NEW blog coming!

I've been writing for as long as I can remember - from mystery stories to love stories, angsty poetry and songs with lots of "ooooohhhs". Writing has been the means by which I make sense of life, myself, others, or simply is a way to get out all that doesn't make sense about the world around me.

Just over seven years ago I started my first blog. I have not looked at it in a while and really would be quite embarrassed to I'm sure. From that point though my approach to writing changed. No longer was my audience isolated to my teacher and family - there was now a potential reach far beyond my inner circle. The first blog that I read consistently was by Katie Davis who lives in Uganda. I remember reading about her life and falling in love with this far off land that sounded so foreign and fantastic. As I fell for Africa, I also found myself enamored with this method of sharing. This writing on the internet for any eye to come across. I let the thoughts stir in my head as to what it meant for not just Katie in Africa to write, but for Kyleigh in Texas to write. I didn't have my teachers there to hand me writing prompts and essay topics; this was one part exhilarating and one part terrifying. I was dizzied by all the possibility and the freedom of writing whatever came to my mind. Which in the early days probably looked akin to an overly explanatory Facebook post from your grandmother about their holiday weekend.

I spent the first few years dabbling here in there, posting pictures with lengthy explanations about the sugar cookies my friends and I decorated. It was all very intriguing. In this season of my life there was a great amount of change occurring on the landscape of my soul. No longer was I giving the Sunday school answer to my own life, I found myself enraptured by my Savior and wanting nothing less that all of Him. I was overflowing. This spilling over poured on to the pages of my journal and to my blog. I found new meaning in writing. It was not just a means to express and create fictional lands (which are both still so important), now it was a way to declare and encourage. A space to present the Truth I was learning and grasping for the first time.

This fueled my writing for quite a while. As I continued to walk in this fresh faith, my heart leaping and coming alive and spilling over in words on a page. Then when life came strong like a cold gust of wind, I braced myself with the binding of my journal and the words I wrote there. Change came quick and the rain poured down, yet there was solace in ink on sheets and words on a screen. To this day writing remains the place where I feel sheltered from the storms around me. It is a place I can go to rest, and let out all that feels stuck inside. It is also the place I have learned the beautiful gift of sharing with others. A home to settle in to and invite others to join me. A hearth to cozy up to and listen to the stories of others, sharing encouragement and honesty, breathing deep in the communion of "me too" life moments.

That today is why I continue to write, for the "me too". Over the years I have read many words - memoirs, poetry, blog posts, lyrics, and there is this incredible rest that washes over you when you read someone else's story and see yours in it too. This embrace that warms you with the knowledge that you are not alone. I knew there was a new chapter coming in how I blogged, how I wrote, how I shared - and that is why I am starting a new blog kyleidoscopeoflife.com will launch tomorrow, December 28th at 12pm. I cannot begin to express how excited I am to share this new space with you. My desire is for it to be that home and hearth - warm with the familiarity of past and fresh with the hopeful anticipation of life to be lived. I would be completely honored if you would join me tomorrow and in the days to come. I look forward to writing more, to reading more, and to sharing more with you.

In His grace,
Kyleigh

speak your truth

Speak your truth.

I am ready for this. To speak boldly. Not brashly, pushy with blunt phrases. I am ready to speak with gentle boldness. To speak in to the dark the state of my soul. With weight to the words I speak, that whispers light in to the dark places. More so, I am ready for His truth to penetrate. To burn through the black out curtains that have hung themselves around my heart. They have hung heavy, weighing me down. They pull at the seams of my fragile heart, allowing no light to come in. I have been curled up in the darkness for too long. There has been a season of mourning. A season of learning more of this faith without sight. That He is still here even when it seems so dark. Now I have found the edge of this curtain and with every ounce of strength left in my weary being I want to pull it down. Let the light shine in. Let the Truth soak me in it's warm glow. My soul has tried to live in the dark. Tried to grow accustom to this nocturnal state. Sweet soul, you were not made for this. Not made for sorrow or heartbreak. When it was fashioned, formed, crafted - it was with joy and delight. My soul was made with joy and delight. I was made with joy and delight. Truth sink deep. Light flood every crevice. Joy and delight. That is me. That is you. Speak your truth and let His Truth invade with its warm glow.

