The In-Between

We sit silent, waiting,
pondering the not yet,
the in-between,
the lack of wind that blows
to show us any direction.
We wait, unknowing when
the next movement comes.
We long, by a grave that gathers
both hope and doubt,
for a man who told us
the kingdom of God was at hand.
Is His hand still here in the dark?
In the stillborn, in the sniffling
of tears that tell us the miracle
had no time to come to life?
We ache in our hearts
for the dreams broken inside us
that cut our flesh from jagged pieces,
disappointment fresh as the
embalming fluid poured over
the body locked in the grave.
Tell us, when does light rise again?
We sit silent, waiting,
pondering the not yet,
the in-between.

Broken

Do you love Me?

I hear this question resound through my head at all times- when I’m in the grocery store, alone in my bedroom, struggling to fill out tedious spreadsheets at work. And each time I hear it, I answer the same way. Yes, Lord, You know I do.

Then He speaks again, softly, yet with an urgent undertone. Do you love Me enough to break for Me?

Break for Him. That would require a rendering of my heart, a vulnerability to extract any self-preservation I hid deep within me and cast it at His crown. Can I do this?

My heart is shielded. By this nothing can penetrate to its core unless I allow entrance. It’s been safe, static. The beat in its chambers are steady. To crack the armor means to welcome pain, welcome feeling, welcome the weeping of others. I am far from perfect, far from forgiving those who have wronged me and left me weary and alone, and I fight this feeling of feeling.

The deepest secrets of me wants to feel, though. Desperately. Do I allow it? I try, but I cover it back up because I am tired of the scraping of my heart until it’s empty. I dance around breaking into my compassion and keeping it at bay. Indecisive. Unsure of the holy incision to sustain being human, breathing alive.

But a pulse pounds in the distance. I lift my ears and follow the sound until I reach Calvary. There, atop a trodden and treacherous hill, lies my Love. His eyes grab my soul, His thorns removing mine. And as the final breath bubbles from His mouth, a flood of restlessness chips my strength, and I am emptied. Moving with no effort, He fills me with a tenderness I could not, would not, possess on my own. Yet this tenderness is solid, striking. My heart beats in time with His, squeezes when I see His face in the lines and curves of those I meet.

I came to Him, walls up, and He met me, palms bleeding at the foot of the cross. He exchanged His heart for mine, giving me the purest form of love imaginable- life. All He asks is for me to share this wonderful gift with hurting hearts, so very similar to my own.

Jesus was broken for me; how can I not be break myself for others in return?

 

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.

-John 13:34

Find a Way

Birds are chirping out my window, somewhere in the split-wide blue sky.

Spring is coming. The light lingers, air holds hope of warmth in weeks to come.

I have learned to wait through the winter, watching for signs of more welcoming weather.

I have learned patience, and also how impatient I really am.

Life should be enough. Breath, beautiful enough.

I have learned to be content. But is it wrong to want more?

Life in full; overflowing, rich in experience.

Is it wrong to want?

He has promised life in abundance; what was given through a life lived true and perfect.

Is it wrong to hold out my hands and ask for more?

Wrong for my soul to speak and ask for revival?

Peace. All I want is peace to know there is goodness within my grasp.

People are strolling the street, ducking in and out of shops, stopping for homemade bread and chocolate.

This town has its charm, albeit reminiscent of the dark mystery of Stepford Wives.

Lord, I want to break free.

Come alive, dig deep beneath surface and find a way to align my hope with what’s in the world.

Piece together my passion, explore what makes me curious. Connect the dots.

Lord, I want to be obedient.

Follow where I am needed, walk the way woven together for me.

Spring is coming. But where are the buds that should shoot forth from my heart?

Is it wrong to ask for more? For my heart to come alive?

Come alive, heart. Please God, find a way.

Black Space, Dark Matter

Before the canvas of the world was painted, the earth posed black, void, formless.

Intentionally kept dark for creation, for becoming, purpose was published from shadows, from an ink blanket of berth. This was good, part of the order of things.

