there would be a next time.
Live out a sentence . . .
In the midst of growing pains that have far less to do with aching joints and much greater matter and emphasis on the heart and the repercussions of broken promises - words still matter a great deal. Sentences get strung together as I think out loud for others to read about what happened that one night, in the room I should have never been in - the conversation that happened in the quiet of the sunrise with the only One who loves me through every dirty digression I commit - in the quiet room with only the almost silent clicks of keys - words still matter . . .
Sometimes a life feels like it might need a quick CtrlAltDelete . . .
It used to be quotes - I would comb websites and books for them; I can still remember the painstaking time I took to select my senior quote for the yearbook - this is how people might remember you, Steph - this may be the only and very last thing they have to remember you by . . . And so I poured over letters and words, artists and writers, singers and actors - because words mattered and this quote, this single line next to a posed photo, that really didn't look all that much like me to begin with, was so important - detrimental to who I might go out and grow up to be.
I often wonder just what people thought of me after reading that quote - did they think at all . . .
College made me quite aware of how key the selection of words can be - to a young girl who wishes to set the world on fire with the very tidbits dancing off the tip of her tongue; phrasing matters, timing matters, sentence structure matters - and are you sure you really don't want ANY dialogue in that piece? It feels like it's missing something - oh, no, it's entrancing, it's divine, it's . . .
College made me question every word I put into the universe - so much that I almost just stopped . . .
Big girl job comes along and I am with children - teaching and mentoring and trying to make a difference and I am always questioning those words - that was too harsh - cut them a break - really? I mean, REALLY? did that just flow out of my mouth! But, I love you all, I do, I do, I do - I love you and I want to help you - you just might need to tell me how.
Words matter - a whole heap and bushel and peck - they matter . . .
Habakkuk wrestles with the ways of the world - He is troubled that the things that are happening around him are being allowed to happen at all. Much of the book named after him is a deep dialogue between he and the Lord - a little back and forth, if you will. But here's how I know that Habakkuk was a man who knew words mattered:
Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
18 yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.
Habakkuk said YET. He realized there was reason behind the distress, there was a story unfolding within the disorder, there were joys to be sung.
You see, words have always mattered to me - but they've seemed to have existed in planes in which they were formulating excuses; they were easily manipulating justifications; they were of important matter because they were falsehoods I was clinging to.
So much time is perpetually filled with me throwing parties of pity for my singleness, my full-figured-ness, and I'm not understood, but I'm too tired, and I want what I want now, now, now, NOW - Do You hear me? Why am I being punished?
Just who do I think I am - I'm not so special in my messiness; and no one is punishing me - He's just waiting for me to leave it with Him.
Because - aren't I given a brand new day with each sunrise? And haven't I grown since I moved past that sorry excuse of a relationship? And don't I know that He fulfills His promises? And just who am I kidding - because one day that one cookie just might ACTUALLY kill me - if I do not get up and MOVE. And I am in this valley because this is where the change happens, where the molding is done, where I need Him the most.
Words matter - because my buts need to become yet's - and my heart needs to seek His face in every situation - because He is not done with me.
Because He will never give up.
Because I disappoint Him, I hurt Him, I wander from Him, yet He loves me, cherishes me, and knew every move I was going to make before I came to exist.
Words have always mattered a great deal to me - because I believe life is not defined by the buts and the or's - life is thriving in the yet's.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)