reflecting on past reflections

written 9/27/2017, shortly after beginning my sophomore year in college

dearest Lord,
you have made my heart glad where it used to be sorrowful. you have put new songs in my soul, songs that sing of your unending goodness to me. who am I that I should enjoy the movement of pine trees framed against the white sky? that I should enjoy a bike ride, or words written about the sensation of crying, that one’s vision was “diamonded? who am I that you should care about my sickness, my humor, the hairs on my head? that I should see the gnats shining briefly, illuminated by the afternoon sun, or enjoy the diversity of friendship, even get so close to another being as to be hurt, to feel the tender warmth of hands placed on shoulders during prayer? oh who am I?

Even now in gratitude you’ve baffled me. That I would’ve known myself apart from jealousy or insecurity–oh, what have you done? So peacefully you’ve led me here, along straight paths. I thank you, O Lord, with a song from my heart, the song you yourself wrote–a song of victory as you gave it all for me.

Thank you, Jesus. Keep making me distraught over people who don’t know you. I’m hurting because you hurt, O creator of good, you looked upon the unmarred and loved us. We marred it. You made a way to see past the brokenness, the bruises, the beating-up-of-ourselves in the long night…now you hurt alongside us and care deeply, deepest, oh the depths of your love unsearchable.

You’ve made me myself. I thank you. I need you. Every breath I take–may it be a prayer unto you. And when you look at me, Father, I pray you see weakness. When you look at me, Father, I pray you see a need for you. And when you do see, come quickly. Hasten to help me. Do what you want to in me, around me, through me…make yourself undeniable in my life and let your work result in greater praise and glory given to you. Now I know not how prayer works or why some people (like myself) are meeting in pre-prayer meetings, talking about, breathing you, while others know not that they are headed towards the grave–intellectualism, humanism, self-delusion, sexism, racism… Lord, I don’t know your ways, only that your ways are good.
Make me less. Lord, I give eloquence of speech to you, friendliness to you, health and comfort to you–if anything makes me “me” apart from Jesus, refine me and make me a better vessel. Bring more people to you. They need you. Thank you for revealing the truth to me, for saving me when I was in darkness. You are my favorite, the only lover who can love so well. I need you. I need you. Thank you Jesus.



It’s strange to reread my ramblings and scary to post them online. To be fair, I keep this blog (?) relatively anonymous because I’m afraid I’ll censor myself more, the more people know who’s writing. (Why?) I wish to share my writing, whether free-flow and journal-y like this or refined and research-y, with others more in the coming year. I think writing is itself an act of connection, even if only to a future or past self, as in this case…

The truth is, I don’t feel so deliriously joyful as I did on Sept 27th right now. I feel farther from it, and I struggle. But by chance (haha) I went looking through my writings from this past year, and felt encouraged, felt a longing for the deep intimacy I’d enjoyed with Christ and the fullness, the freedom, I’d consequently experienced. Jesus is faithful and real and good even when I’m the exact opposite of all those things. I think it’s important to reflect on reflections, and I wish to grow the courage to share more of myself to those who think they know a lot about me already. To share more of myself in various states.



I can’t take my mind off of you.

Neither can all of creation; we know it has been groaning until the present time. Pastures, plateaus, plains, they groan. Mountains, they mourn.
When will come the time of rejoicing? of singing together?
We’re waiting on you–
only make us steadfast.
Spirit help us in our weakness,
with groanings too deep for words. with groanings too deep for words.


I’m thankful especially during a time as this that I know Jesus. I know he cares for me even if all the world fails to care. Lately I’ve felt so burdened by those in my life who have been afflicted with many afflictions, and I feel weary. Inadequate to intercede for as long and as much as I want to. Spirit help me. Help me to believe my care, my trembling, is only a sliver of the heart you harbor towards them, that you have plans for us, plans unknowable and eternally glorious. Humble us, Lord, let us not take offense when your hand is heavy upon us. It is good that you remind us we are but men, but women, but children… sinners whose righteousnesses are as filthy rags before you. Help us be still.

And draw near, God. Draw near to the oppressed, the perplexed, the broken, the bitter, the burning. Be faithful to your namesake, though we have gone astray and made you to be someone you are not. Arise and make yourself known; make me to know what it means that your grace is sufficient, that your power is made perfect in our weakness. Let these be the living and active words you breathed them to be… Spirit help us.

Let us run after your promises, for they are the only things that will remain. Though the night grow dark and the light grow dim, help us to run after your promises. O make your word to be a lamp unto our feet so that we might not slip, but stand steadfast, too. Spirit help us. You are mighty. Willing. Able. Sovereign.

and you love us. O, you love us.

2 Corinthians 4
Romans 8


first snow anniversary

it snowed today last year.
You remember that and wrote my memory, too.
that makes me sing along the dry roads, sing
about being remembered and known by You,
known like a man knows his beloved.


after rehearsal

after all that was said and done and sung,
there was a sorrow still unsatisfied, all those layers of sin and selfishness.


got to sit still, so still in your presence,

eyes closed now, silence

all the aching inside from an unmet love and self-absorbed feelings,
shame about desire and dangerous dialogue.
the red face of a boy I feared would never want me for lack of things I couldn’t help but lack, and the nervous hiding, afraid of getting caught.
the annoyance, stretched thin and taut, you just can’t sing! the screaming repeated
over and over inside my head,
the distrust,
the ambition,
the covering up with false smiles and blushing, the fussing with hair,
the stooped arms.
the fatigue, the fear of being myself,
the fear of being myself, fully.

everything laid at your feet tonight, a sinner unsatisfied apart from you. I wept in your lap and you loved me. in your lap and you loved me. I wept and you loved me, that’s all.


i thought of stars



for all this lovespeak

for all your talking, you haven’t got much to show.

why do you make me feel ashamed of weakness? why the silence that meets my tears?
why turn your head in embarrassment? when I am okay bleeding?

in my mind I sit across from you, the plastic table hard, the seats too cushioned and tall– claustrophobe. I stare at you, your hair, how the sunlight falls on it and makes it golden, even more so, and your eyes dazing in and out, what are you thinking about? I sit across from you, make small talk, look out the window occasionally and exclaim about the sky, how blue it is, the clouds, how they move, and inside I am dying to ask you who I am to you, if anyone, if anything at all. “recognize” has latin roots meaning “to think again.”  I sit across from you, I call you dear friend, and I mean it, I hope. but a small insecure part of me also holds onto the ends of those words, the ends of love
and care
and thank you. soft-spoken. sincere.

holding onto those ends, why do I do that? I’m still afraid to love in freedom. love-do more than lovespeak. still afraid of not getting at least a little bit back. am I wrong to fear? I sit across from you and wonder, I slurp my chickpea soup, it’s lukewarm.



biking in the rain

the sweet surrender of it, first the toes sparkling and then the pavement, the whole world glistening. rain falling, and leaves, too, the shhhhh of wet speed, everything silent and silver and alive.

wanting to share it with someone, the color.

wanting it alone.

flowers pressed against the floor, bright orange, thin as paper. the relentless wet, like spit, quick, hitting the face, slow… sliding down the slope of nose, the scented lips.


the rain it rustles, if you listen closely, has a rhythm to it.


someday maybe i will share this with someone,

the vision of glass falling and muddy waves,
the giddy gliding,
clothes wet and hanging off like second skin, free–
we’re washing wet outside, the world
a tub, and time,
mine to give–
given generously.

biking in the rain, the sweet surrender of it.