These two days mark the one year anniversary when God soared through me and put writing and women's ministry on my heart... I cannot believe it's been a year already. I remember the torrent of emotions that flooded through me, the closeness I felt to Him and the unbelievable joy that the Creator of this universe would personally seek me, care for me.
One year... look at where He has taken me. :)
Monday, October 24, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
It's What Was Whispered About
A letter in the mailbox.
Block handwriting, all caps and slight slant. A postage stamp with the face of Eleanor Roosevelt. An envelope swelling with pages and drops of rain. You slip it in your jacket pocket to keep the drizzle from further dampening the words but take your time walking the steps, matching each footfall to the thump of your heart. Dusk has fallen, free from the burden of the day and growing shadows on your walls. Joni Mitchell is singing through your stereo, her pipe organ voice preaching of life’s cycle around a carnival ride, the train of age that roams without brakes. You keep the lights off, lighting candles and placing them in clusters through the living room, categorized by scent- citrus freshly squeezed atop the coffee table, floral rose and lavender floating across the cherry wood bookshelf, sans books since you moved volumes to a chest in your bedroom.
Your jacket hangs across the couch, exhausted from keeping your manila treasure safe. You brush it as you move into the cushions and unfold yourself into the leather, sliding out the envelope that’s been waiting patiently. Joni is now launching into “Court and Spark,” spurring your fingers to slide open the mystery in your hand. Lined white pages stained with black ink focus before your face, and with a twitch of your lips, triggered by the name you know is etched at the bottom of the last page, you wade into the salutation, each line covering more of your skin, until you are immersed in its waters.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Whispering Dreams
Your dreams
wrap around me,
twining my ribs in
a mist of breath,
rising through rivers
in my veins,
whispering off the
crest of my lips,
where they dive
to the depths of my
soul below.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
The Same Reason
Something keeps gnawing at her, pinching her insides then running away. It is a cylindrical game that isn’t allowing her the upper hand. Josie stares at the shadows lining her balcony, perfectly angled, a deep contrast against the sandy wood. Her eyes focus back to the screen before her, words stopped in the middle of a sentence. She rereads what just appeared on the page and grimaces.
“Ugh. That sounds awful. Doesn’t even make sense.” She is disgusted by her recent work and wonders at her audacity to attempt this each night.
“Why?” she echoes into the empty room. As the word releases from her lips she is hit with a fierce jab to her chest. Immediately, she knows the answer to her question.
It’s the same reason why she lounges in the local bookshop for hours, browsing rows and rows of books and never coming away empty handed. Why she discusses author visits with the shopkeeper and her reading recommendations. Why the local author shelf draws her eye, how she reads the back covers and notes the awkward photos of writers with their dogs in the woods or with one fist propped underneath a jutting chin in front of some forest green backdrop.
And the calm that overtakes her as the stories wrap themselves around her heart when she discovers her next new read- it swells her soul. It’s all there, calling to her, beckoning her to become a member of this exclusive literary sorority. And she desperately wants to answer, wants to accept with a brilliant welcoming gift of her own. Sometimes, she wants it so bad it burns. But in this desire, she acknowledges, is the realization that she may get scarred in the process.
She is willing to strike the fire.
An Immobile Time Not Marked On Clocks
Between the waters of remembrance and sky of dreams, it is here where you are suspended with me, the only two beings in a blooming field of awakening.
You are familiar to me, and though I cannot find your face, your spirit is loud and leads me to a place where I am calm and unafraid.
***
Where am I going?
Monday, August 22, 2011
You Are A Journey
You are a journey and I am a traveler,
weary with wandering in circles
with no destiny.
You are close,
I stretch so far.
My ribs have ribbons
stitching them together
to patch my bleeding heart.
I close my eyes
and pick a path,
then turn in stunned silence
when I find the distance
my feet cover
lead in broken patterns
to Your gate.
I toss about the wind,
let it send me spiraling
through Your land and
pray You do not
discipline trespassers.
weary with wandering in circles
with no destiny.
You are close,
I stretch so far.
My ribs have ribbons
stitching them together
to patch my bleeding heart.
I close my eyes
and pick a path,
then turn in stunned silence
when I find the distance
my feet cover
lead in broken patterns
to Your gate.
