Writing the way I was created but do I

A sea like an endless book

stretching out page upon page of lives, words
of writers, poets, people, 

bloggers....
And how do you find a voice, your own,
among all the tides which set adrift
and scatter the word you would say?
Words are not our own because all things
derive spiritually one way or another
and yet in this, I am my own.
And I am His and He made me this way,
but do I know which way "this way" is?
And I string "and"s because I'm always living in the "and".
It's how I am, living one sentence to the next and finding
them all connected and....
Aren't we all an "and" in life living and adding to the breadth of who we are?
Each created uniquely different and this is how
words though same are still different, because we are.
Different.
And instead of celebrating difference a Liar makes different as something better
for someone else
better words everywhere but right where I am
and it's the trap of being someone else and never who I was born to be.
Difference gives range, casting words far
from one person to the next and no two being exactly same
and I love each way He writes through each of them, whoever the "them"s may be.
Without range, only a speck of water would be had, instead of the sea.
And there's the spice, in difference and why not let mine be differed in this word-y sea.
And yet I wonder how they are? if they are?
Not just some shadowing wave.
Most days I feel fully there--living, writing for One and only being a someone uniquely created
to live only me and write "this way" He writes me.
And I want to stand in this structure He breathed life
erected all for me and {Him}, uniquely built, Cornerstone to roof,
and write the way He uniquely pens all His Word in me
 and be different while out to sea.

I shared this at Emily's "Imperfect Prose".

When we are infected and trying to make good time

Medicine hasn't been put away for days but instead sits on a counter waiting for rotation with a spoon and who needs brushes to comb hair just to sit inside walls. Days have moved in slow motion with sick kids and fevers. Where pj's are fashion statements because we aren't far removed from beds. And sickness is mending to the point where today we may actually be with real people {besides us}.

We've been quarantined. Keeping our kids from exposing others and spreading sick even more.

Our own soul-sickness can also make us feel outside the camp, defiled.

And we've languished through the minutes, hours, days while lack of sleep has made me tired enough from being overly productive. But naps have also been elusive so I've muddled, stared in space and thought about naps.

It's just a cold or some minor infection and we all have this sin-germ, really. And sickness, whether in souls or bodies, seems to steal time.

"Fever seems to play a key role in

helping your body fight off a number of infections." MayoClinic

Vulnerable is a word I keep hearing, reading, and meditating on and I know how sin likes to keep us sick.  Either ones committed against us, with us, or by us.

Time is a soldier marching onward, no respecter of whether we're healed or not but moves beginning to it's end and sometimes I want to wave a white flag to retreat time. Turn flank, march backwards and cover ground a different way.

And carrying the germ seems easier than letting sickness have a grip, of experiencing the fever of failure and vulnerability feels like the thing which will burn us up. Exposing our unkempt ways without a brush to comb some control.

And me? I like appearances, the one who always tried to keep them up, wear them. I held it all together. But that's my problem.

I wasn't meant to hold it together. 

But I tried. And failed catastrophically. And time seemed to crash around me and ruins seemed like waste or loss and a sorry state of time seemed to be all I had left. 

"A fever is usually a sign that something out

of the ordinary is going on in your body." MayoClinic

But time has a way of redeeming. Of healing infected minutes, years, when I realized there was a better Medicine than the world. A great Physician who makes time stand still, cures our soul-disease, and rebuilds ruins because He's a (re)maker of time.  

It took a Holy fever consuming me to work "something out of the ordinary". To be inoculated by His medicinal Spirit because {soul} health recovers and renews. And this Person who mends and heals and makes all of time good.....to those who love Him.  It's Love who redeems time and makes it something good.

"Praise the LORD, my soul, and forget not all his benefits— who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s."

Psalm 103:2-5

I shared this at Ann's, click over to share yours .







When writing seems pointless

Perhaps it's the emptiness of words or the rambling of why's in my brain, of what it all means. This blogging thing, writing words, this one-with-a-million-other words and a drop which doesn't even reach the bucket kinda thing.

Seems small. And I am. Insignificant really. And I need more of it. Less. Lesser and more little.

