I drove by you tonight . . . as the sun was taking its final bow, nose to the stage, before completing its final descent in a yellow-ish haze that reminded my eyes what your cigarette smoke felt like. I drove by you . . . and knew it was your truck without having to see the house it was parked in front of, without having to see your blue pools of knowing turned on me, without having to see you at all. I knew it was your truck from its blackness - a black so deep it met me mark for mark on what we shared; I knew it was your truck from its license plate - it's been the same for a while now - through that marriage of yours, and the birth of that look alike of yours, and the nights I snuck out to allow you to sneak in; I knew it was your truck because of the bed - I wonder if whomever named the bed of a truck knew just what they were implying . . . just how much like a bed that truck bed would come to be.
I drove by you tonight . . . shortly after realizing I really might not have all the answers and proper timing for this life I'm living, for this heart of mine. I drove by you . . . shortly thereafter returning down the long and twisted history that has our names etched across its bodice. Shortly thereafter, I recalled the cold porcelain and its biting answers to my tears as I waited to see whether two lines would be drawn; shortly thereafter, I remembered the nicotine lacings of your breath whenever you drank from a bottle; shortly thereafter, I remembered the fallacies I cast to anyone who would hear - that it wasn't that bad, you knew what you were doing, you worked really hard; shortly thereafter I remembered how green with white-hot disappointment I became, that one night by the pool, when you were still attached to a ring and you wouldn't put your lips on mine.
I drove by you tonight . . . and thought about how before now, before this time, I would have stopped and simply climbed into your truck, and you would have looked at me, and you would have known. I drove by you . . . recalling all the useless, wasteful no's I shot at you, with huntsman-like precision, only to say yes, okay, this is the last time; I drove by you . . . recalling the way your voice sounded when you sang along to the shaky, country radio station - and the whistling - I always was a little jealous of your whistling capabilities; I drove by you . . . recalling how your steep voice over a phone line, giving me no answers, was still not enough to clip this limping connection between us; I drove by you . . . recalling the last time I said it was the last time - I was over you, no longer getting under you, and there you were - still under me, this flesh, just go.
I drove by you tonight . . . then I unblocked you from that social media temptress and told you I hoped you were well - and I really meant it - I hope you are well . . . but I hope you miss me, too. I drove by you tonight - then I remembered how I made this decision - to walk away, to have the final word, to rise above this cyclical desperation we so willingly free fall into for each other; I drove by you tonight - then I took a deep breath, put my foot further into the gas pedal and shook loose the haze that clouds my vision and chokes my airways; I drove by you tonight - then said aloud to all the doubts swimming laps - I came out of the woods by choice.
I drove by you tonight and remembered the way you used to say baby and how I was the first girl you loved. I drove by you tonight and remembered all the panicky moments between feeling you and feeling terrified because of it. I drove by you tonight and remembered the silence that crackled response to my questions of 'why ,'when you picked up and moved, when you got her that ring, when you called to say it was over.
I drove by you tonight and realized I'm not saying what I want to say and meaning it, too, but . . . I drove by you tonight and knew I was one step closer to be able to drive by you and not look back just one - last - time.
I drove by you tonight . . . so I kept driving.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
The Lines of a Face, The Curves of a Highway
It was cold when I first laid eyes on you - the air bit with crystallized fire and my breath made feeble attempts at melting the frost on that giant window.
You were one among many . . . one in a large crowd, and I remember thinking, I remember wondering aloud, "how will I make this decision correctly?" I couldn't just return you if I changed my mind about the color of your skin . . .
It was cold that day; that day I chose you, one among many, and knew that I was going to be stuck with you - for better or for worse - isn't that what they say?
So you were mine, now. I was happy to show you off and share you with my friends and you were always perfectly willing to allow me to listen to music that fed my soul and eased the tension. There were even a few times you allowed me to bring someone else along . . .
You were brand new in 2007 and oh, man, did I think I had my life all figured out when you became mine; That curly haired boy with the blue eyes with amber flecks in them - I thought for sure he'd always be around. I thought for sure that when the time came and you were fully and completely mine, with nothing else owed to anyone, that there might be a ring on my left finger - that your external appearance would still be so shiny and new.
Little did I know, that as I was putting mileage on you, mileage began to be added on to me - I'm a little ashamed to admit it, really, that I didn't consider how all those miles, all those trips that seemed so worth it, would eventually devalue both our worth and our hearts.
I wish I could say that I treated your interior better than how I treated my own, but that would be a fallacy. I warped myself with caffeine and greasy, drive-thru food, and you became the wasteland and canvas with which the remnants fell to. There are still parts of you sticky with the syrup and time of my well-honed addiction.
To give voice to your exterior brings me a shudder of sadness - I had hoped to keep you as pristine and well groomed as when I found you, for as long as I could. But I suppose it is reasonable to say that what I allowed the world and the people in it to do to my canvas, you also became subjected to.
Like the scars that etch and snake on my skin, you have scars of your own - they're starting to change colors now - growing darker with time and each bought of moisture that is released from Heaven. Those scars are undoable, irreversible, non-negotiable - because of the heady costs that come with them, because of what it might mean - to make us blemish free.
