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.

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

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."

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.

let's be real: cuss words & Jesus with a megaphone

These last few weeks I've said more cuss words than I care to count, ate more bowls of ice cream than I care to admit, and watched an innumerable amount of Office episodes. That feels like a fair summary; however, there's a lot more stewing beneath my dairy stained pj's (and I don't just mean a hungry tummy).

You see, God does this funny thing when we ask Him for something.....He answers.

It was brought to my attention over coffee one evening that so often we ask God for something or to teach us something without really anticipating or wanting to be taught. Like patience for example, we assume that having to stand in one line for twenty minutes was our lesson. BAM! Patience on lock.
Thank you Jesus for teaching me patience. "Woohoo!" for you, you stood in a line with twenty-eight other people and you didn't even think a bad word or tap your foot with impatience.

Oh boy, I don't think that's it.

This year I've been learning. ALOT. (Grammar not included because I can't remember if there's suppose to be a space between "a" and "lot" in this situation.) Conversations with Jesus have included lots of talk about adventure. Ironically, one of my favorite quotes about adventure is from the documentary 180 South and says, "...adventure is when everything goes wrong. That's when the adventure starts."

I'm rethinking my favorite quotes list.....

It's funny, as I've been walking along and the trail has gotten harder, the brush thicker, and a few branches have snapped back in my face - it's harder to hear. Man am I glad that Jesus has a megaphone because even as I've whirled in the white noise of lies, He comes in loud and clear.

"YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN ALONE!" - Jesus

That one came today. It came blasting through the overhead speaker at the pity party I was throwing for myself that DJ Devil so kindly offered to provide free entertainment for.

"I am enough. I am rest." again He speaks and I am reminded that is journey is not for comfort. It's not so I'll be able to stand in a long line with a genuine smile on my face. This adventure of learning in the "going wrong" is that I may know more fully the depth of love of my Father. His desire is not for disaster to overcome, but that I may be reminded that He overcame. In Him I am embraced by grace - the arms of a Savior that has walked in my place.

I'm still tripping my way down this trail. Some days I just really wish I drove a car that never had problems and that I didn't have to worry about a check passing the bank. In those moments still, He is present. As I kick and scream and cry, He brushes me off and picks me up and takes my hand as we continue on. On this road called "Adventure" where everything may go wrong, Jesus carries a megaphone and reminds me I am never alone.

stitches of an adventure heart

You take my adventure heart
for miles & miles of wild rides
through open skies & hidden towns
You delight in seeing my heart come alive

My inmost tangles are known to You
each woven thread & knot undone
Divine Hands of Yours tug gently
winding Our thread together more tightly

No thought unseen or desire uncharted
each stitched with care on my fabric heart
calendar numbers passing fast & slow
not a single hour left unbuttoned

seams never left untouched
Your presence woven in with each
never a point, a place without
Your Holy Stitch of grace complete

Dark can never cloak Your presence
nor light outshine Your Love Divine
each waking, waning, wishful moment
hemmed in by Your heart so kind

Your fingers trace the roads like knotted stitches
grace unravels as every mile is sewn
adventure hearts knitted together,
it is here that I am known.


*inspired by Psalm 139

hues & shades

Hours pass that turn to days and years and decades.
They call them seasons.
Placing labels upon each as it comes:
"childhood", "young married", "adolescence", "single", "married", "retired"

Each sounding like the classrooms in a large church.
For each stage there is a class.
Somewhere to belong with those walking in that same Season.
Fellowship which is an oft brushed by gift.

Enter.....Texas.
Texas does not follow pattern in season.
One week - three seasons, wardrobes, menus.
Seeing breath in cold on Monday - losing breath in heat on Thursday.

Watch out.....hyperbolic metaphor.
Life is more like Texas than the days I spent in the predictable North.
At least you knew just like it's shape, mittens were a staple from November to April.
Suffocation from stifling heat may occur if no weather check is made in the Lone Star State.