I have sin-nature which loves self and this isn't why I love words. But if I hold the mirror long enough, the questions come and only my self truly asks. What it all amounts too anyway?

Nothing.

And everything.

This speck in eternity, a wisp of His breath, a reminder of magnitude greater than me and it's only for One I write which amounts to anything at all. My little nothings are just that, when done for self, for vanity, for accolades, for something to be something when I already am. Something. Because of Somebody and nothing else.

And isn't this why we write? Why we blog and spill words and some dreary days, wonder why we are here anyway?

There's the answer. It's the Wonder of it....

To praise with tongue, confess with mouth, or blogs, this Wonder which draws us time and again to spell out Inspiration. Only then do I remember why. And days like today, yesterday, or the days before is when I need reminders.

It's true. We are nothing, alone. But we have this One thing which is worthy of words, blows our nothings out of the water and this why we. keep. writing.

Gratitude's on Marriage and leaving them at Ann's:

Tammy--
--the equal yolking which doesn't only come in relationship to Him, but also in our spiritual walks going hand-in-hand together and leading eachother along our journeys to go deeper and higher
--oh for the grace only He can give for eachother's faults and how Love covers a multitude of our cracked clay selfs
--the art of math where 2 are made 1, a picture of Heaven uniting us uniquely, unlike the world offers and how marriage is a shadow of our Betrothed...I'm reminded of this often
--knowing weaknesses are when one can be strong for the other and also how an opportunity for allowing His strength to flex in us
--marriage is like an iron sharpens iron and a constant evaluating and reevaluating my heart and searching out God's Spirit to dig up any root of flesh


Kim's--
--I am thankful for a lifelong partner and friend.
-- I am thankful that our marriage has provided a stable and loving environment in which our boys can grow up.
--I am thankful for all that God has taught me through marriage about love, giving selflessly, and the relationship between Christ and the church.
--I am thankful that our marriage relationship has allowed us opportunities to minister to others.

Michelle--
--thankful to have someone share in the daily duties of parenting
--that my husband actively participates in bedtime routines--where we each spend one on one time with each child
--making memories and hopefully instilling values, character and virtue to them (our kids)

before it was gothic #2: being a Light?

Some days I’d dress all black because that’s how I felt.

Black.

Besides, I liked black. And with my black shirt, gypsy skirt, funky boots over hose, I wore it all out black. One day some high school girls giggled with a, “Are you going to a funeral?”, like something was funny. “No, I just like black”, I shrugged, because they wouldn’t understand because I didn't really understand either.

And I didn’t care.

Some days I’d wear only one, long, dangling earring. Just one. Or several bracelets going up my arm, anything other than normal, to be different. Because truth be told, I cared, I just didn’t want to care.

But then we moved to Georgia and my hair wasn’t allowed to defy gravity and my clothes were forced to tone down. But I still used them. My clothes were a weapon as a way to say “I’m still angry!”  And at first I was, but secretly anger slipped out the back door.

Funny thing is, I didn’t know exactly why I was angry. One minute things seemed fine until there it was. Irritated. Grating my nerves. Angry. And the world seemed right jilted and skewed.

Anger and angst required energy to fuel it and I eventually grew weary of it. But I wasn’t ready to give in. I wanted to "win" the battle, whatever the victory was supposed to be, I'm sure I'd know it. When I won.

I didn’t tell you about the best friend I left in Dallas. Or her Mom who seemed the coolest. Or my friend and I's secret names. Mine was Destiny. I had sketch pads and would draw or doodle thoughts.

And my soul had a battle which raged in my heart but in hindsight it was a spiritual war. All out armor denting, war.

And the thing with souls--they're strong.

My family and I fought and they seemed to think it was my friend's fault but I knew how I was part of it. How I had my own mind and will and used it, against them, against the world, against myself. We fought over clothes, how I dressed, how I looked and I raged against it. Escaping the battle was a strong draw which pulled me, always away. Always apart.

The hardest part isn't the battles, the who's of it, the people faces but recognizing how it's a spirit behind all things.