Back when I first found you, picked you out in that crowd - I could have never have known just where we would go together, to whom we would visit with each other, or what the reasons would be for those visitations, for those other people. I realize, now, looking back, that while I was allowing mileage to be put on you, it was with every intention of forcing mileage onto myself.
In two days time you will fully be mine - your balding tires, dented door, and radio that always cuts off my favorite worship song right at the good part. It seems we have a history, you and I.
You hold some particularly scandalous secrets of mine - secrets that make me nervous about the world knowing . . . But you will be mine. We almost match, you know -
Your balding tires for those gray hairs I've discovered recently.
Your scarred surface for the scars I really do try to keep just under the surface.
Y0ur mileage - ever increasing - for my mileage, that has ceased, thankfully.
And that radio of yours, always bonking out just when I want to lift my voice to shout praise.
But it's okay, I'll replace your tires and color my hair.
And don't worry about those rusted dents on your side - the painful memories from
our punctured wounds have given us strength - even if the world refuses to see it.
About that mileage - keep taking me where I want to go and I'll start fighting to
remember who I was before all those men told me who I needed to be.
Also, whether you turn off in the middle of a melody or not, I'll still keep singing -
voice flung high in quivering praise.
It was cold that first day I saw you . . . and the air is starting to get a bite to it now, as I get ready to pay you off. Who I was then is so far from where I am now . . . You've grown with me and aged with me and been bruised with me . . .
But like the four wheels that get me where I want to be, this heart of mine keeps restlessly seeking, too.
You may not be new or glossy with shine anymore, but what do these busted and weakened bones know about any of that?
This world may not choose us first or see us for who we really are, but the road will always be before us and the horizon within reach.
I'm just a girl, wishing to set the world on fire, one mile marker at a time.
You were one among many . . . one in a large crowd, and I remember thinking, I remember wondering aloud, "how will I make this decision correctly?" I couldn't just return you if I changed my mind about the color of your skin . . .
It was cold that day; that day I chose you, one among many, and knew that I was going to be stuck with you - for better or for worse - isn't that what they say?
So you were mine, now. I was happy to show you off and share you with my friends and you were always perfectly willing to allow me to listen to music that fed my soul and eased the tension. There were even a few times you allowed me to bring someone else along . . .
You were brand new in 2007 and oh, man, did I think I had my life all figured out when you became mine; That curly haired boy with the blue eyes with amber flecks in them - I thought for sure he'd always be around. I thought for sure that when the time came and you were fully and completely mine, with nothing else owed to anyone, that there might be a ring on my left finger - that your external appearance would still be so shiny and new.
Little did I know, that as I was putting mileage on you, mileage began to be added on to me - I'm a little ashamed to admit it, really, that I didn't consider how all those miles, all those trips that seemed so worth it, would eventually devalue both our worth and our hearts.
I wish I could say that I treated your interior better than how I treated my own, but that would be a fallacy. I warped myself with caffeine and greasy, drive-thru food, and you became the wasteland and canvas with which the remnants fell to. There are still parts of you sticky with the syrup and time of my well-honed addiction.
To give voice to your exterior brings me a shudder of sadness - I had hoped to keep you as pristine and well groomed as when I found you, for as long as I could. But I suppose it is reasonable to say that what I allowed the world and the people in it to do to my canvas, you also became subjected to.
Like the scars that etch and snake on my skin, you have scars of your own - they're starting to change colors now - growing darker with time and each bought of moisture that is released from Heaven. Those scars are undoable, irreversible, non-negotiable - because of the heady costs that come with them, because of what it might mean - to make us blemish free.
Back when I first found you, picked you out in that crowd - I could have never have known just where we would go together, to whom we would visit with each other, or what the reasons would be for those visitations, for those other people. I realize, now, looking back, that while I was allowing mileage to be put on you, it was with every intention of forcing mileage onto myself.
In two days time you will fully be mine - your balding tires, dented door, and radio that always cuts off my favorite worship song right at the good part. It seems we have a history, you and I.
You hold some particularly scandalous secrets of mine - secrets that make me nervous about the world knowing . . . But you will be mine. We almost match, you know -
Your balding tires for those gray hairs I've discovered recently.
Your scarred surface for the scars I really do try to keep just under the surface.
Y0ur mileage - ever increasing - for my mileage, that has ceased, thankfully.
And that radio of yours, always bonking out just when I want to lift my voice to shout praise.
But it's okay, I'll replace your tires and color my hair.
And don't worry about those rusted dents on your side - the painful memories from
our punctured wounds have given us strength - even if the world refuses to see it.
About that mileage - keep taking me where I want to go and I'll start fighting to
remember who I was before all those men told me who I needed to be.
Also, whether you turn off in the middle of a melody or not, I'll still keep singing -
voice flung high in quivering praise.
It was cold that first day I saw you . . . and the air is starting to get a bite to it now, as I get ready to pay you off. Who I was then is so far from where I am now . . . You've grown with me and aged with me and been bruised with me . . .
But like the four wheels that get me where I want to be, this heart of mine keeps restlessly seeking, too.
You may not be new or glossy with shine anymore, but what do these busted and weakened bones know about any of that?
