walking on water

We are walking on water. 

It hit me this morning during my "quiet time" with Jesus. I was reading and praying and drinking, arguably, too much coffee. My devotional was about giving thanks in all circumstances as an act of spiritual obedience. It's not easy. The best way to explain what happened next is to say the Holy Spirit hijacked my morning and took me to another passage of scripture entirely (he's funny like that.)

I found myself in Matthew 14:22-36. The story of Peter walking on the water resonates with me. Peter is not challenging Jesus when he says "If it is you, command me to come to you!" He is exhibiting bold, unwavering trust. He knows only Jesus can give him the strength and the ability to do the impossible. And he's right! But moments later he loses sight of that simple truth, and that is when he sinks. 

Isn't this the perfect picture of how we live? My faith is bold, my trust runs deep. I can thank God for my circumstances, I can trust that He is using them for my good and His glory. Until ugly, nasty fear and doubt creeps in and pulls me under. Suddenly I catch myself drowning in a sea of anxiety. It rushes over my head. I panic. 

The truth is, anxiety feels a lot like drowning. So frantically Peter calls out "Lord save me!" 

I've been there. I've so been there. 

There are deep pains. There are hurts that you think can never be erased. There are fears and struggles and disappointments.  


The life we have been called to live is impossible. We simply cannot do it on our own. To give thanks in the worst circumstances? To lift our hands in praise when we are weary and burdened? To put the needs of others before ourselves? To trust that God is working in every situation? It's like walking on water. That's why we cannot do it without Him. 

We are walking on water, one step at a time. Sometimes we sink. But before we even utter those three simple words, He's already there, reaching His hand out to save. 

[throwback: more thoughts on anxiety here]

on my wind...

revving up, s l o w i n g  d o w n. stop then go. 
hear the sounds of cars passing right outside my window
it's locked closed but air seeps through it's worn-down weatherstrip
that empty space, it leaves a crack
that's the way it goes. 

he doesn't care if he's welcome
anyone will tell you that
permeating hidden spaces, buried deep in this old house
too hot in summer, too cold in winter:
extreme and uninvited. 

try your hardest just to fight it
resist with air conditioning and manufactured heat. 
fill that space with new air, breathing life into these rafters 
but that old window can't be trusted
she'll let the bought air out

so now it's cold and I should've seen it coming 
it's happened time and time again
the Indian summer is all too cunning
he'll have you believing he's a faithful friend.
when that October breeze wraps itself around you..
don't buy it. don't give in.
this tired game we play so often, I know it all too well. 
he doesn't need an open the door, he much prefers creeping in
so batten your hatches and play pretend
tell yourself you're safe. 
but wait.



boy you take the cake
I've made my share of mistakes  
but you are-- by far-- my greatest disappointment

revving up, slowing down. that's the way it goes. 
the problem with old houses... 
all the old windows. 

beloved

I went for a run yesterday morning. The sky was clear, the air crisp, the day promising. I set out on an old familiar course, a looping path I often take. I felt good until I rounded the last turn and saw the final mile stretch out before me. I felt the wind blow hard against my face. I resented it. I battled it. I struggled and pushed through that last mile, relieved when I finally reached the finish. 

I set out again this morning for that same familiar path. It was another glorious day, and feeling all the wiser after yesterday's struggle, I reversed my regular course, thinking I'd tackle the long stretch first, thinking the wind would push me along, thinking it had to be easier. But from the first few strides I struggled. My joints were achey, my muscles sore, and my mind was a jumbled mess. I didn't feel the wind helping me along, I felt my ankles locking and my heart hurting. And then I rounded that turn, only to realize my familiar course didn't seem so familiar after all. I never noticed the way those winding turns all have a slightly downward slope. Only this time I was fighting an uphill battle. And I was losing. When things go your way, you don't realize that you're coasting down easy hills, taking His provisions for granted. You don't realize that the other side of the street has always been shaded until you have sun and sweat burning your eyes.

It's supposed to get easier.