How it's a matter of walking with a Lamp to impart night, how dark storms need heavenly Reign, how crooked paths are made straight, how I needed to exchange earthly lures for a Glorious cure and I only needed to quietly search out Light.

I walked the crooked path many years past punk until it ended me, so He could be.

There's a way to minister, to seek out the wounded, look the outcast in the eye and bring Light near to flicker a flame in darkness. And how the way of overcoming is by way of Life and choosing the Way to conquer the night.

"In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." John 1:4

"You, LORD, are my lamp; the LORD turns my darkness into light." 2 Samuel 22:29

For Part I click: "Before it was gothic or grunge it was 'punk rock'..."

Before it was gothic or grunge it was "punk rock" and "new wave"

I was still 16 when we moved, when hairspray and gel and all hair products were taken away. They were trying to keep me from spiking my punky hair, from dressing in camo jackets, funky clothes with holes, from wearing weird makeup (most times they knew nothing about) and basically make me “normal”.

But I didn’t want to be normal.

They didn’t know about the punk rock clubs I visited on downtown streets of Dallas. That I’d go to underground ones or listened to bands like “Blackflag”. Or the guy I met named “Spike” because he wore one around his neck. A huge railroad spike on a heavy chain and he’d Mohawk his hair about a foot high in spikes and he looked a freak but so did I.

Spike was alone, left his parents, lived with a friend and you could see his pain. Loneliness etched on his face and I was so very sad for him when he opened up to a stranger (me) and a friend and shared in the middle of a downtown street.

They didn’t know about the mosh pits I’d jump in, bump, bounce and slam bodies against others. Or dance on streets with other punk rockers and skate boarders, before they called it grunge or gothic.

Or how I’d go jeans rolled up over boots, strange makeup, hair sticking straight to the sky and visit the Galleria Mall. A friend and I going to Saks Fifth Avenue and looking at clothes, fumbling the price tags (gasping at $500 prices) while store security followed us thinking we were shoplifters.

And how I looked at those that'd pass me by, my wild dressed self with white and black eyeshadow making me look strange and I’d dare them, accept me now.

But what did I expect? I was really pushing them away too. And “normal” felt boring and who wanted that? And I wanted to be strange and in-your-face and I had a battle raging inside and I wore it. In clothes, hair, jewelry, and attitude.

Some days I’d dress all black because that’s how I felt.

Black.

(to be continued ....)

I didn't know about the pit or how to get out or even if I wanted to...but if I'd known a man who was gathered with the distressed, indebted, commanded them, a man after His heart would I then? A man who knew darkness, wrote it in poems but also knew how to save himself by going to the One who saves:

 "For the waves of death enveloped me; the torrents of destruction made me afraid.The cords of Sheol were entangling me; I encountered the snares of death. In my distress I called upon the Lord; I cried to my God, and He heard my voice from His temple; my cry came into His ears."

2 Samuel 22:5-7 (amplified) David praising God for deliverance

How to End A Day And Scrapbook Time

Coyotes howl and bark nearby and it's why I run outside and my two boys are out there looking at the moon. A telescoped lens aimed straight up and a peek through and I see how the sun highlights the moon. How shadows cast themselves across craters and a dark line rims the moon's edge, plunges light, but the lens is tracking the bright. Battery-operated to move in time with the rotation of stars and it keeps time with the moon.

And they're awed by the way the it's pulled close. How this scope sweeps up, whisks us away like a man on the moon and we're walking on it's surface.

Coyotes interrupt the wonder as my Hubby marches to the spot, near young cows and the dog which guards like his family. He's barking, one lone ranger against at least two or three I heard responding, circling for food or game. They leave on arrival of a strong spotlight and man.

Inside we retire to watch shows on how to bring buildings down, detonate, and blow them up. Things of boys and men. My oldest, the lone boy, who likes his alone time like our cow dog is now wanting to squeeze a spot on the sofa. His younger brother, who oppositely likes to be near at all times, is leaning against me and Hubby who's fighting sleep.

We move to the couch and the older is now the one leaning and after 15 minutes says with a smile "I like it when we sit close. It makes me feel good."