This world may not choose us first or see us for who we really are, but the road will always be before us and the horizon within reach.
I'm just a girl, wishing to set the world on fire, one mile marker at a time.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
An Empty Shelf
There's this dull ache that sits right below my rib cage; occasionally it will strike with a hand of severity that threatens to rip the softened flesh of my body right in half.
For long moments of time, spanning over days of 30, 60, 90, I would convince myself of a diagnosis only to realize with swift assuredness that I am no doctor, just a silly girl in earnest search for calculated answers. I am still coming up short.
I used to sit on a leather couch and pick at the skin laying blankets next to my stained fingernails . . . 'and how does that make you feel?' repeating over and over in my ear and I almost wonder aloud if this is all it takes to have an office with leather chairs . . . merely to ask 'and how does that make you feel?'
I felt then, and I feel now, a dull ache - sitting right below my rib cage. Then - it was because I was in a relationship that wasn't filling me in the correct ways. Now - it is because I am in a relationship . . . with no one - and I'm not being filled in the correct ways.
But wait, what is it that I'm supposed to be being filled up with, again? And the dullness pulses stronger and then eases up.
I sit here, listening to the slow drip, drip, drop of the leaky kitchen sink and I remember a quote I once heard, "when people show you who they are, believe them."
Drip, drip, drop . . . what am I showing to people, exactly?
That I'm a girl born on a farm who is increasingly grateful for where she comes from? Likely not, as I am continually complaining about having to drive from this farm town to the city everyday.
Drip, drip, drop . . .
Do I show people that I love Jesus through my actions, with my words, in every intentional conversation I have? Likely not, as I am tired, worn out, scared, tired of being disrespected.
Drip, drip, drop . . .
That I am grateful for the people in my life, for the love that they bring and the wisdom they share? Likely not. Because I'm typically so anxious about messing something up that I end up . . . messing something up.
Drip, drip, drop . . .
There's a small ache beneath my rib cage - something seems to be missing - and what is it? and how does that make me feel? and . . .
Drip, drip, drop . . .
The ache seems to stem from the knowledge of a hard truth that lies in this world, this life, not being for the weak hearted, the easily intimidated, the faint of mind. But I know - staring in front of the reflection each morning and humming along to the radio en route and just letting my eyes flutter closed for just, one, second - that I am all these things - weak and easily intimidated and faint - until everyday I claim Jesus, until I show Jesus to everyone that I encounter, no matter how my heart feels.
Because who am I? To complain about a 45 minute drive to work when He had nails driven into His flesh - for me.
Because who am I? To whine about singleness and waiting when His one unanswered prayer to have this cup taken away from Him is the one unanswered prayer that saved my life.
Because who am I? Without a Father that loves me past all circumstances and actions.
I am weak hearted, easily intimidated, faint of mind.
Drip, drip, drop . . .
The dull ache is what will come to thrive if my life is lived outside of Jesus . . . the dull ache is simply a reminder that there is so much more to come . . . because He has promised a return.
For long moments of time, spanning over days of 30, 60, 90, I would convince myself of a diagnosis only to realize with swift assuredness that I am no doctor, just a silly girl in earnest search for calculated answers. I am still coming up short.
I used to sit on a leather couch and pick at the skin laying blankets next to my stained fingernails . . . 'and how does that make you feel?' repeating over and over in my ear and I almost wonder aloud if this is all it takes to have an office with leather chairs . . . merely to ask 'and how does that make you feel?'
I felt then, and I feel now, a dull ache - sitting right below my rib cage. Then - it was because I was in a relationship that wasn't filling me in the correct ways. Now - it is because I am in a relationship . . . with no one - and I'm not being filled in the correct ways.
But wait, what is it that I'm supposed to be being filled up with, again? And the dullness pulses stronger and then eases up.
I sit here, listening to the slow drip, drip, drop of the leaky kitchen sink and I remember a quote I once heard, "when people show you who they are, believe them."
Drip, drip, drop . . . what am I showing to people, exactly?
That I'm a girl born on a farm who is increasingly grateful for where she comes from? Likely not, as I am continually complaining about having to drive from this farm town to the city everyday.
Drip, drip, drop . . .
Do I show people that I love Jesus through my actions, with my words, in every intentional conversation I have? Likely not, as I am tired, worn out, scared, tired of being disrespected.
Drip, drip, drop . . .
That I am grateful for the people in my life, for the love that they bring and the wisdom they share? Likely not. Because I'm typically so anxious about messing something up that I end up . . . messing something up.
Drip, drip, drop . . .
There's a small ache beneath my rib cage - something seems to be missing - and what is it? and how does that make me feel? and . . .
Drip, drip, drop . . .
The ache seems to stem from the knowledge of a hard truth that lies in this world, this life, not being for the weak hearted, the easily intimidated, the faint of mind. But I know - staring in front of the reflection each morning and humming along to the radio en route and just letting my eyes flutter closed for just, one, second - that I am all these things - weak and easily intimidated and faint - until everyday I claim Jesus, until I show Jesus to everyone that I encounter, no matter how my heart feels.
Because who am I? To complain about a 45 minute drive to work when He had nails driven into His flesh - for me.