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.

adventure

There is this great appeal to adventure and travel. The thrill of new places, different cities everyday. The rush of adrenaline as you roll the window down and breathe deep the fresh air blowing in across the bay. Your eyes scan and jump to take it all in - the height of unknown buildings, the flashes of faces, the random reflection of your own face in a shop window. So strange to see you in this place. A reflection of your well-known features taking residence upon window after window. Your glance to see self in this new place as fleeting as your time spent there.

It is swift - travel. The one constant is the unknown road ahead. Yet, that is the draw. The lure that glistens just ahead, that pulls you deeper in. You may plan the steps you take, but inevitably there is a change. You move towards it though, with fervor, accepting challenge. A new opportunity with each day to stretch your view of the world, this life you live, and your role in it.

Road blocks blink bright with exciting possibility. Even the most stressful situation is entered in to with resolve - because it's in the name of "Adventure" that you push on. For when you arrive home again, you will carry with you stories. Titles written in the tear of a shirt, the lost pillow, the journals filled.

This is adventure - that you may accept what comes on the road ahead as part of the story.

Here is where I stand with a question, a quiet revelation of sorts. You see apart from a week long road trip across the Pacific Northwest and a few days housesitting - for the last 365 days I have lived in the same house. Walls plastered with maps, outward pictures of my wandering mind. Tall windows that let in the most baptizing white light after a long rain. Messy corners that are evidence of long weeks and lack of desire to clean. As I sit here in this space, this room I've lived in for the last year I'm challenged and questioning.

I did not expect all that came along the road of this last year. While setting remained the same, aside from a few room re-arrangements, detours and unexpected road signs mark the journey. New faces have come in and out, jobs have changed more than I care to count, my role in many ventures has taken different form.

Then the sudden jerk of the steering wheel and my heart flutters and someone new comes in - a boy I didn't anticipate. It's so much easier to travel alone you know. You can hide in the four walls of the same room you've lived in for the last year and not be seen. But now, he's here and his arms are open wide, yet I'm feeling broken. Days before he asks me to walk with him a while - my family changes. My heart lurches at the crash of circumstance. Suddenly the reality of years gone by comes back and collides with ideals held. I feel like I crumple under the pressure, the change of course. A snow storm blows in and the road is icy and unsure, my sight inhibited by gracefully falling flakes of perfect white.

All I do is scream - "I didn't ask for all of this." I was content with how things were, moving steadily along. Yet here as I look back I am reminded of adventure - my cry for which was loud and long the months leading up to my move back to this place. Adventure is full of detours, unexpected turns, road blocks...but I didn't ask for this. That's all I could think.

Does anyone? Do you leave your home and all you know, cross your fingers and pray for a ten hour layover? Do you drive miles and miles to hike only to find out the park is closed for several days? No, of course not. You don't seek out change, it just happens. Change is Adventure's closest friend - the one that shows up at the party late, but with a great story and extra ice.

I didn't ask for this. I don't think she did either. She didn't ask for the change to bring loss. He didn't ask for change to bring stress and anxiety. But here we are - with the results of change ahead of us, cones guiding the way of the detour.

This is Adventure. Life lived full, entered in to deeply. While I ache to think of some of the roads turned down, I rejoice for where they have led. While I have not traveled miles away, to see my face reflect off the surface of some distant lake - I can look in the mirror in the small bathroom at home and see a girl that has journeyed and is changed.

And this journey is far from complete. Sitting now I can see evidence of road maps that will lead to new chapters never before entered in to, with that boy that I was once scared to share my heart with. While wedding invitation designs lay scattered on my bed, the same light floods in the tall windows. Rushing over with it's rays of baptism, renewing my weary soul. I still have just as many questions as before, my mind will run away with lies on occasion when change enters in, but I am learning to accept the choice of Adventure. To accept what comes on the road ahead as part of the story. Leaning in to each turn and holding tightly to the hand of the Guide.

Act 1 : Sit & Be Still. Listen.

I didn't expect the last three months. I didn't expect the change of storyline, the new character, the themes developed. The curtain opened on a new year, and no one had handed me the script. So I stood center stage - blank, with no idea what words I was to speak. I searched the wings looking for a cue card, something to begin with.

I received a direction - Sit & Be Still. Listen.