So here I go.
Canvas stretched, now leaning on easel.
Paintbrush lifted.
Hues & Shades enter.

Boldly I have come to say:
Life is not Seasons.
While largely it may appear so
I'm choosing macro over panoramic as my lens.

Experience teaches
though I, young in days and years
I have begun to see
the reality of this metaphor come to be.

Hues of learning & Shades of life
conversations ebb and flow with peers
lessons in Love Divine and experience earthly
one which I humbly bask in the reality of, the latter a hue not on life's canvas presently

Shades of loss
a life lived deep and wide
those once held close are gone
the breadth and width I desire, the reality of memories being all that is left, I don't yet know

As I walk and see
these Hues & Shades on each canvas
the painting speaks of A Life
one lived with One that is also Artist

an Artist that boasts of chaos
Divinely organized messes
fractals that will only be beheld in their full Glory
on the other side of Eternity

as He paints
lifting each brush
delight in eyes that have seen all Hues & Shades
bringing each to canvas in perfect time

the One not bound by hands on clock
reminds us of the hope of Eternity
of the Truth there isn't a rush
and He never has to run to catch up.

Ever-present fellow Journey-man
traveling beside with canvas, easel, & brushes packed
brushing in the hue of the moment
of the lesson in Love to be revealed

We live in the Hues & Shades of life
painted by the Master of True Life itself
brushed on canvas thick with Love Real
and delight in bringing revelation of the already present realities of Eternity

in the rain

“Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.”

 • Matthew 7:24-27

I want to be so grounded on Truth alone that when the rain comes I get to take the hand of my Beloved and dance in joy. Secure in His loving grip, without fear of the winds blowing through. Abiding in His strength and security that never fails, not depending upon my own sand-strength that washes away at the first gust of wind. I want to dance. Dance with Him in the rain, in the beautiful, kaleidoscopic, stormy vibrant mess of Abundant Adventure-Life.

where I was: the pause

I'm fumbling. Dominoes. Two trails. I'm stuck here and I don't know what to do.
The black game pieces are stacked and when one falls, it begins.

But it hasn't begun. Here is the pause.
I'm searching for an occupation, so I thrust my hands in front of me, grabbing on to anything I can. Anything I can hold and arrange, organize and fix.

I recognize it this time. Recognition seems to be where I've been lately. It's a hard step to climb.
No longer deaf to Truth, but still pulled by the lie.

Caught in the middle. Two trails. Dominoes.
One trail offers peace, the other false promises of control. One set of dominoes is fully lit, and glints with tempting dots of knowledge. The other set is cloaked in embracing darkness.
Darkness that promises light, and a light there is - only to see the next piece. The trail hidden from sight.

"Not by sight, My dear."
My view jerked away from the fully-lit trail. The pridefully lit winding path masking it's reality. The reality it is a spiral. Never taking you anywhere, only bringing you back to where you were.
A promise of consistency. A prison of complacency.

"I know the Way."
His voice calls me nearer to the hidden path.
"Trust Me, and I will lead you."
Each step closer leaves footprints of fear shrinking. Drawing nearer the pad of my foot leaves treads of peace.

"I have called you here for a Reason."
I now look in to His eyes, the light in them illuminating the very place we now stand together.
"I will light the Way. You need only to look to Me."

Here now I stand. My eyes locked on His. He knows the Way.
I need not fear.

for freedom

I'm here to say - I don't know.
The road before me is veiled to my eyes, but not His.
No longer will I hand you the acceptable answer.
His ways are higher, they are greater, they are beyond understanding.
I refuse to affix blocks in a pattern that conform to comfort.
I'm here to admit I've tried.
My attempts are akin to describing a panoramic view,
the words to justify a scene are like a child's attempt to draw a sunset.
Really any personal effort to capture His essence is like a crayon-drawn sinking sun.

Beyond the chapter He's authored as of late,
the stories He scripted up to these moments -
seem sweetly unattainable, yet they abide in the ink of every line.
His goodness and care laces the black liquid.
He wrote to tell me before this began that He would take care.
Before He called out for me to jump,
arms of ever-comfort were wrapped around.
In action was shown the depth of His love, as on the day the curtain tore.