Because who am I? To whine about singleness and waiting when His one unanswered prayer to have this cup taken away from Him is the one unanswered prayer that saved my life.
Because who am I? Without a Father that loves me past all circumstances and actions.
I am weak hearted, easily intimidated, faint of mind.
Drip, drip, drop . . .
The dull ache is what will come to thrive if my life is lived outside of Jesus . . . the dull ache is simply a reminder that there is so much more to come . . . because He has promised a return.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
This Man I Knew
I used to be incredibly afraid of dying. Now, don't get me wrong - there are still many things I want to accomplish and experience in this life before I am called home to rest, but the fear does not lie in wait - prepared to bite and nip at the security that faintly comes in this world.
Anxiety is something that has plagued me for quite some time now - over minor things and raging over major things. Death used to be one of the minor things - because it wasn't a more pressing matter to me than to any other human living now - I do not know when it will come, or in what form, only that it will - it is one of the very few promises kept in this world, you know. So there I was, newly into my twenties and the fear of death was so overcoming, so overpowering that it became something I absolutely needed to be OVER.
There are still days I get frightened over how very much has been left undone - in the event that my next breath should be my last - but overall, a calmness has found a way to wash over me . . .
The morbidity of these thoughts is not something I am overlooking - I am aware that, at 26, being consumed with what I must do before I am no longer able to do it is, by and large, taking up a plethora of time in which I could be, ya know, doing all the things I need to be doing before the final minutes are upon me.
But days like today - anniversaries of the nature of this particular anniversary, make me think a little bit longer, a little bit harder, about the days I've yet to live - and have me questioning, well, just how many are even left?
You see, nine years ago today, this man I knew - with a beard so white, young kids in town would climb in his lap come Christmas time just to tell him about that new bike they'd be pining after - was called home, was asked to go rest high on that Mountain.
Nine years ago today, this man I knew - who always slapped at his knees when he thought something was irreversibly funny - was reached out to by the sweet and gracious Lord and was walked into the stars by Him.
Nine years ago today, this man I knew - who helped raise and shape and mold three girls, who became women I love and could not live without, was taken quickly, and without pain, lying next to the woman whom he loved since he was a Senior in high school.
Nine years ago today, this man I knew - who was a daddy to my daddy and his brother Jon - was ushered in to Heaven.
He loved without hesitation; he lived incredibly with integrity; he helped without question - he was my grandpy.
Rocky Top was his favorite song, and he loved to spin his Duff girls around on a dance floor any chance he could get - I can't say how thankful I am to have gotten to spin a couple times around with him on a long ago Saturday night . . .
So days like today, when the air just feels a little heavy with the missing, I wonder how many days I might have left . . .
To make a family like he did.
To leave a legacy the way he did.
To imprint the sound of my laughter on everyone's memory - just as he did.
Days like today, when it hurts a little to talk about him, it stings the eyes to even think about him - I am thankful for just one more day to love without hesitation, live incredibly with integrity, to help without question.
I am thankful to be the daughter of a man who was a son of the man who looked like Santa Claus and let the kids tell him what they wanted, of the man who had highlighters in the front pocket of those blue and white striped bib overalls, of the man who always called me Steffi, let me see him cry, and taught me about the clouds.
So while I'm still living this life I was blessed with, I will remember the way he lived and loved and attempt to model it the best I can; I'll cry a little every time I hear his favorite song, or any song with a fiddle, for that matter, and I will always pray a similar prayer - where his irreplaceable soul is concerned . . .
I hope you have miles and miles of field to farm, grandpy - tell Him I say hi. And, please grandpy, please - save me a dance.
Anxiety is something that has plagued me for quite some time now - over minor things and raging over major things. Death used to be one of the minor things - because it wasn't a more pressing matter to me than to any other human living now - I do not know when it will come, or in what form, only that it will - it is one of the very few promises kept in this world, you know. So there I was, newly into my twenties and the fear of death was so overcoming, so overpowering that it became something I absolutely needed to be OVER.
There are still days I get frightened over how very much has been left undone - in the event that my next breath should be my last - but overall, a calmness has found a way to wash over me . . .
The morbidity of these thoughts is not something I am overlooking - I am aware that, at 26, being consumed with what I must do before I am no longer able to do it is, by and large, taking up a plethora of time in which I could be, ya know, doing all the things I need to be doing before the final minutes are upon me.
But days like today - anniversaries of the nature of this particular anniversary, make me think a little bit longer, a little bit harder, about the days I've yet to live - and have me questioning, well, just how many are even left?
You see, nine years ago today, this man I knew - with a beard so white, young kids in town would climb in his lap come Christmas time just to tell him about that new bike they'd be pining after - was called home, was asked to go rest high on that Mountain.
Nine years ago today, this man I knew - who always slapped at his knees when he thought something was irreversibly funny - was reached out to by the sweet and gracious Lord and was walked into the stars by Him.
Nine years ago today, this man I knew - who helped raise and shape and mold three girls, who became women I love and could not live without, was taken quickly, and without pain, lying next to the woman whom he loved since he was a Senior in high school.
Nine years ago today, this man I knew - who was a daddy to my daddy and his brother Jon - was ushered in to Heaven.
