bad at Grace

We sat sipping the foam off the top of our lattes. Sunk in to the outdoor couch with the sounds of the highway behind us. Our conversation ebbed and flowed - recalling events, swapping stories, and catching up on the last year. Yet as we spoke, verbally traversing over the months passed, there was a thread that wound itself through.

Grace.

The more we spoke of it, the more we realized we still didn't grasp it. This idea, concept, word - Grace - was not something understood. You can't read about it, making lists of its attributes to fully grasp it. You cannot be "good" at Grace, learning it's patterns and tendencies. It is not something to be studied and observed.

Grace cannot be taught, it can only be learned. And the learning is the hardest part. Why? Because in order to learn Grace you have to be a bad student. In order to feel the healing touch and experience the removal of shame that is Grace - you have to fail. When there is dirt in your teeth and your knees are bruised; when your heart aches like a body fatigued and eyes burn red. Grace arrives. As circumstances crash down like buildings razed by bombs, and thoughts swirl with dust of debris - Grace enters.

So let out that sigh of relief, because this is a subject it is good to be bad in. Fear of failure only inhibits growth. Out of struggle comes growth. In struggle there is Grace. So go ahead and fall. Embrace the ground for it is your classroom. As you gaze upward you will see and know the touch of Grace.

the color of courage

I've decided to not wait this time.

To not wait until all my thoughts have fully formed - in to distinct shape and form. I'm leaving them a little fuzzy around the edges. Since January I've wanted to write, ached to write. Writing is cleansing like rain, scary as hell truth on paper, and brings relief like cold water on dry lips.

I've taken moments - to pause and sit - letting the curves and lines of letter bring light to truth lived. Mostly in secret, on late nights, dim lights glowing and ceiling fan click, click, clicking as it spins. In those moments I scrawl on scrap pages - thoughts, dreams, fears. While those sacred moments were just that - holy and messy - my stumbling in to the throne room to lay at His feet, there is still so much within me from this journey.

I've carried this bag around with me, collecting half-thoughts and shared quotes, it's overflowing with commas and run-on sentences. As I drag it behind me, now so full, I know it is time to open it. To open and share - to lay bare so that every inch of limb, of life, is seen. The idea of being seen, of sharing in word and phrase and sentence is intoxicating. I breathe deep the warm air laced with the light scent of flora.

Jerking me suddenly is the hand that grabs the bag I've been carrying. A voice with the violent hand screams lies in to the peace-atmosphere. Turning light air in to frozen rain - shattering upon impact.
You're too much Kyleigh.
If you write like that, they'll worry about you. 
It's too much emotion.
You can't go back and rewrite all that's happened.
It's been too long, you've forgotten too much. 
Your motives are selfish.
That hand wraps it's fingers possessively around the bag I carry and beckons me to keep holding it.

I can't keep carrying it. To think of all the letters and phrases contained inside - bold, deeply sad, surprisingly joyful. There is this flash of color that comes every time I peek inside the cloth. It is a deep hue of courage, color that dances in my mind long after I look inside.

Now it is time, the courage color has been filling the corners of the bag and my mind. So here I am now. It's time to clear the table, open the bag, and dump it out all over. It's time to let the courage saturate the room with it's color, to pick up forgotten phrases, trace the lines of half-thought and Truth.

I must warn you I am scared. Part of me wants to close the door and just sit and look at the color and shape and form of letter and phrase. These last few months have been anything but ordinary and predictable - in the best and worst sort of way. The idea of letting you in to see the mess on the table - the hues and paragraphs and thoughts - both terrifies and excites me.

Yet, I know I'm not alone. There will be days I write and no one will get it, and that's okay. But there will also be days that one of you will have a tear fall or a smile dance across your face because you will realize you are not alone.

That is why I'm going to write. This is not my story, this is our story.

We are lost and confused and bruised - but more so we are breathtakingly exquisite, beautiful, and rare. So this is for us - to sort through the mess, not to make it tidy and neat. So that as we look at the table with it's hues and letters, our eyes may meet as we look up and we may know - we are not alone.