So I sat. Right there in the middle of my life, my play. On the stage that had seen so much action, my own bustling about. This new scene went against those before. The transition was swift, almost non-existent. Once a stage full of characters and ever-changing scenes and props. Then, everything removed, a blanket laid out, I walk to the center, and I'm prompted to sit.

In that new space, my heart breathed deep. The sigh of No Expectation, because frankly there wasn't any energy.

Quickly though, the tug of the old drama came. After sitting still and listening long my character was drawn to the rhythm of the scenes gone by. I stood. Feet attempting to run back and forth to reconstruct the set, stage the characters, and muster up a script. My body grew tired faster and then a glance to the wing - there was the cue card again.

Sit & Be Still. Listen.

There was a struggle. To listen to the direction given or push through to manufacture the drama that had already taken place once before.

I walked to the blanket, and sat.

...and sat some more. Craning my neck to the sides of the stage, looking out in to the crowd, I sought an answer - certainly there Should be more than this. What kind of play is this if I'm just sitting. I should be running around - doing, doing, doing. Then I saw it, far out, way in the back. Squinting, my eyes read a sign - Sit & Be Still. Listen.

Okay, there has to be a mistake. Maybe this is the part where I improv my way through the next few scenes. Certainly, this cannot be what I am suppose to do. Sit? Be Still? Listen?

Those words before were part of the action - Sit while you meet with them. Be still so you don't disrupt. Listen so you know what to do next. But now, what do those words mean? They were always tied to an action, the next step, a transition to the next scene. And there weren't any characters in my place on the stage. My eyes looked, but no one felt this exactly. The moments before the quick transition were full of drama, tears, confusion. Now this deep breath of No Expectation.

Yet there was the pull to seek out a Should. Really, I Should be doing something other than Sitting & Being Still & Listening. I mean, scenes can have moments of those in-actions. But entire scenes and acts? Won't that scream boring and a waste to an audience?

I lay here now. On this blanket, center stage. The curtain is drawing for a change of scene, yet the direction is still being given. Sit & Be Still. Listen. So here I'll stay, waiting for a prompt. A script with the words to say next. I let out another deep breath of No Expectation. How sweet it is to breathe that air.

the dreaming & the doing

Here’s the thing – you can dream all day long, but until you do something - that dreaming just sits on journal pages or in your pretty little head or on that pinterest board you spent hours on. Don’t get me wrong, I am a huge advocate for dreaming. Dreaming is the very thing I believe helps us discover who we are. It’s the place where we can take risks, because we can dream of dying our hair pink without actually doing it. It’s like dress up for your life, and you never grow up and enter middle school and end up not fitting in to your favorite pink, frilly, princess dress. Dreaming is a place where fear is not allowed and being crazy is an asset. So with that, I say DREAM-dream big and wide and crazy, and WRITE IT DOWN. Nothing makes you feel like a real live crazy person than writing down your dreams. Because yes, when you write down “own a unicorn” you will realize how crazy you are. But the first step is admitting it, right?

So there ya go, dreaming. Now that I’ve up-ed my word count trying to convince you of how important and lovely I think dreaming is – let me say this – dreaming needs doing. While yes, writing down your dreams is doing something; I believe it’s only the first step. And yes I do also realize that I can’t do much more than just write down that I want to own a unicorn. (Other than buying myself a horse and strapping a horn on its head – ha solved that one!)

Really though, this is where we (yes - you, me and every other lovely human person) get stuck. We can dream all day, we can make lists; we can talk in pretty descriptions, and spend endless hours on pinterest. Trust me, I know; I’m really good at pinterest. But there has to be a step forward.

For some, that first step is sharing. It’s being bold and sitting with a friend and saying “this is my dream”. And oh my dear, that is huge – because these dreams we hold in us are fragile and sharing them is scary business. Once we’ve shared (and trust me I realize this isn’t the easiest step) we have to allow ourselves to believe it is possible. Now I’m not saying this is going to work for a seventy year old who dreams of having five kids by the age of seventy-seven. I mean there was Sarah..but you know what I mean. There is this thing called “reality” and it’s a real bugger because darn it, I’ve tried jumping off the couch with my bed sheet cape so many times and I still can’t fly.

I’m getting off track here – the point is whether your dream is to fly, have kids, open a business, travel to Ireland, grow a beard – you have to believe that you can and move forward from that place. Grab your bed sheet, tie it up, and perch on the edge of that couch cushion. And then….JUMP!