He loved without hesitation; he lived incredibly with integrity; he helped without question - he was my grandpy.
Rocky Top was his favorite song, and he loved to spin his Duff girls around on a dance floor any chance he could get - I can't say how thankful I am to have gotten to spin a couple times around with him on a long ago Saturday night . . .
So days like today, when the air just feels a little heavy with the missing, I wonder how many days I might have left . . .
To make a family like he did.
To leave a legacy the way he did.
To imprint the sound of my laughter on everyone's memory - just as he did.
Days like today, when it hurts a little to talk about him, it stings the eyes to even think about him - I am thankful for just one more day to love without hesitation, live incredibly with integrity, to help without question.
I am thankful to be the daughter of a man who was a son of the man who looked like Santa Claus and let the kids tell him what they wanted, of the man who had highlighters in the front pocket of those blue and white striped bib overalls, of the man who always called me Steffi, let me see him cry, and taught me about the clouds.
So while I'm still living this life I was blessed with, I will remember the way he lived and loved and attempt to model it the best I can; I'll cry a little every time I hear his favorite song, or any song with a fiddle, for that matter, and I will always pray a similar prayer - where his irreplaceable soul is concerned . . .
I hope you have miles and miles of field to farm, grandpy - tell Him I say hi. And, please grandpy, please - save me a dance.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
This Is a Call . . .
Have you ever had one of those days? One of those - I'm still coming off the weekend that really kind of broke me, even though it's Tuesday, kind of days?
One of those - why am I working at the job I am working at - just who exactly thought I was qualified to do just this -- stand in front of children and teach them, nay, inspire them -- just who decided that?
One of those - never gonna be enough, enough, enough days where the up is down and the inside is out and is anyone really hearing what I say, I mean, really HEARING what I'm saying? And it's all just been enough.
Have you ever woken up tired, and hungry, and angry that you're waking up tired and hungry and just what was I doing last night in my sleep? Gymnastics? Why else would my feet hurt, my back ache, my body be aged twice its actual numeric value? Have you ever woken up that way?
Days filled with "I can't," "I won't," and "there is absolutely no way?" Mornings where the humidity is so savory and thick that you can swallow a piece of it before you get in your car and crank that fake, cool air so your make up doesn't slide off your face - and OOPS! - there's that blemish that took a couple, solid minutes to disguise.
Ever had a day where you just don't want to disguise? Because you're tired, you're coming off a weekend that wounded you, it's hot - so effing hot - and why exactly should you need to put make up on anyway when you're unseen and unheard and so fracking bad at what you were hired to do?!
Ever had one of those days?
This is a call for you.
This is a call to all the dead and disappointed, the ones who feel like they are done. This is a word to all the ones who feel forgotten that you. are. not.
I'm calling for you.
Because, in the midst of that day - where the air makes your hair frizz and you are raw and exposed and still so unseen - there will be a cross eyed little girl who whole heartedly believes she is beautiful in that yellow and brown sundress. And it's because she is.
Right smack dab in the middle of feeling left out, yet again, on those great moments where your heart will race and rip right out of your chest cavity in delighted passion - a child with the light of life in their eyes will write honestly and poetically, "I understand that God is real and He is so very good."
During a moment where you question just about everything you say and think and do - there will come a swift reminder that you were led to this point for some very particular reason - just you, in the middle of a classroom of happily working children - yes, you are right where you were called to be. This very moment.
Ever had one of those days, couple of days, weeks where the one place you need to be is the one place you're avoiding - because you're angry with Him and you don't know quite how to say that it is, in fact, so . . . mainly because you know those words whispered to you that Saturday night were actually right on point? "He's never up to anything but good."
Have one of those days and then crack open the worn, leather binding and have your heart explode all over the place . . .
"The Lord upholds all who are falling and raises up all who are bowed down." -Psalm 145:14
Have one of those days - where nothing seems to be going right, tears are just behind the next word that is spoken, and your chest is so tight it just might pop any moment . . .
This is a call for you.
You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are . . .
quite possibly low
maybe having a bad day
angry, mad, and fuming.
You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are . . .
being lifted up
living with purpose
His, His, His.
Ever have one of those days? Yeah, me, too. . .
This is a call for you - you desperate, you weary, you so mad-I can't see straight- type of people.
I hear you. Oh, do I hear you. And I see you, too.
But so does He.
One of those - why am I working at the job I am working at - just who exactly thought I was qualified to do just this -- stand in front of children and teach them, nay, inspire them -- just who decided that?
One of those - never gonna be enough, enough, enough days where the up is down and the inside is out and is anyone really hearing what I say, I mean, really HEARING what I'm saying? And it's all just been enough.
Have you ever woken up tired, and hungry, and angry that you're waking up tired and hungry and just what was I doing last night in my sleep? Gymnastics? Why else would my feet hurt, my back ache, my body be aged twice its actual numeric value? Have you ever woken up that way?
Days filled with "I can't," "I won't," and "there is absolutely no way?" Mornings where the humidity is so savory and thick that you can swallow a piece of it before you get in your car and crank that fake, cool air so your make up doesn't slide off your face - and OOPS! - there's that blemish that took a couple, solid minutes to disguise.