I toss about the wind,
let it send me spiraling
through Your land and
pray You do not
discipline trespassers.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Java House
An old, Victorian style home from the early 1900s, Java House emits a chic comfort, eclectic pairings of scratched mahogany chairs with framed photos of various scenes in France- an old metallic bike leaning against a cast iron fence, a black and white shot of slanted buildings, the arch of their windows winking along the narrow alley. Hung on the North side of the shop, a ornately framed blackboard boasts the various coffee drinks offered, each written in bright colors and a bold, all caps lettering. She walks up to the counter and says she wants something blended with coffee. The barista smiles and begins to mix something behind the counter, pouring coffee and caramel into a glass pitcher and stirring with a thick metal spoon. In a few moments she slides a frothy beverage across the counter and as their eyes meet, she winks.
“For the caramel lover in you.” She is like a prophet, hitting Josie’s weak spot with uncanny precision. Josie takes the drink in her hands and lifts the straw to her mouth. The blend of coffee and caramel slides down her throat, easily moving into her stomach and bloodstream. She returns the wink. “You got it right, my friend. This is delicious.”
She hands the girl a five dollar bill and says to keep the change, then walks to her hidden spot where she can observe the customers without them making a scene to examine her. A man walks in a few minutes later, as she is setting up her laptop. He marches in with an air of conviction, as if he has places to go and this is stop one on the tour.
“So you’re the new guy,” he states to the boy behind the register.
The boy’s face shades pink and stumbles upon his answer. “Yes.”
“When did you start?” He inquires, and there is a friendliness in his voice that was not there when he first breezed through the door.
“Last week.”
“Last week, huh? Well then, let’s get you some practice on that espresso machine!” he launches into his order and the boy buzzes around, pulling shots and flavor syrups. Josie watches the scene with an insightful eye when she notices another man has snuck in and is surveying the coffee house. He is pretty, with smooth brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Angular jaw with the start of the day’s stubble, skin browned with an affair with summer’s sun. White sunglasses crown his head, which sparkles in the morning light through the front door. He gets in line and patiently waits to order.
When the old man is done, he compliments the boy on his work.”Very good, son. Very good. We’ll see what else you can do next week,” and he breezes down the stairs as loftily as he climbed up them.
Josie pulls her eyes away from the front of the room and settles herself further into a mocha colored cushion. A potted plant on the windowsill catches shadows from tree branches stretching across the pane on the other side. She glances into the narrow driveway past the clear crinkled curtains hanging open on a black iron pole. The building next door is an antique furniture store, housing white paint chipped dressers and jangly crystal and gold chandeliers. She can see the shoppers move about the aisles, trailing their fingers along the stained vases set on top of wood burned tables. I should go over and see if there’s a dresser for my bedroom, she muses, but knows she won’t take the plunge today.
Instead, she opens the wrapping of the chocolate chip bread bought with the blended caramel drink and breaks a piece off the corner. The taste of chocolate soaks into the bread, rushing together against her tongue. The computer still whispers for her attention, so she takes one more look around the room.
She sees the face of the beautiful stranger in the reflection off the mirror lined on the counter. He is reading, some memoir of an Austrian diplomat whose name she couldn’t catch, the text small and backwards through the glass.
“Get to work, Jos,” she reprimands herself. But the speakers are spilling out some trumpet number, and while she appreciated a good brass solo every now and then, the music would be of no help when coaxing words onto her manuscript.
Scrolling through her list of artists, many catch her eye, but one catches her ear for this moment. Gregory Alan Isakov. Yes—he’s perfect right now, for the corner French table hidden in the back of the shop, where light spills in on the right side of her body through the life size windows surrounded by old, worn wood frames.
She tells her computer to make a playlist off of “Light Year” and opened up a new document, fresh white page blinking at her with expectancy. Her mind is full of fantasy, of dreams and hopes and ideas the world must understand. But where to begin? What opening mark will enchant the reader and open their mind to all they’ve been too afraid to understand?
Her hands hover over the keyboard. Then, as if taking on a life of their own, the fingers reach down and gently touch each key, slowly, gently at first, testing out their weight, then gathering speed as the words tumble from her mind to her mouth on paper.