How often have I missed it? Hurried and went and did this or that and looked at books or some other distracted instead of looking at this moment in time? When there's no battery to keep the scope of time centered on the moon of this moment, just my own will to power it.

I must let the craters of the day give way to night and track light and I know it's not only looking in but also drawing them close. Remembering how to touch skin and lean like him and as a moon's rim, circle my arms around family and hem them from darkness' edge. Even if it's only for now.

And I look at the moment and draw it close by drawing them close and relax under the wonder and make time telescope slow the way we feel eachother. Loosely leaning against one another, bundled with blankets of love, familiar muscles slack and we know time is tracking and forming a scrapbook of memories in our mind. How we'll carry these bright moments through a memory lens and keep track of these times.

Sharing this at Ann's on how to slow time. Share yours or read others.


Ps. This Friday, I'm going to share on my punk/gothic days, when they didn't call it gothic. If you know someone who may benefit, join me? I'm only one person's experience, but I'll be sharing how it affected me, my life, a teenager lost in a sea of emotion.

A List for the List-less

{if you're here from "onethousandgifts" meet the reader....click here for more at "if meadows speak"}

I'm not a list person and yet this gratitude thing is that. There's the necessary grocery list I finally succumbed to after many store trips where I left without the ONE item I needed most.

I don't pencil-to-paper-write journals, although I type them in a virtual folder on my computer. I don't write little note cards of scriptures, 'though I highlight them right where they are in the Bible and stick with them for days. I don't pen grocery lists, 'though I text them to myself where they're readily available on my phone. And I overall avoid lists because, well, I don't know why.

It's my personality, maybe? My people person self, my fly-by-the-seat-of-my pants, or off the cuff fun, or the "That road looks interesting" and turn down it just because, and so many other things I could list, but I'm not a list person.

Yet I started this other necessary thing because I kept ending my days on this farm without the ONE item I needed most--gratitude. This farm full of stuff, debris, skeltons of yesterday, exposed structures' bare frame and I was stripped down too. And my usually jovial self was getting bogged under with all the things still needing to happen. With the slowness of change and so I needed to change and I started. a. list.

And the book says it best.

(The "Bloom Club" did Chapter 3 from Ann's book "One Thousands Gifts"). Visit Ann's for more gifts:

In the spirit of Valentines--to our sweethearts:

Mine: #223-the way he hugs, #224-he listens even if I talk long, #225-he holds my hand, #226-we have good conversations, #227-he arranges the day to have quality time together, #228-he sees me as I am, being molded, when I fail, and has grace to keep me encouraged in looking up

Michelle: #20-he helps with the kids: dr appts, pickup from school, homework, meals and bedtime routine

Kim: #9-He is an example of Christlike love, #10-He is a godly leader for our family, #11-He is humble and teachable, #12-He is not only my husband, but also my pastor, my accountability partner, and my best friend!

Often Change Comes--5 minute challenge

There is a way in which sun gives warmth in more than temperature and this weekend even the shadows delight me with the sun's brightness. And the ever-changing weather from it's dip to single digits to it's 60 degree climb coming this Sunday, reminds me of this one sure anchor of a never-changing God, Who was, and is and is to come in our constant state of this changing world.

And I wonder, as the seasons cycle in and out and we're captivated every single time, if change really speaks of how He alone is constant, no other as stable and secure. And how the blossoms, cold grays, green grasses and the cloudy rains, and the dark storms and all the things which set motion is really Him speaking to us: "Look, did you see it?",  "Hello, beautiful. Because you are, you know, and I wanted to tell you.", "Can we watch this together?", "That was just for you." or some other conversations and how can we miss His glory wooing us? Calling out? Conversing His love down? Displaying Heart in the skies?

This is how the week's been. A kaleidoscope of cold, warm, wet, dry, green, white, gray, bright and not missing His hand turning and changing and speaking wonder but forgetting sometimes.

He's changing us too. And there's Glory in change and we try to see it but many times we're blinded by the brightness. Maybe it's not just seeing but also hearing the wonder behind it to really see without sight

Lisa-Jo is doing a 5 minute challenge....I wrote this one in-between pizzas. 