Ever had a day where you just don't want to disguise? Because you're tired, you're coming off a weekend that wounded you, it's hot - so effing hot - and why exactly should you need to put make up on anyway when you're unseen and unheard and so fracking bad at what you were hired to do?!
Ever had one of those days?
This is a call for you.
This is a call to all the dead and disappointed, the ones who feel like they are done. This is a word to all the ones who feel forgotten that you. are. not.
I'm calling for you.
Because, in the midst of that day - where the air makes your hair frizz and you are raw and exposed and still so unseen - there will be a cross eyed little girl who whole heartedly believes she is beautiful in that yellow and brown sundress. And it's because she is.
Right smack dab in the middle of feeling left out, yet again, on those great moments where your heart will race and rip right out of your chest cavity in delighted passion - a child with the light of life in their eyes will write honestly and poetically, "I understand that God is real and He is so very good."
During a moment where you question just about everything you say and think and do - there will come a swift reminder that you were led to this point for some very particular reason - just you, in the middle of a classroom of happily working children - yes, you are right where you were called to be. This very moment.
Ever had one of those days, couple of days, weeks where the one place you need to be is the one place you're avoiding - because you're angry with Him and you don't know quite how to say that it is, in fact, so . . . mainly because you know those words whispered to you that Saturday night were actually right on point? "He's never up to anything but good."
Have one of those days and then crack open the worn, leather binding and have your heart explode all over the place . . .
"The Lord upholds all who are falling and raises up all who are bowed down." -Psalm 145:14
Have one of those days - where nothing seems to be going right, tears are just behind the next word that is spoken, and your chest is so tight it just might pop any moment . . .
This is a call for you.
You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are . . .
quite possibly low
maybe having a bad day
angry, mad, and fuming.
You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are . . .
being lifted up
living with purpose
His, His, His.
Ever have one of those days? Yeah, me, too. . .
This is a call for you - you desperate, you weary, you so mad-I can't see straight- type of people.
I hear you. Oh, do I hear you. And I see you, too.
But so does He.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
A Red Chair
When I was younger my mom had chairs made for our deck . . . a guy she worked with was an amazing carpenter and had made some beautiful pieces so she quickly put in an order for four chairs for our quaint deck so that we may sunbathe, if we so chose. When she brought them home she was so excited - "aren't they great?!" she exclaimed; they were great - beautifully made and they leaned waaayyyy back. They also each had one board that was longer than all the others right in the middle; these beautiful chairs my mom had ordered had a middle finger of sorts - rising for all to see.
But we used them, all the same; we sat in them and chatted in them and caught several sun rays in them, too. They weathered all sorts of weather - the woodiness of their wood faded and cracked and recently she painted them a particularly gorgeous shade of red; the red reminded me of the same color that graced the front barn on my grandpy's farm - and I began to love these chairs even more - I began to love them all over again.
You see, I'm getting ready to move out soon. It's a relatively big step for a homebody such as myself. I was offered a job that has afforded me the time and reality of paying for my own place, of picking out furniture for a place of my own, of creating wonky color schemes for each room in my head; I am excited. But, I'm also scared.
Corn fields and silent, starry nights are all I've ever grown up around. My childhood began and ended just walking steps from a corn field; a little girl's pink bedroom became a yellow sanctuary in which she would entrust far too much to one boy - all with the tall, tasseling corn stalks dancing with the wind. Traffic has never been an issue - in fact the noisiest things get around here are the pieces of farm equipment gathering their money from the fields surrounding the white house that built me.
Within the walls of this home with the middle fingered, red chairs I have felt the love of a family that infuriates me almost as much as they delight me. I have gone from mouthy and sailor mouthed to a woman who likes to think she thinks before she speaks now.
A little boy was once brought home to these walls - they tell me I was quite helpful when he first arrived; I remember greatly disliking him, though - and the smell of his hands and his constant tractor noises. But that's all dissipated - breathing would be difficult without him - and he's never been afraid to live, thus teaching me more than I could have ever imagined about life.
Fights have broken out in this house - heated and ringing with fury. Doors have slammed and names have been yelled - but now I know what I want, and what I don't - what I deserve and what needs to be left and forgiven.
A sweet, black dog has been laid to rest under a shade tree in my back yard and a basketball court sits left abandoned along with my dreams of athleticism. Where weeds now overpower, there used to be the most gloriously large shade tree, it had a wood board around a rope that I used to swing on, but like the most precious people, it was weakened by the world and had to move on.
There sits a fire ring, right in the center of our back yard - many a pick up truck have circled around it, with loud, twangy music sounding - all those nights you hear of in country songs, they took place right outside this white, shingled house.
As I type this just now, I'm sitting beneath a canopy that shades the sunlight and protects the stars - I have sat beneath this canopy before a note riddled Bible, writing my heart before a page, praying for a life that is just getting started, laughing with people I am not quite sure how I survived without before that very moment.
