I’m asking for grace to choose to believe He really loves me even now when I’m reluctant to bow low before Him and so hungry for my own glory.
But one thing I believe (God help me) is that His love is better than life. Self glorification is so fear-filled and insecure, nothing like the freedom that comes from confessing with my whole heart that He is good and I am not.
You really came to set me free. You really came that I may have life and have it abundantly. You really are the way, the truth, and the life. Your love is truly better than life. You discipline those who delight in. Your love is steadfast, forever, wide, long, high, deep. And it will never fail me.
it sounds more like a platitude than a prayer. But I do hope you’re well, separated as we are by mile markers and painted roads, oceans, craggy mountain ranges, lonely plains. Well. do you hear the longing in that? the lingering l’s? I wish I knew what you looked like now, though I don’t want you to see me. I’m learning a lot about myself, too much to say or summarize into sentences. I wish I could show you my mind. (I wish I could see my own mind.) I am thankful for borrowed words, for words written online and in journals, in the margins of used books. Thankful for words that resonate, the ones that leave residues inside my heart. (I come back to them.) Thankful for sentiments about silence because I too find myself unable to utter any noise. Understand me. I grow scared to spill words onto pages, each letter like a grain of sand or soot dragged and dropped across the wide expanse of white. The sky, too, is always white here. It’s hard to look up at it and wonder if the sun you see, that lone star, looks the same where you are. And the nights are dark and rainy; there is no moon. I’m growing here, learning here, sharing stories with strangers here. More listening than talking, I think. Speaking in silences… like I do to you. But I hope you’re well. I really do.
wow. Rereading my blog makes me miss intimacy with You. The dark rooms I wept in, but not the shame and the sin that led me there. The leafy gardens I danced in, but not the ignorance I held there. Lord, I know that You are good and You have taught me and grown me and changed me. You have stayed the same, but now You are bigger. More You. I thank You for that, but I’m asking that You’d bring me back to that place—the dark room, the secret garden, the singing, weeping, dancing… I want to stay close to You. Teach me to do that. Teach me to desire You every moment of every day.
I am homesick for a place I have never seen before.
In English class we talk about you a lot. It seems no one knows you very well, but no one likes you too much. Tell me, is it because they fear you? You know their hearts–theirs are not mine to know. Do their words and thoughts fall on you like spit or like the blows you felt walking on that darkened hill? Or are your eyes still burning? Do you not feel the hurt anymore? What do the recesses of your heart look like? It feels like home to me, my refuge, my resting place. But do you keep from me what I can’t ever dare comprehend? How much do you hurt?
Your love goes deeper than these mortal wounds, I know. But I want to know you more. The more I’m with you, the less people see of me. It hurts, but I will say over and over and over again that I am okay with that. In my heart of hearts, this is what I want. You know my desires, and you satisfy them.
I’m okay with that. Sorry if it’s half-hearted or un-believed while you long for all of me. I’m still praying: take it all. take it all. take it all.
Woke up to a beautiful reminder and a powerful promise:
“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you.” (Ps 32:8)
The daily Bible verse today for many people, I’m sure, but it dropped into the edges of my tired eyes and slipped silently down my throat, sweet as honey, still flowing into the deepest parts of my spirit and soul.
Entering a new season, a new semester, I feel reassured. Reassured that He is with me always, to the very end of the age, that He will make straight my paths when I acknowledge Him in all my ways and lean not on my own understanding, that He knows me and is familiar with all my ways…
and on this quiet Sunday morning, reassured that when I awake, I am still with Him. (Ps 139:18)
“I always did something I was a little not ready to do. I think that is how you grow.”
Learning how to let go of fear and live in freedom. Unapologetically beloved. The words sound pretty and promising, but they have been smeared and stained and soaked and built and burned with prayers, heartaches upon aches upon aches, self-doubt, small faith, sleeplessness, and the beginnings of surrender.