Night and day. There is a deepening between the parallel worlds that pulls us to the retracting and replenishing light pieced delicately in the swaying sky…
“For the caramel lover in you.” She is like a prophet, hitting Josie’s weak spot with uncanny precision. Josie takes the drink in her hands and lifts the straw to her mouth. The blend of coffee and caramel slides down her throat, easily moving into her stomach and bloodstream. She returns the wink. “You got it right, my friend. This is delicious.”
She hands the girl a five dollar bill and says to keep the change, then walks to her hidden spot where she can observe the customers without them making a scene to examine her. A man walks in a few minutes later, as she is setting up her laptop. He marches in with an air of conviction, as if he has places to go and this is stop one on the tour.
“So you’re the new guy,” he states to the boy behind the register.
The boy’s face shades pink and stumbles upon his answer. “Yes.”
“When did you start?” He inquires, and there is a friendliness in his voice that was not there when he first breezed through the door.
“Last week.”
“Last week, huh? Well then, let’s get you some practice on that espresso machine!” he launches into his order and the boy buzzes around, pulling shots and flavor syrups. Josie watches the scene with an insightful eye when she notices another man has snuck in and is surveying the coffee house. He is pretty, with smooth brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Angular jaw with the start of the day’s stubble, skin browned with an affair with summer’s sun. White sunglasses crown his head, which sparkles in the morning light through the front door. He gets in line and patiently waits to order.
When the old man is done, he compliments the boy on his work.”Very good, son. Very good. We’ll see what else you can do next week,” and he breezes down the stairs as loftily as he climbed up them.
Josie pulls her eyes away from the front of the room and settles herself further into a mocha colored cushion. A potted plant on the windowsill catches shadows from tree branches stretching across the pane on the other side. She glances into the narrow driveway past the clear crinkled curtains hanging open on a black iron pole. The building next door is an antique furniture store, housing white paint chipped dressers and jangly crystal and gold chandeliers. She can see the shoppers move about the aisles, trailing their fingers along the stained vases set on top of wood burned tables. I should go over and see if there’s a dresser for my bedroom, she muses, but knows she won’t take the plunge today.
Instead, she opens the wrapping of the chocolate chip bread bought with the blended caramel drink and breaks a piece off the corner. The taste of chocolate soaks into the bread, rushing together against her tongue. The computer still whispers for her attention, so she takes one more look around the room.
She sees the face of the beautiful stranger in the reflection off the mirror lined on the counter. He is reading, some memoir of an Austrian diplomat whose name she couldn’t catch, the text small and backwards through the glass.
“Get to work, Jos,” she reprimands herself. But the speakers are spilling out some trumpet number, and while she appreciated a good brass solo every now and then, the music would be of no help when coaxing words onto her manuscript.
Scrolling through her list of artists, many catch her eye, but one catches her ear for this moment. Gregory Alan Isakov. Yes—he’s perfect right now, for the corner French table hidden in the back of the shop, where light spills in on the right side of her body through the life size windows surrounded by old, worn wood frames.
She tells her computer to make a playlist off of “Light Year” and opened up a new document, fresh white page blinking at her with expectancy. Her mind is full of fantasy, of dreams and hopes and ideas the world must understand. But where to begin? What opening mark will enchant the reader and open their mind to all they’ve been too afraid to understand?
Her hands hover over the keyboard. Then, as if taking on a life of their own, the fingers reach down and gently touch each key, slowly, gently at first, testing out their weight, then gathering speed as the words tumble from her mind to her mouth on paper.
Night and day. There is a deepening between the parallel worlds that pulls us to the retracting and replenishing light pieced delicately in the swaying sky…
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Voices of the Faithful: Book 2
Voices of the Faithful: Book 2 by Kim P. Davis and Beth Moore
God’s Spirit is at work throughout all corners of the earth, woven together in this string of testimonies from missionaries serving Him around the world. Booksneeze® was gracious to provide me with a free copy of Voices of the Faithful for review. A daily devotional, Voices of the Faithful provides snippets in the lives of missionaries and the beautiful and broken people they encounter. There is a spiritual battle of darkness versus light, and God is using miraculous miracles and confident connections to shepherd in His flock. Each day holds a Bible verse, an accompanying thought or story, and a prayer for those affected in the lines above.