I have, quite inexplicably, gone from a girl who wanted to shed her roots and run for city lights to a woman who loves what she knows about the country because it is familiar - because, as it turns out, it's my heart; sunsets are real strokes from God's hands, and they're the best when viewed from a front porch; the sweet smell of corn means the time is coming to break out the big, green machines; manure isn't always sweet smelling, but it's home; family - no matter how far, no matter the divides are who give you your roots, who teach you how to use your wings.
You see, I'm moving out soon. I look at these sweet, red, middle finger showing chairs and think about how they strongly resemble this particular time in my life - they give meaning to the white house that will always be mine, even when it isn't.
A family, a life, will begin purely and then the world, as it often does, sets both heartache and happiness rapid fire on the skin, the heart, the eyes. We weather these things - our eyes will reveal the storms, our hands show the testimonies, a smile will either color a face or strip it bare. But, lean back - waaayyy back. Trust the people that brought you here, trust that they will help you move forward from here.
This home, these chairs - they are not perfect. They have secrets they don't dare to tell. But, it is here where I first began. It is here where I will always belong - no matter what zip code I reside.
But we used them, all the same; we sat in them and chatted in them and caught several sun rays in them, too. They weathered all sorts of weather - the woodiness of their wood faded and cracked and recently she painted them a particularly gorgeous shade of red; the red reminded me of the same color that graced the front barn on my grandpy's farm - and I began to love these chairs even more - I began to love them all over again.
You see, I'm getting ready to move out soon. It's a relatively big step for a homebody such as myself. I was offered a job that has afforded me the time and reality of paying for my own place, of picking out furniture for a place of my own, of creating wonky color schemes for each room in my head; I am excited. But, I'm also scared.
Corn fields and silent, starry nights are all I've ever grown up around. My childhood began and ended just walking steps from a corn field; a little girl's pink bedroom became a yellow sanctuary in which she would entrust far too much to one boy - all with the tall, tasseling corn stalks dancing with the wind. Traffic has never been an issue - in fact the noisiest things get around here are the pieces of farm equipment gathering their money from the fields surrounding the white house that built me.
Within the walls of this home with the middle fingered, red chairs I have felt the love of a family that infuriates me almost as much as they delight me. I have gone from mouthy and sailor mouthed to a woman who likes to think she thinks before she speaks now.
A little boy was once brought home to these walls - they tell me I was quite helpful when he first arrived; I remember greatly disliking him, though - and the smell of his hands and his constant tractor noises. But that's all dissipated - breathing would be difficult without him - and he's never been afraid to live, thus teaching me more than I could have ever imagined about life.
Fights have broken out in this house - heated and ringing with fury. Doors have slammed and names have been yelled - but now I know what I want, and what I don't - what I deserve and what needs to be left and forgiven.
A sweet, black dog has been laid to rest under a shade tree in my back yard and a basketball court sits left abandoned along with my dreams of athleticism. Where weeds now overpower, there used to be the most gloriously large shade tree, it had a wood board around a rope that I used to swing on, but like the most precious people, it was weakened by the world and had to move on.
There sits a fire ring, right in the center of our back yard - many a pick up truck have circled around it, with loud, twangy music sounding - all those nights you hear of in country songs, they took place right outside this white, shingled house.
As I type this just now, I'm sitting beneath a canopy that shades the sunlight and protects the stars - I have sat beneath this canopy before a note riddled Bible, writing my heart before a page, praying for a life that is just getting started, laughing with people I am not quite sure how I survived without before that very moment.
I have, quite inexplicably, gone from a girl who wanted to shed her roots and run for city lights to a woman who loves what she knows about the country because it is familiar - because, as it turns out, it's my heart; sunsets are real strokes from God's hands, and they're the best when viewed from a front porch; the sweet smell of corn means the time is coming to break out the big, green machines; manure isn't always sweet smelling, but it's home; family - no matter how far, no matter the divides are who give you your roots, who teach you how to use your wings.
You see, I'm moving out soon. I look at these sweet, red, middle finger showing chairs and think about how they strongly resemble this particular time in my life - they give meaning to the white house that will always be mine, even when it isn't.
A family, a life, will begin purely and then the world, as it often does, sets both heartache and happiness rapid fire on the skin, the heart, the eyes. We weather these things - our eyes will reveal the storms, our hands show the testimonies, a smile will either color a face or strip it bare. But, lean back - waaayyy back. Trust the people that brought you here, trust that they will help you move forward from here.
This home, these chairs - they are not perfect. They have secrets they don't dare to tell. But, it is here where I first began. It is here where I will always belong - no matter what zip code I reside.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Wreckage
The coffee in my mug has gone cold as I sit looking out over the corn that has begun to tassel - soon it will be down and I will no longer see before me the prospects of a glorious maze waiting to be discovered.
As I so often do, I've let the weeks past conjure up a sort of longing in me - I've let this longing become so conjured, in fact, that I've not taken the efficient amount of time to let my heart be moved for Him. So I set out today, to get back on track - to get caught up with what I should have been caught up by everyday of forever.
You see, I have these days - I get in these moods where I sit down before an open journal, my Bible and the scenery that has etched itself into my memory and I think today I just want to be wrecked by something. I whisper, in desperate and fevered prayers, just let me be wrecked today; wreck me, Lord - with Your word, with some one's words, just let me be slayed.