Even Now? In The Mystery

I don't know how I missed it before. Imagining it like some Hollywood movie, dramatic and exciting and I thought love was always supposed to be that way.

And who isn't in love with love or at least the falling in part?

When it's brand new and you're muddled all day thinking of just this one person. How you can't seem to hardly function unless they are with you, so you motion through the day with every minute seeming like years. And every moment without seems a waste of this beauty and you can't see straight in the world because of love.

But then come the days past dating, past the honeymoon, past the first few years of really knowing eachother. You're togetherness is lived like an interconnected weave in a basket and we have a choice. To let love stay and also let it be good.

Even after we've shown the grumpy, growly side from sleep deprivation (or hunger). Or how we discover love has a pet-peeve and we are always petting the peeve. Or how we encounter the ugly fight because of stress with a move, a job change and the world seems jilted and love chooses to stay and build up.

Then the baby weight gain but then the baby comes and the weight stays. We get busy and hustle about and life pulls from different directions. And the house we want takes longer, or the pay raise didn't happen, or the laundry piles up, the kids plop between, and age grows older and even though bodies wane, love doesn't. If we choose to stay past the next crisis and build over it.

This is how we discover the mystery and know it. How we're rich with understanding, uncovering hidden treasures and we know God. If united. Encouraged in heart with this thing of love. Not in the easy or "hooked on a feeling" kinda way, but the day-in, day-out, daily grind, messy parts of it. Even now? Even now?

Yes. Especially now. Whether it be in marriage or with others, it's our first Love which chooses and builds love up and helps us to choose it over and over again so that we become part of the mystery to the world.



"My goal is that they may be encouraged in heart and united in love, so that they may have the full riches of complete understanding, in order that they may know the mystery of God, namely, Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge." Colossians 2:2 and 3 (NIV)




Join at Bonnie's Faith Barista's for more on God's love.

I shared this at (in)courage with Robin and friends about love so hop over to read more or share your thoughts.

I also shared this at Ann's place where we're talking of love and marriage....click over to read and share.

Then there were 3

A sister, her friend and me and we are counting on Mondays.

Counting on change, counting on God, and the counting of praise.

We are becoming a community within a community and circling around thanksgiving. And the sister is mine and her friend named Kim and they live across states but we shorten the distance. Travel across email, texts, and social networks and communicate like we're neighbors.

This is what we've been talking, to come together and live our lives looking for more of Him. Not wait until we have it perfectly down, or until we feel like giving, or until we feel Holy enough to find it but to seek for the more anyway, in spite of all we aren't, and needing Him to fill the cracks in our pots.

So for now we come on Mondays to tune this song of praise in thanks.


This week we are focused on our children:

Kim:

C- his tender heart - he is sensitive to others' hurts; his willingness to put others first; that he is growing taller (he has worried about his size)

W-his zest for life - he enjoys it to the fullest; his love for people - he gets along with everyone; that he likes green beans and carrots (not as much as chocolate, but he will eat them!)

Michelle (my sis):

H-grateful that she is determined when she sets her mind to something,

S-God has gifted her with a sweet loving spirit.

B-Grateful he has found some activity that he really enjoys.

Thankful and joyful that all my kids have trusted in Jesus to be their Lord and Savior.

Mine:

R-that she is strong-minded to be different and one day this can be turned for good, she's a giver who likes to give gifts, has an artistic talent for drawing

Older D-he's comfortable leading and he's trying to harness this by also listening to others, a very detailed analytical guy who is always pointing out little things I would totally miss without his eyes, he likes facts and science and makes this learning easy for the teacher in me

Youngest D-he's gifted with seeing the abstract, gifted in music, and grasp allegories quickly, he's a praiser who loves to sing songs but is usually to shy when he has an "audience", he likes reading, imagining the stories in real life and usually will be found re-enacting them

Link up your gratitudes at Ann's or click over to read others.

Are we left behind? Dropping child-like for grown-up?

