Tending Soil.

I got home today, my heart dried and burdened, heavy. Like wilted leaves and droppy flowers browned with heat, saddened by the stories of students, the hurt in their faces. Weary of running, rushing, busy like a tornado at school, feeding joy into students and charisma in smiles and words, but finding myself emptying to them too. A heart tired and weak, limp with energy, loose with emotion, leaking tears. Pursuing calling, purposefully used, prospering in the lives of those who need, but faltering in strength under its weight.

I trudged up the steps to my home, my heart a mirrored reflection of the flowers at my sill.

Filled with prayer - a longing for wisdom, desire for balance. My heart, a cry to be steadfast. My thoughts filled with my day: the tasks, the faces, the papers. My soul, yearning for home. Wishing to wipe away my complaining, to erase the traces of embittered fear. To rest, to be.

I lay the leathered bag at the door, and slip my feet into soft sandals, orange dress still snug at the waist and trailing behind in fullness of flow. I pad down the crusty soil to reach for the hose spout, stretch for the wooden handles of trowel and spade. Darkened, rich black soil fills my work, my handles gloved and smeared with earth. My dress a sash around the greenery of leaves dancing upward in the water trendles.

I feel this deep in my heart, the enriched soil wishing to be tended, the Masters hand at work within to grow roots, dried and exposed. I know His touch, his kneading, I make the choice to respond to His patience. To evaluate the soil levels of my soul. I hear my own voice, knowing it, telling me to rest. To be home. To linger over red wine, to write, to fill the tub of lavender and soak. To encapsule time to love well: to mail letters, to respond to words, to mold friendships. To plan spaces for prayer: for wisdom and discernment, for prodding my soul, for love over my friends.

I find myself, my soul, in the garden. My heart, like hydrangeas in tended soil, once broken and cracked, gaining strength and life from the rich dirt of heaven, of home.

Catching Fireflies, and Keeping Them.

Mark and I were walking along the paths of Raintree in the quiet harvest of the cooling sun. A quaint night, lingering along the lines of golf greenways and meandering under crested trees tilted in dusk, dancing with darkness, encompassed by ponds, and speckled with bright little specks of light, fireflies.

Mark leaned over, with my watching eyes of delight, and reached to catch fireflies...

I feel like that these days. I feel like I'm catching fireflies -- little bright moments of great, bursting joy and goodness, held carefully in my hand, and close in my heart. I'm catching fireflies right now, and keeping them.

~ Greeting Mark with red wine and pasta and my joy from his early flight home, and wishing on good things during dinner, then masquerading like a movie, enchanted, through the courses of green that roam my backyard... Wandering, lingering, loving such places...

~ Riding bikes with Trish on a Sunday afternoon, relaxing under the shade of tree and friendship, letting no walls or barriers come between us or conversation... Greens of so many leaves, a canopy over us, the sun sharing bits of its color, and my heart rested and full, peddling the pattern of hers...

~ Being tossed around and laughing, swirled and swung, strung along like joy on a string between the dancers of Chantilly Hall... Grinning wildly at Mark and Brad and Trish, and watching their faces enthralled with dizziness and release and fully present... Eating ice cream cookie sandwiches afterward; letting it melt in my mouth like the soft cherishing of the memories being made with friends...

~ Charmed by Mark, walking with him through streets of Dilworth and remarking on homes and houses and character. Resting in the conversation of each other, the calm of afternoon strolls, the little wooden bench strapped to the side of the walk, and the doors of wood enamored... Marking days and hours by nothing over than our laughter or thoughts or words...

~ Giddy with my nephew, exploding with fullness, hearing his voice over his first day of school. Learning about his bus, his teachers, his orange plaid shorts, and his backpack. Hearing his words at the end of our stories, when I blew billowing kisses over the phone. His replies captured my heart: The first, he said, "I missed it." The second, "I didn't catch it." the third, "I caught it... but I let it go." The fourth, "I caught it, and I'm going to keep it!" And hearing his voice in a final, "I love you" with my heart reacting with complete embrace.

~ Being alongside Mark, praising and joyful, a steadfast heart in worship. Remembering the wholeness of everything captured stained-glass window affront, hearing the voice of my Pastor, and believing good things for us both...

I'm catching fireflies these days, and keeping them.

~

"Mary treasured up all of these things and pondered them close to her heart." Luke 2:19

Violated.

I had a situation a couple of weeks ago, where a friend made strong comments and shared stories that were above the rapport of our friendship. My words, chastising as I thought, were not strong enough to stop him from violating who I was. Though his physical actions remained in check, his demeanor, tone, words, and innuendoes left me squirming inside. Feeling completely used and uncomfortable in my own skin. Eventually, I melted and cried over the whole episode to two friends, still feeling inner angst and disgust. Wanting to be clean of his use.