So the coffee in my mug has gone cold, but I'll drink it anyway, as I think about what I've been spending all my time doing these last few weeks in between worrying about getting a job, worrying about how I might pay my bills, worrying, worrying, worrying. I certainly was not hitting my knees and giving Him the trouble that was making me sick - I was, in fact, spending all extra time away from summer camp and children crying and panicking and growing fearsome seeds of distaste and neglect in my heart. Looking back on these moments - these tears and nights of little sleep and maximum anxiety, I realize that then, more than ever, I should have been praying to be wrecked. No, it was in those moments, that I should have been feeling the most wrecked of all.
I was receiving one extra paycheck into August than what I originally had thought . . . grace that should've wrecked me
I had family members that offered to help me pay what needed to be paid - kindness that should have slayed me
I had a House Church community in continual prayer for what was to come . . . utter faith in my story, that I lacked, that should have knocked me off my feet
But there was no being wrecked - I could not be swayed from my steadfast post of worry and panic. I kept thinking, "I'll just take a step back from all of this and hope I can come back to it better . . ."
There is no stepping back, only running away, when it comes to the Author of the universe.
There are no moments of not being wrecked, when you get to wake up every morning to a new day and the freedom to be.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that happens in each second, each moment, of your life that is not grace when He knows exactly what will happen and how it can be used in your testimony to bring Him glory.
There is no reason I should feverishly be in prayer for words or moments or conversations to wreck me when, the truth of the matter is, I am able to write and experience words and moments and conversations - and that alone - should bring me to my knees.
I was offered a job - but He knew that would happen all along, in the eleventh hour, at the height of my angst, in the depths of my lows. And that slays me.
Because - what's a job compared to bodies being burned, ravaged, and used all over the world?
Because - what's a job when children in the very school I worked a year for go hungry on the weekends?
Because - what's a job that pays bills when I'm neglecting the job of winning hearts for the Man who lost His own to save mine?
The coffee in my mug has gone cold, but I will finish it. I will finish it and sit here completely swollen with gratitude and trembling awe. I will finish it and sit here completely wrecked.
Because - I am looked after by the same One who named the stars and walked on water.
Because - He hears my prayers before I even say them aloud - He hears my prayers when I don't even recognize them as such.
Because - I am His. He calls me His own.
And, that alone, should wreck me.
As I so often do, I've let the weeks past conjure up a sort of longing in me - I've let this longing become so conjured, in fact, that I've not taken the efficient amount of time to let my heart be moved for Him. So I set out today, to get back on track - to get caught up with what I should have been caught up by everyday of forever.
You see, I have these days - I get in these moods where I sit down before an open journal, my Bible and the scenery that has etched itself into my memory and I think today I just want to be wrecked by something. I whisper, in desperate and fevered prayers, just let me be wrecked today; wreck me, Lord - with Your word, with some one's words, just let me be slayed.
So the coffee in my mug has gone cold, but I'll drink it anyway, as I think about what I've been spending all my time doing these last few weeks in between worrying about getting a job, worrying about how I might pay my bills, worrying, worrying, worrying. I certainly was not hitting my knees and giving Him the trouble that was making me sick - I was, in fact, spending all extra time away from summer camp and children crying and panicking and growing fearsome seeds of distaste and neglect in my heart. Looking back on these moments - these tears and nights of little sleep and maximum anxiety, I realize that then, more than ever, I should have been praying to be wrecked. No, it was in those moments, that I should have been feeling the most wrecked of all.
I was receiving one extra paycheck into August than what I originally had thought . . . grace that should've wrecked me
I had family members that offered to help me pay what needed to be paid - kindness that should have slayed me
I had a House Church community in continual prayer for what was to come . . . utter faith in my story, that I lacked, that should have knocked me off my feet
But there was no being wrecked - I could not be swayed from my steadfast post of worry and panic. I kept thinking, "I'll just take a step back from all of this and hope I can come back to it better . . ."
There is no stepping back, only running away, when it comes to the Author of the universe.
There are no moments of not being wrecked, when you get to wake up every morning to a new day and the freedom to be.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that happens in each second, each moment, of your life that is not grace when He knows exactly what will happen and how it can be used in your testimony to bring Him glory.
There is no reason I should feverishly be in prayer for words or moments or conversations to wreck me when, the truth of the matter is, I am able to write and experience words and moments and conversations - and that alone - should bring me to my knees.
I was offered a job - but He knew that would happen all along, in the eleventh hour, at the height of my angst, in the depths of my lows. And that slays me.
Because - what's a job compared to bodies being burned, ravaged, and used all over the world?
Because - what's a job when children in the very school I worked a year for go hungry on the weekends?
Because - what's a job that pays bills when I'm neglecting the job of winning hearts for the Man who lost His own to save mine?
The coffee in my mug has gone cold, but I will finish it. I will finish it and sit here completely swollen with gratitude and trembling awe. I will finish it and sit here completely wrecked.
Because - I am looked after by the same One who named the stars and walked on water.
Because - He hears my prayers before I even say them aloud - He hears my prayers when I don't even recognize them as such.
Because - I am His. He calls me His own.
And, that alone, should wreck me.
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