Like training for a marathon: each day gets a little easier, you're a little lighter on your feet, your gait becomes more natural, your stamina increases. Except when it doesn't. I struggled through my run and I caught myself wrestling with God. Instead of His beloved bride, I morphed into a bitter, nagging wife, bending His ear and hurling accusations. "I cooked dinner! Can't you at least do the dishes?!" What was relational became contractual in my limited mind. "I'm holding up my end of the deal, God! When does it get easier?! WHEN are you going to SHOW UP and make everything BETTER?!" I was drowning in my sinfulness, clinging to my self-righteousness like a flotation device, failing to realize it was a weight pulling me down even deeper. But grace abounds. 

He doesn't see me for my faults and my failures. He doesn't see a nagging wife, He sees His blushing bride. Sanctified, a new creation entirely, wearing the veil of righteousness of His perfect son. Your Maker is your Husband. (Isaiah 54:5)

YOUR MAKER is YOUR HUSBAND!

He created the entire universe and He cares for me. He holds eternity in one hand and my hand in the other. (Isaiah 41:13) On my own I am stubborn and indignant. In His sight, I am blameless. (Colossians 1:22) No matter how many times I fail Him, no matter how many times I turn or push Him away, He never gives up on me. He pursues me relentlessly. He reminds me who I am. 

So I'm realizing that sometimes it doesn't necessarily get easier. I can't say He didn't warn me. "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33) There's peace in knowing I will never have to figure it out on my own. 

Oh October

Oh October… She's stolen a place in my heart forever. Summer's final flourish, one-upping the months before her with a welcome change. A breath of fresh air. She can't keep a secret, heralding good things to come. She's sandy toes wrapped in a beach blanket. A clean house and messy hair. An old soul, a kindred spirit. "A pretty girl who plays her cards as if she were plain." She'll knock the wind out of you, an unexpected icy chill, but her golden rays will warm you to the bone. She's a quick wit, a kind heart with a sharp tongue. She means no harm, but she'll break your heart. It's not her fault, she knows good things-- they rarely last. She's used to getting her way & some will call her a show off, but I can't say I blame her. She laughs 'til she cries and cries 'til she laughs. She's a million contradictions, but her intentions: all good. 

the best sounds

wine glug glug glugging into the glass

that wobbly little laugh amidst tears

mom's old bread machine

distant waves on the shore

quiet.

kitchen aid mixer

popfizzclink

the first three notes of that familiar tune

a snoring pup

tea kettle whistling

fire & rain

bicycle bells

laugh/cry/sighh

still, small Voice

the keyboard clicking faster than the words in my head.

clay

She thought she was a painting.
A fine French masterpiece.
he beheld her in holy reverence,
knew every shadow, edge, and curve.
Contrived meaning, albeit superficial.
She used to glow in his spotlight,
held together by his frame.
Underneath the awestruck wonder,
a tinge of emptiness remained.
Mere canvas stretched over wood,
with watercolors running together, bleeding dry.

Before that: a book.
A spellbinding novel,
a page-turning thriller.
An epic, tragic, mystery.
he learned her language,
found meaning in her poetry,
found comfort in her prose.
Cover to cover, until the pages ran out.
No promise of happily ever after, simply:
The End.
These days she's at a loss for words.

He tells her she is clay.
Ever changing, malleable
She's softening in his hands
She's learning to trust him,
sometimes s t r e t c h e d thin || she cracks
He puts her back together, lovingly, carefully.
He knows her, He's been knitting her together since the beginning.

She is His, and she's finally realizing that's all that matters.

On my mind...

I am trespassing.

It's a strange feeling, in a place so familiarly unfamiliar, the nagging feeling that I don't belong.

Like the house of your childhood, where you lost your teeth and your training wheels, returning with nostalgia, only to see someone else's bike in the garage.

Or even worse, it's empty. The shadow of a home. Peering in the dusty windows, hoping for a sign of life.

The hardest roads we have to walk alone//

I flip through the archives, they stare back at me like an old photo album. Memories of a girl.

Memories of a voice. 

It's strange to see myself a stranger… to be inspired by words that I once claimed as my own. To be moved. 

Even stranger still, as that bellowing baritone became more muffled, so did everything else.  

That baritone was my metronome.

Though deep down I believe: you can't lose it if it was ever truly yours, it never goes away. It's always home, the cozy spot, tucked away in the trees, where daydreams and fantasies take afternoon tea. 

Everyone has their vices.

Vice, voice, virtue. 

Truth be told- I'm a little rusty.

I know, I know//