What initially drew me to this book was Beth Moore’s name on the cover. I am a huge fan of her teachings, and was curious as to how her new series would speak to me. I opened to the first page and dug in, savoring each line and breathing in the real and raw need out there for others to know the Good News. The devotions were arranged by month, and each one within that month were tied together by an overlying theme. The short and to the point devotionals made them easy to read, and if I had limited time in the day for my quiet time, I pulled out this book, read a day or two (if I fell behind!) and found nourishment for my soul. I would recommend this book for anyone who wants to read of the true and marvelous happenings around the world, and how God is using so many people like us to get His message across.
Image courtesy of http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/voices-of-the-faithful-book-2-international-mission-board/1103525891?ean=9780849946233&itm=3&usri=voices%2bof%2bthe%2bfaithful%2binspiring%2bstories%2bof%2bcourage Barnesandnoble.com
God’s Spirit is at work throughout all corners of the earth, woven together in this string of testimonies from missionaries serving Him around the world. Booksneeze® was gracious to provide me with a free copy of Voices of the Faithful for review. A daily devotional, Voices of the Faithful provides snippets in the lives of missionaries and the beautiful and broken people they encounter. There is a spiritual battle of darkness versus light, and God is using miraculous miracles and confident connections to shepherd in His flock. Each day holds a Bible verse, an accompanying thought or story, and a prayer for those affected in the lines above.
What initially drew me to this book was Beth Moore’s name on the cover. I am a huge fan of her teachings, and was curious as to how her new series would speak to me. I opened to the first page and dug in, savoring each line and breathing in the real and raw need out there for others to know the Good News. The devotions were arranged by month, and each one within that month were tied together by an overlying theme. The short and to the point devotionals made them easy to read, and if I had limited time in the day for my quiet time, I pulled out this book, read a day or two (if I fell behind!) and found nourishment for my soul. I would recommend this book for anyone who wants to read of the true and marvelous happenings around the world, and how God is using so many people like us to get His message across.
Image courtesy of http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/voices-of-the-faithful-book-2-international-mission-board/1103525891?ean=9780849946233&itm=3&usri=voices%2bof%2bthe%2bfaithful%2binspiring%2bstories%2bof%2bcourage Barnesandnoble.com
Monday, August 1, 2011
At Your Mercy
My palm extends,
a blooming jasmine
unfolding in early morning.
My fingers,
softly stretching off
the bud of my hand;
they reach to you.
Please, cradle
this flower gently
in your embrace,
look upon it in wonder
at the delicate beauty
laid before you
and completely
at your mercy.
Sorry I've been horrible at keeping this up. I hope to be better at this now.
a blooming jasmine
unfolding in early morning.
My fingers,
softly stretching off
the bud of my hand;
they reach to you.
Please, cradle
this flower gently
in your embrace,
look upon it in wonder
at the delicate beauty
laid before you
and completely
at your mercy.
Sorry I've been horrible at keeping this up. I hope to be better at this now.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Unsaid Words
Words.
Are they ever fully understood?
I'm not finding the right ones, lately. And, to be honest, I'm terrified of what they will say when they are finally discovered.
Are they ever fully understood?
I'm not finding the right ones, lately. And, to be honest, I'm terrified of what they will say when they are finally discovered.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Time is Ticking
The big question is whether you are going to be able to say a hearty’ yes’ to your adventure. –Joseph Campbell
Yikes. I honestly don't know. I want to. Desperately. But I still lack courage. Still am paralyzingly afraid.
All I know is that I'm still sitting here, going through the monotony of life, and time is ticking.
I think my clock might be broken.
Yikes. I honestly don't know. I want to. Desperately. But I still lack courage. Still am paralyzingly afraid.
All I know is that I'm still sitting here, going through the monotony of life, and time is ticking.
I think my clock might be broken.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Sliced My Skin
He was the only one
who saw right through me,
the only one who sliced my skin
to the specimen beneath;
his little crystal catastrophe.
My heart pumped in place,
squirting blood through my body,
crimson threads watched carefully
through translucent sliding doors.