The eternal love writing He continues to read to me.
Each vowel, consonant, letter an invitation to once again step to the ledge.
And the accompanying embrace always the love-action that shouts -
"For freedom, I came. So I may offer it to you. Now, let's jump."

step Two

We speak of being called to step out on the water.
That first step....
          it's frightening, exhilarating, freeing, scary, crazy, and joyful.

We often stop the story there,
at Step One.

It's funny, now I find myself at Step TWO.
People don't talk as much about this step.

We speak so often of the beginning - the call. And consequently, the end - the conclusion.
What about the in-between?
The in-between. That's where we live.
The in-between is step Two, step three, step four, step five....

I'm reminded of Abraham. [Genesis 22]  Abba calling him to sacrifice Isaac.

Abraham's step Two was rising the morning after the Call.
Step Three was waking Isaac.
Step Four chopping the wood - every fall of the ax, every grunt, every wipe of sleeve against brow -
leaning in to Abba.

Every step is a choice of dependence.

It's here I find myself.
Step one - the Call.
Step Two - the Unknown.

Dependence is being shaped. A heart for adventure being fostered.
This Guide of mine, Abba, He sure knows how to make His children enter in to Life.
I'm learning that's the invitation every day.

"I invite you in to a life ABUNDANT." [John 10:10]

the day I decided not to go back

The question begged:
What would you do if you had no fear of the future?

The answer startled.
Abrupt and simple:
To not return.

It's simplicity, refreshing. It's boldness, ravishing.
There it stood, the answer.
Left aside for time,
so thoughts could simmer and swirl.

Rising again in a modest moment.
This answer ushered freedom.
Speaking softly of Hope and unabashed Trust.

Now shared with Joy complete,
no telling of what days forward will bud in to.
The Guide grasps my hand by His side.
His Presence enough as we sojourn in to coming time.

to the Artist

Thank You for the dreamers,
the everyday future writers.

Thank You for the workers,
the craftsman of unordinary days.

Thank You for the ponderers,
the thinkers that don't settle.

Thank You that You are their Center,
the ebb and flow of your love the motivation.

Thank You for the creators,
the shapers of mosaic life.

Thank You for the singers,
the voices of our condition.

Thank You for the welders,
the molders of intention.

Thank You that You are their Reason,
the cascading crash of Your grace in to our brokenness the story.

a grand expedition

There are moments like this where I look at my life and I simply cannot comprehend the vast difference a mere 365 days makes.

A year ago I was anticipating classes, and frankly had no idea what to expect of the new season I found myself in.

The lack of knowledge of what tomorrow holds is still present, but in a new sense. Beyond the counter which I will spend several consecutive hours of my day behind - I truly know not what to anticipate.

There are moments where my mind whirls with all the possibilities - other pauses where I sit and chuckle, wondering what AM I to do?

There is this delightful aura to the life I'm leading at the moment. One of tales not yet unfolded and dreams like a kite flying unfettered in my mind's wind.

This path is scattered with grinds, lined with the friendliest of faces, and I'm being led by my ever-present Guide. To stand and wander down this path - new to me, yet known to Him, is to enter in to the grand expedition. Of which I know not what each day holds, but only
Who holds it.

Whether it contain warm embers of kindred hearts, or if it will bring with it a bridge to traverse over hurt in to healing. Each step is taken in the print of the One that walks before me. With Whom I shall know no fear.

it is here

Images flit back and forth
Words are tossed unabashedly
Pictures give way to living art forms
Speech turns to proclamations of hope

It is here that we dream.

Prayers are poured forth
Wisdom sought for in circles
Conversations with the Most High are had
Encouragement is borne out of crossing lines

It is here that we seek.

Ideas are molded carefully
Hearts light with anticipation
Clasped hands are opened to all He has
Spirits united directed towards One

It is here that we surrender.