This process of change on the farm has come in baby steps and a battle in restraint. Sometimes an all out war on (im)patience with contentment in the ranks. Thankfully I've come to mostly live in the balance of letting time take it's time.

But there are days. Imaginary lines are drawn with swords ready and highly lifted up for battle....

The supernatural world swirls around me and I'm part of an unseen world. And Revelation is a book of angelic creatures
described in such a way we need imagination to picture them. We need revelation to peer into realms of spiritual kingdoms and faithfully know the battle.

A few weeks ago, my oldest wistfully said he wished there was a Narnia.

Somehow I had become too mature. Too busy with day-to-days.

Too grown up I forgot to imagine my "Narnia"? This whole other world beyond earthly descriptions.

I borrow my child-eyes and remember how to come with open-hearted faith and said "There is a 'Narnia'. It's where angels live, where real battles are fought and when the Bible gives us a glimpse it's as a strange sounding as any Narnia creature."

We live it every day and are equipped against a roaring enemy and we look to a King. A King.

We have a King.

Do we forget this royalty, this Kingdom we are part of? Bride to King of all kings? Do we really grasp how earth is a shadow of the spirit and we live in both worlds? Do we let our minds run loose like a child and see what seems impossible?

This must be child-like faith.

Too simply imagine and believe.

Saturday Eve Post--Feb 2011

It's that time again over at Elizabeth's place for your "Saturday Evening Post" link up. Dig up a post from January 2011 AND (this time) one from December of 2010 too and join the others over at her place.

When failure rears it's ugly head and I've matured to know I'm not as invincible as I thought at 20...then it looks like this post.

Of How We're Writing The Story

It's marriage. My other half who's the one side of our whole and a Royal thread which twines His way through and binds us upward.

Through all the times I've moved, changed, traveled across states and bodies of waters to live in foreign countries, switched careers, and lived temporary for the next "best" thing, starting over lost it's luster long ago.

I want roots.

And not necessarily the kind in earthen soil but the kind which withstands stormy sails, the kind dug down to a pulsing blood line which links a family together.

But not only the earthen red dye which runs it's course through us but by the 3-sided kind where two are made one and become a cord to Heaven. The tie which binds stronger than any roped luster of world and together, Heavenward, we see grace better for eachother.

I've navigated the ways of doing relationships anew, making one become two again by divorce and you can't do it without jagged edges.

Without messy uneven pieces and something is torn no matter how careful you try to keep intact.

And starting over isn't the glamorous salvation or a jubilant freedom the Enemy wants you to believe. And the momentary light you think it will bring soon plunges into darkness, trials, and tribulations.

But I've risked being one again. Many years ago, I tied the knot once more and this time a cord of three makes it that much deeper, better, up to heights of Heaven's cloak and lowered at the feet of a King.

I cling to Truth and put salvation in it's proper place and look to needs from the Source. Upward eyes allow more time to enjoy simple pleasures of marriage, companionship, laughter, and letting roots grow deep and long. This is how we write our story.

And all those bloggers who've blogged years, written post on post, are able to pull one from the "archives" because they have history in their space and this is what I want.

Time.

A longing for roots, of gardening a union, for tilling up love, tending fertile soils of growth and protecting  tender fruits of marriage. The 3-sided kind by far is better.

Time romances me with longevity and seeing Husband as life-long, 'til death do us part, and we do it all out fun. He makes me laugh hard, and many times a day comes smiles and giggles and joy rides on those waves.

And I'm a time collector digging for history of family knitted by sharing space and Love.

Making it with one person, in Holy union, taking life and writing it down the same flesh each the coming days. Posting and pasting through photos, or videos, or through shared experiences like a scrapbook quilting us together, and those sweet memories which cerebrally linger lifetimes away.

My Husband and I are etching our story in time and shadowing a Wedding feast still yet to come. But 'til then, I'm adding to this, wonderfully loved union of mine, and I practice.

I practice, one day after another, memory on next, of how to stack time and build a marriage with archives.

Sharing this at Ann's  on marriage.


And since it's prose from this imperfected Bride I'm also linking to Emily's "Imperfect Prose". Visit and leave yours....