And yes, you will hit the ground. But remember the rush? That singular moment as you were parallel (not crashing in to) the ground and you felt so light and free. That’s the doing. That’s the rush that comes with jumping in to the unknown of your dreams. And yes, there will be times that you fall. Really though, we all need failure otherwise we would all be superheroes that didn’t need saving. (And hon, we don’t need anymore spandex suits in the world – leave that to Cirque de Soleil) Embrace the failure, just like your face just embraced the carpet you fell in to. Failure doesn’t mean everything is wrong. I’m tired of failure being a negative word. Someone needs to paint a pretty canvas with the word “failure” in calligraphy – because dang it failure teaches you and shapes you.

So let’s give failure a bear hug, let’s dream of unicorns and business and babies and travel, and then – let’s jump. Without fear of the fall, the carpet burn, the fact that we may need help up after. (At least you didn’t have to wear spandex.)

your new name: Not Alone

This world is aching. It has turned black and blue with the abuse of the Genesis decision.
Death comes and lingers, taking it's time. Or it strikes suddenly, unexpected.
Wounds long since forgotten are reopened with a single statement.
Grief washes over. Its tides ebb and flow with tears that fall.
Change lurches forward as nails dig in trying to cling to all that has been, that is known.

Here you are. I see you.
Mascara runs on pale cheeks, eyes avoiding a poignant stare.
Body weak and wrapped in warm layers to comfort externally what is beneath.
Here I am. Do you see me?

Not alone.
My dear, that is the new name I want you to claim - Not Alone.
There are those that walk before you. They call back and sing of what is to come.
There are those that are not here yet. To them you get to reach out a hand in time.
There are those here in this moment. Look in to their eyes. They are not going anywhere.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

If that is all you can hear right now amidst the noise and clamor of your own mind, then please focus in and whisper it to yourself. As you drive in the dark and you feel absolutely overcome, defeated - look for the light. Whether it's the flash of headlights drawing near or the glow of a shop window, let that remind you of this.

Sit right there, open your hands. Hold grief in one and this Truth in the other. They can coexist. Don't fear the power of your sadness, but don't underestimate the healing that is possible. Enter in to each moment, whether it be with tears or laughter, and allow yourself to simply be.

and remember you are Not Alone.

to this I cling

There's this Truth I am learning and cling to like a newborn to it's mother. Words that have echoed through the years of my life, yet they still ring loud & crisp & new.

You see - thousands of years ago a man came to this earth. He was born in the dirt of a stable - afterbirth mixed with animal refuse, seasoned with sweet salt of a virgin mother's tears. In that moment the earth sighed with the relief of True Joy. A melody rang of rescue.

A baby, then a boy, adolescent, then a man. Simple, rugged, rough - but heart tender, strong, and free. And not just a man's heart, one bound in Divine Mystery.

This man was God.

Math got flipped on it's head when He came. No longer was 1 + 1 = 2 true. 1 + 1, one man & one God, were One. (that's not to mention their bosom friend Holy Ghost) And so this man, this God, this math rule-breaker, perfect risk-taker came. And He dwelt among us.

The story speeds up when He starts making friends with fishermen
it gets interesting when He heals a lame man,
it gets scandalous when He talks to an outcast woman at a well,
it gets outrageous when He claims He is the One to the religious big-wigs,
it gets foolish when a woman pours perfume on His dirty feet,
but there is more.

This God & man fusion, fully feeling & fully free - is stripped and stoned, mocked and murdered. And it doesn't end there. While His mother watched him hang on wood, bloody & marred - something was happening beyond.

This is where we enter the story. You and I - we were there. Spirit breathed Word gives testimony to us going down with Him in death, swallowed up - with every slaying word, malicious moment, and lustful thought that clings to us. Bruises, evidence of our spirit-less state.

In the depths of the dark, a wedding aisle was laid out. From the black He led us from death to Life in brilliant white.

So on that day, we were brides. And every second of our lives since then we've played the whore that ran around with Hosea's wife - fleeing perfect Love we fear will see all we really are.