I allow the same for my soul. Sit in the unshapen, breathless; being. No push to rush away the restless, the flush of alone and feeling of being lost in charcoal soil. I am welcomed in ways I would never experience had I not ventured into hovering waters, deep and endless and uncolored. I have grappled with this way of being, hearing society slap me with a quick, contented fix that inadvertently accuses my faith. Light versus dark. Skin versus spirit. Righteousness versus sin. As if where one side existed, the other couldn’t.

I have not been born to carry continuous happy bubbled within my chest. My burden is my blessing in the underbelly of life, where my tears find themselves falling down the skin of someone else, where my anchored heart magnetizes with the weight of theirs. Where I am constantly standing in line with the loose rise of moon, face deeply creviced and reflecting light in imitation.

**

Today I am beyond honored to be featured at Ruminate Magazine’s blog, The Waking. Head over to read the rest.

This life is an incredible gift.

All Is A Gift

This life is a gift I could never had imagined.

Earlier this afternoon I drove three hours north, took the snake-wound road to Northport and drove my Verano up the plank of the Arnie Richter on the last ferry run of the day. It isn’t hard to miss, since it only runs from the mainland to the island twice a day during these winter months. Once my car is snugly parked against the right side of the boat, I slip out my door and take the stairs to the top of the ferry, set my blanket and purse down, and scan the waterlines white with giant rocks of ice. The tufts of blue in the air collide nicely with the rolling clouds, and soon I hear the clink of anchor rising from the water to free us into Lake Michigan. The ferry churns to life, and we are off, taking a new route from the summer to avoid the massive expanse of thick ice mid-water. We move east of a smaller island as a flock of winter birds glide through the air, cut above the water and raise as one into the sky. Light slicing catches my ear, and I guess what it is with a smile half playing on my lips. When I rise and peer over the side, I am right. Thin ice creaking and breaking apart by the bow of the boat. The smaller pieces roll over the ice glistening like diamonds in the sunlight before hitting its edge and tumbling down into the black water.

I am the only one outside, seated at the top of the ferry, face welcoming each puff of cold air that wraps itself across my skin. I am warm enough in my oversized teal hat, matching gloves, blue winter jacket, and thin blanket folded over my legs. I’m cutting through Lake Michigan, chancing Death’s Door, and the day is alive with a million molecules that shift and stack into bare-spindly trees and light bouncing off the frozen wake. I am alive, and I am here to drink fully from this cup pressed in my hands.

Hold it all with wonder, with awe, with tender care. All is a gift, glory draped over a split-wide sky. We near the dock and I shake my blanket, stretch my legs and take two staircases to my car. It’s an adventure just to get over here, and my journey just now begins as I wind down familiar roads. Joy can’t help itself jumping from my chest, expanding through my body to fill me with a grace I’m still getting used to. I remind myself to simply receive it, allow the gift and be grateful. To see the divine-drenched shadows dancing across light on the water, listen to the crunch of snow beneath my boots and marvel at how my steps don’t press down into the hard, compact snow. Soak in a peach and raspberry sunset across the bay, dipped in lavender and spread along a blue-dusted dusk. These are the moments it’s best to be alive, the settling of my bones into the right spaces inside me, when I rearrange and find my skin fits more aligned along me than it did hours ago.

All is a gift, glory set at just the right angle.

Beginning Always Blooms

Sarah is the first to notice it, among the slices of parmesan and Italian bread, the steaming plate of Swedish meatballs over mashed potatoes sprinkled with parsley.

“Oh, look!” she says to Eric and I across the dinner table, “the rose is growing!”

Our eyes sweep to the yellow rose in a thin bottle vase with a lip that only has room for a single flower. There it is, halfway down the bottle—a tender shoot curving up from the stem, color a delicate shade of green lighter than the rest of the rose’s body. Slight pink arms of a bud topping this new extension.

How in the world…? We marvel for a few minutes, in awe because this is only one cut-off rose slid into a small pool of water.//

Apparently, there are stories of roses and apple trees and all kinds of greenery that have been transplanted or re-rooted into impossible places and began to grow. The resilience of these plants and flowers clinging to life and digging in for it to still make a way forward.