He saw what no one cared to see;
no one dared to dance so close.
He broke me open,
a puzzle of a thousand pieces,
each assembly never quite
fitting as before;
his lopsided lover.
When the morning moans
in waking limbs,
he will fly on metal wings
away from me.
His carry-on carries my confidence,
my fractured figments he could not
fit inside the baggage so
carefully folded and checked.
A porcelain tear traps
my frozen face;
even ice statues stain scarlet.
Yesterday, I brewed my own coffee. On Monday night, I went to Caribou Coffee and bought a Mocha Java blend. In the morning I used my little coffee maker an old co-worker gave me when she left. I measured out the blend, added water to the maker, and pushed the "on" button. Soon enough, I had a delicious smelling aroma filling my cubicle. I poured myself a cup, added some creamer, whipped cream and caramel, and away I went. But I wasn't sure if it was good coffee. I usually go for the lattes and mochas, the stuff with milk and sugar and flavor, so I wasn't sure how coffee was really supposed to taste. So I asked my co-worker Bev if she wanted any, and I poured her a cup. She tried it out and said it was good, and that I had gotten the hang of it.
Success!! I'm very proud of myself in so many ways- for not stopping at Starbucks, for brewing my own, and turning out a decent pot of coffee, at that. I read something on my Compassion International newsletter that struck me- that if I cut down on one latte purchase, I could use that money to donate to charity, to donate to a worthy cause and help someone who really needs that money. I'm going to try and do that- if I cut down on my Starbucks even a few times a week, that money will pile up and I can give to one of the groups Compassion helps with. I'm going to try. So far, I've cut back twice in the past two days. That's already practically $10 I've saved, $10 that will help someone waiting to be heard and helped.
Now It's Day 2 of my coffee making adventure, and I still made a good pot! So, unless it's a 2 day fluke, I can brew a mean cup'a joe. I'm still really, really proud of myself, as stupid as it sounds. I don't know why I'm so excited about this. I really don't. But I haven't gotten excited about anything in a very long time so I'm going to take this newfound emotion and run with it :)
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Bold
I sketched his smile into the sky.
Whenever I looked into the
early evening atmosphere,
I saw him dancing with
the lullaby of dusk,
and I would sway along.
Great is my boldness of speech toward You, great is my glorifying of You; I am exceedingly joyful in all our tribulation.
-2 Corinthians 7:4
This couples everything I have been reading and hearing about these past 2 days. It fits perfectly and might as well be my verse for the year. And then my verse today is Hebrews 4:16, which tells us to boldly step to the throne of grace.
Bold. This is something I am not. But scripture clearly tells me to be. I may be bold because of Christ. I don't know much, but I know that God is God. He is faithful. He is strong. He will make good on His promises. I know He's got it all figured out. But I still must go confidently before Him to find out what He has in store for me.
Lord God, grant me strength.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sea of White
We woke up early in the morning
that December 18th,
drove out to Hatter's Field to
welcome in the sun's arrival.
The ice was thick over our windshield,
bunching branches and our hope.
Against the atmosphere our lips blew
shapes onto transparent canvas;
we couldn't form a word.
Seven weeks we danced around
the cloud that took our breath.
Your whiskers snared in sunlight
as we watched colors crescendo,
my eyes lay swimming in the
sea of white beneath our feet.
Frigid highs met frigid lies;
we searched for signs in
sliding predawn to keep our
promises warm.
Because I needed to post something.
I saw this on a neon flashing sign of a church I drive by every day:
Epiphany: have you had your awakening?
New year. New opportunities.
that December 18th,
drove out to Hatter's Field to
welcome in the sun's arrival.
The ice was thick over our windshield,
bunching branches and our hope.
Against the atmosphere our lips blew
shapes onto transparent canvas;
we couldn't form a word.
Seven weeks we danced around
the cloud that took our breath.
Your whiskers snared in sunlight
as we watched colors crescendo,
my eyes lay swimming in the
sea of white beneath our feet.
Frigid highs met frigid lies;
we searched for signs in
sliding predawn to keep our
promises warm.
Because I needed to post something.
I saw this on a neon flashing sign of a church I drive by every day:
Epiphany: have you had your awakening?
New year. New opportunities.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)