But you see, He has. He came and saw all that this world is, and despite the hurt - He bore it all upon Himself. Diving headlong in to the mouth of Death, He snatched our limp drowning bodies from the darkness and breathed in to our lungs New Life. A Divine Life-giving, strong, resuscitating kiss. Sacred lips to sinner mouth. No longer drowning, breathless - we are Alive. Indulging once dry, empty lungs in Holy breath.

We are made New.
And this is only the Beginning.

dear Luke

Luke,

Was it hard to write about our Friend Jesus? Did your words fall short of all you wanted them to say? You recorded His acts & His Love - was it like trying to capture a gust of wind in a net? Like trying to count the stars in one night?

What was it like to sit with Him? Would you be sitting and laughing and speaking and suddenly be stunned in to silence - realizing you were sitting with Your Creator? That you were passing food to the hands that formed you, with delicacy & intense Love.

Did you ever sit and watch - wondering how? How it was possible for the grandness of the King to be contained in a man - a man with rough hands, calloused feet, simple features - yet He was not one of those things. Not one inch of Him was rough, callous, or simple.

Did people ever come to you and ask about "that carpenter friend" of yours? Did they laugh when you said you were leaving? Did they warn you against foolishness and straight up stupidity?

What made you go? Was it the depth in His eyes? Was it the thrill of the unknown? Or was it beyond you? An inner tug - gentle hands undoing the knots of questions that have kept you tangled up inside?

Luke, what was our Friend Jesus like?

your sister,

Kyleigh

in the corner

My new favorite spot is in the corner of my bedroom. I have a little yellow chair with long windows on either side so the clouded sunlight can peek in over my shoulder. I have a new pine scented candle that I take deep breaths of because it reminds me of tall trees and pine needle covered dirt. Here I sit, to read, to write, & to listen. I'm being reminded of the importance of presence and being present and stillness. Topics that circle on the blogs I read and in the conversations I have, yet something I keep as an nice idea. Letting it sit on the surface, rather than allowing it to sink deeper than my skin.

But today, I needed to sit. More than I knew. So as Sleeping at Last played, I sat in my new favorite corner - fingers flipping book pages & hand writing story. Then I stumbled across this blog post, and my heart took a big deep breath and exhale. A Whisper came and said, "It's okay to sit. It's here I speak to you. Just come and be and listen."

My prayer & petition for you & I is that we sit. That you find a corner - in the kitchen by the aprons hanging, outside just beyond that tree, in your bedroom in a yellow chair. Wherever it may be, I pray we learn to sit; to soak in the quiet moments, to pour out our desperate thoughts in writing, to eat up the Truth words of a sister's book. We need this. More than we realize.

I dare you to sit today. Let the sun hit your shoulders as your eyes fall on written word, or simply at the floor below you. Listen here for the Whisper in the stillness.

Much love my beautiful friends,
Ky

an open letter: here we have hope

photocred to http://byemmafaye.com/

"...rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep..." -romans 12:15

Dear friends,

Knowing you has taught me much - much of love, laughter, rest, struggle, authenticity, & trust. I came here unsure about who I would spend my days with, worried about doing life alone. Man did Jesus decide to show off His provision in providing me with you.

As I sat tonight and heard the lines Jesus has been writing in your life lately - I was overcome with this deep feeling of Hope. Hope because I know that You call Him Friend, that you know Him as your Abba Father, and look to Him as Lord of your life. And that all of those titles are true not just in name but in action of who He is. That Savior, that King is pursuing each of you & in this life teaching you what it is to be loved & to love. And as you each face what every day brings, you walk with Him. That is why I have immense Hope as I hear the story He is writing with you.

Over the past months I've had the privilege of reading those lines as I walk alongside you all. I've been absolutely blown away to witness the redemptive, abundant work of the Father in your lives. The refining has been bright & bold for some of you, in others it's been uncomfortable & shaking. No matter the feelings, emotions, circumstances surrounding each - I have seen ashes turned to beauty in each of your lives. I am so grateful to walk on this holy ground, brought to my knees at the redemptive power of our Father as He reveals His plan for your life & leads you in Life Everlasting.

Thank you. Thank you each for simply being - for returning to your Father & reminding me daily that it is only in His arms that we are fully satisfied. Thank you for laughing long & loud & many times without any "good" reason - you've deepened my understanding of Joy Unexplainable. Thank you for listening & speaking Truth to me and those you brush shoulders with everyday - you are a mouthpiece for the Kingdom. Thank you for being real - for sitting in silence, for allowing the tears to fall, for asking the hard questions - you remind of what it is to be human & that we couldn't do this alone.