Life will always make a way.

Life will always find ways to attach and push through.

This tiny shoot serves as a reminder that there is always something coming, often quite unexpectedly, and that even in the midst of what seems to be cut off and ending, behind it, a beginning always blooms.

Be kind to those broken branches, those sliced stems. New life is coming. Resilience abounds.

 

**

Continuing my attempt at the Five Minute Friday weekly writing challenge. Five minutes to write on the assigned topic. Raw and unedited. (Yikes!) This week’s topic: Life.   // symbolizes where five minutes started and/or stopped.

 

To Always Have Hope

I don’t like being up early. But here I am, on the couch as the world out my window slowly unveils itself from the misty charcoal. All week, my right arm has felt like a nerve pinched; I still have tiny doses of fear that I’ll fall apart from my health trauma.

God, You have been so good to me.

Sometimes, I am still afraid.

Sometimes, I still don’t see this world as You want me to.

Sometimes, all I see is myself.

 

You bring me from the barren places and set me high on a steady rock; my feet firm in Your truth. Perhaps I will always falter at points, but I will always have hope. You have taught me that much, to ask without doubt, look to joy, to always have hope.

Banana cream oatmeal this morning. Here’s to being healthy, in habits, action, and thought.

God, You have transformed the patterns of my mind.

Sometimes, I wish I were more.

Sometimes, I want to be fearless.

Sometimes, I believe I can use my life to make a difference.

 

You have done deep healing work in my heart—literally, with closing the holes in my aorta, and also emotionally, binding up my scars and wounds and restoring me to my first love in You. Surely, You have shown me great goodness in the land of the living.

Now, light has opened to a pale gray, brush of clouds low in the sky. The street is seeing more traffic—here comes the world awake in my little area of the world.

God, You are my sustenance and strength.

Sometimes, the dreams in me beat against my chest so loud I fear I’ll tear in two.

Sometimes, I wonder if they are enough.

Sometimes, I settle.

 

You have brought me this far not to settle but to live my life in full. For abundant joy, and I am beginning to know for the first time what that looks like, and that it is OK.

You claim more than OK for me, for all who lean into You. Help me not to forget.

Oh God, help me not to forget Your beauty is my breath.

 

But as for me, I will always have
I will praise You more and
more.
– Psalm 71:14

 

 

Sliver of Sun

How in the world has He brought me this far? How has He redeemed such brokenness in me, the crumpled little girl with a gaping heart and hurting hope? He who crafted carefully the course of the stars came close to touch my wounds, stitch them softly, and sing a song of reassurance over my resting body and soul. He calls me by a name I would not answer to before: Beloved.

I couldn’t believe it, refused to see it, and yet each day this past year He set it everywhere before me: Beloved. I am He who brings good because I AM. His saving me in my stroke, His lacing up the holes in my heart, bringing the one my heart loves through my back door—into my busted kitchen, of all places!—my new home, every simple moment, He has smiled as if to say, “See, here is how I love you. You are my beloved and you’d better start believing it.”

With this Christmas, another reminder that a new day has dawned, sliver of sun rising in the blends of gray. Here is a season of hope, a thrill for this weary soul who is made new, restored, and with the lilt of her voice, rejoices.

Comes In Quiet

It comes in quiet. Slips through the lights of my tree, curls around the steam of my coffee. Goodness. The new life God has for me.

I inhale and take a sip, test it on my tongue. Rich, yet smooth. Another drink, the taste is still the same.

My friend Janet is proclaiming over me today: victory, joy, freedom, and peace. I am praying Immanuel, God with me. Today is a day of miraculous proportions. Today is a day of sweet simplicity.

Everything is beautiful. Nothing is the same.

There’s a wooden bear that’s turning in half circles on the inside branch of my tree. It catches my eyes, and I see the ornament next to it- in curved metal letters, the word JOY.

Yes, it is a day to rejoice, to remain confident that I will continue to see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living, while walking in my unknown.

Taste and see the LORD is good.

I take another sip, let it warm me slow and full. And when I am done with this cup, there is another, ready and just as rich, waiting for me to pour.