I love you all. Deep & wide. Thank you for living life with me, for embracing each other's messy, & being the hands & feet of our Friend Jesus. I love reading what He is writing with you, thanks for keeping an open book & letting me read.

Love,
Ky

the good girl

It's the last day of October & I'm not really sure where the last month has gone. Between work, people, life, over-sleeping, stressful situations, late night conversations - it's been a blur. And at the close of this month that I really love, I'm reminded of Grace.

These days have been full of me in the not-so-loveliest of forms. Life got stressful, I got overwhelmed, those around me - well, I'm sorry. These days have made me realize how conditional my love is, how chaotic my feelings can be, and how I'm not very good at this whole life thing. Right in the center of all of it I'm Held by Grace.

I had the opportunity to share my story this week with four people. One dear friend & three girls I care for so very much, sat quietly in the wee hours of the morning. The sun rose outside the window as I spoke. And as I shared, I was reminded. Reminded of the person I have been, but more the Savior He is. I was reminded of the moments where I clung to control in every form, how I micro-managed, strived, worked SO hard. And how at the end of it all, I collapsed. Overcome with the weight of trying to be the good girl. I recalled as I traced over the paths I've walked the last few years the moments that felt like everything I knew was gone. My identity misplaced for so long in so many other things I thought would make me "good enough".

So as I remember this life I've lived and I look at the life I'm living, Hope rises. Because it is not I that Lives, but Christ in me. And as I go through every moment, His grace draws near. When the tears are flowing again, as those hurtful words come from my mouth, when I sit and wonder why & how - it is there that Grace draws near. With gentle eyes and nail-pierced hands He takes my face and turns it back to the Cross, "Remember what I did there. I took it all. Cease your striving. Live life with Me." And we walk on. Every step taken in the Hope of a Resurrected Life, covered in Grace & hand held tight.

fear

“I’ve been worryin’ that we all, live our lives, in the confines of fear” – Ben Howard, The Fear

I fear getting stuck.

I fear growing closer & the pain of leaving.

I fear not being present.

I fear wasting time.

I fear being foolish.

I fear not truly living.

This is where I am. I don’t really have pretty words to wrap this up, or a ribbon to tie it nicely. This is where I’ve been. The Truth words “perfect love casts out fear” [1 john 4:16] have run across my thoughts daily. I’ve been kicking and screaming, talking and crying, trying to make sense of the emotion and apathy. It feels frantic, chaotic, and really not cool. Don’t get me wrong these days have been laced with lovely – moments spent with sweet souls that remind me to slow and be with them in the present. In between though, there has been a bit of a struggle. Worry will creep up, anxiousness in the middle of my tiny office. And I wonder what I’m doing.

With each of these fears, I can trace back an origin. A place in time, where I was living an antithesis of these statements, and that’s just it – it was then I was living. But by living in fear, I forfeit a life extraordinary. I become stuck & fixated, withdrawn & distant, lazy & anxious; my fears birthing exactly what I feared the conception of. And well, this needs to stop.

Friends, I cannot promise you that I will be the perfect example of this. In fact, I know I will not be a prime example of living a life fearless. But damn, I don’t want to live anything less. I am claiming the Truth “in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.” [romans 8:37] Him who loved us with a perfect love that “casts out fear”. So that we could “live a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called” [ephesians 4:1] with “not a spirit of fear, but of power and love and self-control” [2 timothy 1:7] “For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, ‘Abba, Father!’” [romans 8:15]

So here’s to crying Abba, Father and sinking in to His embrace as we embrace a life lived fearlessly – the Life He desires, designed, & died for. That’s a life worth living.

*all scripture references from the ESV & I’m sorry if I offended anyone by saying damn.

scarlet thread

You gave me eyes Eternal to see
watching & chasing the faces
committing name to memory

You seek them out
and know them each by name
You invite me to witness what Your hands have made

opening a book to a page called "today"

You read me the words:
names, schools, activities & grades

You whisper me the feelings:
anxiety, excitement, apprehension, & joy

Your hands stretch across the pages
touching each stain & crease
the ink blot where there was struggle
and the prose that tell of their history

"each one has a story
a book in which I write.

some have taken the pen to write what they please
some grown so weary their words run together

yet I am writing too.

every page that is turned I see & know
as they join with me I begin to reveal,
uncover & expose the Story of them & Me.

so as you flip through the pages
of the books being written,
remember I am there.

I am the Scarlet Thread that binds the pages together.
taking what was lost & sewing it in to My Redemption Story."

tomorrow

Tomorrow I go back.
Back to that not so little college town.
For less than 72 hours I will step back in to the sights & sounds of life as I knew it for the past two years. As I look forward to this and also look back on these past few months, these past few years, I see His heart drawing me nearer.
Those first few days & weeks (and months if we're being honest) in my "new adventure" last year were some of the hardest & sweetest - terrifying & beautiful. I remember going on walks down newfound trails, ones I now fondly refer to as the Wood through the Wardrobe. I remember walking and talking to my Friend and the tears welling up and stopping and sitting because I simply had no words, nothing to express. Yet I knew, in those moments. I was understood. Beyond my own comprehension, I was seen & heard & loved. And so that's what I clung to.

As the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months. Joy overwhelmed as laughter erupted on some days. Others - exhaustion flooded in as tears poured over. And He sat with me. In both those moments, He was present, near, more near than I could ever fathom.

There were days where answers seemed so clear, as if He was handing me a window through which I could see dreams & desires He had placed within me. His whispers awakening parts of me that always were, but hadn't been revealed to my child eyes.

And then there were weeks. Weeks when I asked, why? And for the first time I was okay with myself for asking that question. Because for so long it seemed untouchable. As if I wouldn't be a good Christian girl anymore if I questioned. But I was weary, and when you're that tired and spent, you ask questions and sometimes say a bad word because that's being the most honest with yourself. And He already knew it all, every question that would float to the surface, that would poke through the mask I had worn for so long. Again I was known. In the midst of the oh-not-so-lovely, He came, lovely as He always is. He wrapped His arms around and loved me still.

So as I drive those familiar roads tomorrow, most likely with a similar soundtrack to those college town days, I will rest in the Truth. The Truth that while I question, rejoice, cry, laugh, swear, dance - He draws near, He sees, He knows, & He loves me still. Oh what joy, my Friend that walks with me in Narnia, knows me deep and loves me deeper still.

sorting out

I'm still sorting this out. That I am in one place, but pieces of my heart are elsewhere. In a vibrant college town, scattered in the hill country, big building cities, and over great bodies of water. And I'm here. Moving is one of the hardest things I have done and will do. Sometimes it makes me mad. Because I want so badly to be somewhere else. Not at all because where I am now is awful. My here and now is quite lovely and bright and exciting and changing.

Yet there are people. That's it, the people - friends, family, sisters, brothers, kindreds. They are what make me wish I could hop in a DeLorean and go back. Better than that, I wish I could just teleport. Because I want to see and hear and hug and laugh with them, now.

I miss the smell of cigar smoke on the front porch and the crash of water on skin jumping in to the river. Running down the dunes, kicking sand in to the air and scraping ice off of my windshield with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Even more I miss the sound of our three voices singing in to the night, the way she interrupted an entire coffee shop with her elated laughter, chasing them through corn fields at night, and sharing so many meals with them.

All of them. Whether plopped on blankets in the living room, the tall table in the kitchen, over queso at 3am, or making eggs & bacon at midnight. The breaking of bread (or chips) brought us together. On Sunday nights, Thursday adventures, or after closing HBCB and froyo runs. For that I am thankful.

We lived wide, loved deep, and laughed long. If my adventures weren't so wonderful, my memories not so strong, my heart not so tangled in others, it simply would have been wasted. It would have been a life less lived. Mediocre.

So, while I get annoyed when the tears sting my eyes as that song comes on or when I see the picture and wish it was me sitting and having coffee with them - I have to remember. Remember, that there I Lived. And that Jesus gives Life, because He wants it to be lived. And just as He called me then, teaching me of adventure and discovery and deep joy & relationship, He calls me now. Lessons will continue and new ones will come. Always though, will He be my Guide. The perfect Partner, Leader, and Friend - calling me deeper in to Life as He gives it - raw, hopeful, and full of adventure.

slowing

We sat and talked. He whispered "slowing".
He gave me that word for this hue of life.
As I come back & step in to new roles.
Slowing.

Trying. Doing. Working. Creating.
Those are words I'm so much more comfortable with.
I'm good at them.
And I think that's the problem.

The world doesn't need me to try more, do more, work more, create more.
I don't need to do those things.
But why?
Because it's me.

If I desire to abide. To rest in Him, the Vine.
How is my doing, trying, creating, working going to produce anything?
It's me. My effort, my sweat, my stress, my tears, my frustration.
I don't think the world needs or wants more of that.

We're broken. We know frustration and pain and hurt and stress.
In fact, we hate it. We shirk it off.
Yet we lay in it.
We attempt to put down roots there, on our own.

We toil & dig to grow.
By doing and working.
Our strength.
No fruit.

The world doesn't need that.
It doesn't need more people trying to be robots.
It doesn't need more production.
We need hope, healing, to be held.

I need hope, healing, to be held.
So this is where slowing comes.
It's invitation is beautiful, simple, warm.
Yet, it scares me.

I fear the opinion of man.
The question of
What are you accomplishing?
Why aren't you doing this good thing?

My answer.
With shaking voice & trembling hands.
I don't know.
But, He has called me here.

To this abode of Slowing
I have been invited in
to a place of Hope & Healing
Where I am eternally Held.

be fearlessly authentic

speak the words, cry the tears, allow the emotion
you are human, made of dust

don't fear judgement if you speak
don't fear weakness if you cry
don't fear foolishness if you react

you were not made to "operate"
you are not held together by bolts & screws
you are made of much more
made of flesh & blood & bone

but more - you were redeemed by Flesh & Blood
Sacrifice was made, so you wouldn't have to pay
so you don't owe anything, anyone

you live because of His breath in your lungs
those lungs that burn as tears stream and the words tumble forth
those lungs that gasp when the laughter comes loud & long & deep

now, be fearless my friend.
your debt was paid & there is not a single person you owe

so live loud, authentic, messy lives
because there - right in the middle of that
is where flesh & blood meets Flesh & Blood

and beauty is made from ash
ash collected from the altar
because of the Sacrifice

now LIVE. fearless. authentic.
unto Him. with Him. IN HIM.

becoming

"beauty in the becoming"

Those words came one night and I wrote them down.

Here I am, and I don't know what I'm doing. There are days that begin easy and end hard, and days that begin cast in cement (aka really hard) and stay that way. Call me Han Solo, because on those days I just feel like I'm stuck hanging on the wall of an alien gangster's club. Pretty icky.

I don't know what to write about all of it. I've been trying to formulate words to describe "lately" but nothing captures it all. To describe these past few months as "beauty in the becoming" doesn't really seem accurate. It's been pretty ugly. I've been made more aware of my flesh and I'm not really a fan. Coming to realize that I have life less figured out than I thought.

I desperately would like to see where the "beauty" comes in to the picture. Maybe my definition of beauty is being redefined. Taken from it's shallow, vain resting place to be put in the fire to be purified.

*Note: Fire burns, oh and it hurts like Sheol

This might be where things come together. Before I moved back, back to the place I once called home - Jesus whispered of the trail ahead. He breathed "healing". More and more as I dwell on healing and what that means, I'm reminded of a burn victim. The process of healing for a burn victim begins in tearing away at the dead flesh left mauled by the flames. Not once, but twice, and three times, and more.

The healing that is desired for the burns to heal, involves tearing away at everything visible. It begins with digging deep. And it hurts. But that is the only way to heal.

I'm not saying Jesus dragged me to this place to throw me in a fire and watch the flames lick my flesh. I've done a pretty good job at dancing with the fire myself. He comes in as the blisters form, skin touched by the fire of this fallen place. Whether I jumped too close or someone else yanked me over.

He lays me down. The great Physician takes my hand and says, "This is going to hurt, but feeling is only for the moment. The healing I desire for you requires this and you can trust me. My hopes for your life exceed any single anticipation you have. The work I do here will last, it is not simply a salve that sits on the skin. My hands will dig deep in to the wounds and I will bring beauty where there once was just ash."

Beauty in the becoming.
Healing.
Refinement.
by His hands.