This morning, I was working in my classroom when someone came over and made a few comments that left me uncomfortable. I just shook my head, thought he was creepy, and walked away. But then this afternoon, he came back. He came back with looks in his eyes and gestures in his figure and words about me "messing with him" that left me again, crawling inside, wishing there was more places to hide, and wondering what it is that calls for me to be violated.

I stood at a cash register today, grabbing a bottle of herbal pills, with little else on my mind. A man came in and stood close up behind me, then loudly bursted words about other types of pill usage that I wouldn't even repeat here. I tensed and stood my ground, not wanting to turn around or look at the faces of him or the male cashier. Just handed my dollar bills. But the awkward silence stayed until the man made another comment. Then the cashier played into it too, using words I would blush at even in front of girlfriends. I just grabbed my wallet and stared at the floor and said nothing until the cashier said, "Wait, do you two know each other?" The male customer said, "No, not yet, but I'm working on that." And I frantically just said, "Uh, this is awkward" and strode out the door. Again, cringing, crawling inside, feeling violated.

I'm not his. I'm not theirs. I'm Gods. I'm future husbands. I'm my own. This body is not a figure, not a thought, not a piece of something for any of them to think beyond that. But their looks, their words, leave me cringing inside and creepy in my own skin. Wondering and praying and reviewing my words, my actions, my dress, what it is that I've called for that would bring this obtrusive behavior.

I think of the words of Paul in I Corinthians, "You are not your own, you are bought with a price..." (6:19-20). And how that price of of the Lords and the man I will be with. No one else gets to chip away at the dowry. No one else should put up betting terms. Paul commands: "The wife's body does not belong to her alone, but also to her husband. In the same way, the husband's body does not belong to him alone, but also to his wife" (I Corinthians 7:4).

These men have chosen, stolen, the opportunity to abuse this command. They have taken something not their own, whether in word or look or gesture, and made it feel used, cheap, and violated. Today, they violated me.

Restored.

"I will restore to you the years that the locusts has eaten...." Job 2:25

Restoring the years of the locusts. What beautiful words. Restore -- what hope. It makes me think of fallen, broken pieces, tenderly gathered and nurtured back together with tender, loving hands molding each piece into new form, gently, carefully, graciously.

I look over the last two years with wonder, with rest. I see the broken; I am the broken. But now I see new hands. Big, strong, Father hands. I see the Potter, I feel my heart of clay. Wounded and weary, now massaged to be anew. Believing.

I see the years the locusts have taken. But now, I also see restored. I see friends and family gathered near, around me in Grand Rapids, alongside me in Charlotte. I taste the freshness of food, of the flavor of life cooked over my stove and shared in the fullness of love at my table. I listen to encouragement and gather hugs of church women. I greet smiles of students, and fill with giddy excitement. I lay in the crest of a man, his arms with mine; we hold. I linger for hours with friends, life our conversation, language like love we share.

He has restored to me the years the locusts have taken. He is restoring me. I am a heart full. I am a woman loved. I am a believer blessed. I am restored.

Crows and Locusts.

Posted on my original blog. Monday, July 11, 2011. Used as a parallel post to "Restored."

It was the year
The crows and the locusts came
The fields drained dry the rain
The fields are bleeding

"Daddy don't cry, it'll be alright"
She puts some water on the wound
And hums a little tune
While her courage puddles on the ground
Pooling, pooling

See the murder and the swarm descend
And the night is getting thick
The moon telling her tricks
She'd betray her every time

It was the year
The crows and the locusts came
The fields drained dry the rain
The fields are bleeding

It was the age
The foxes came for the fields
We were bleeding as we bowed to kneel
And prayed for mercy, prayed for mercy...

~ Brooke Fraser, "Crows & Locusts"

I went to the cemetery today. Rain trendled down like sorrow over movement. Puddles gathered wet and soiled, steaming in cracks. Grass green but empty, season void. Birthday balloon flunked and dripping, heavy over floral. Flag limping, a dangle in the dew.

My umbrella held over her stone, a shield of me. Heavy with heart. Motion of thought.

"The year the crows and the locusts came..." It's the eating away, the gnawing at every edge of leaf, the famine of heart, the brunt of relationships. The dirt of me, dusty of hurt and pain and grief and betrayal. The "bleeding [knees] bowed to kneel, prayed for mercy..."

It's April 2009 - May 2010. "The year the crows and the locusts came..."

Geraniums faded pink mushed with white buds in bronze vase. One single, petaled rose, planted and blooming with size. I mark the words on stone: Forever A Living Example and look around.

Buds speckle the landscape. Reds, hues of blue, perching yellows and organic greens. Vases overwhelm and flow bright with life and color. Memorial flags and honors positioned.

Life.

Life in the cemetery. It grows.

It grows in pigments of daffodils and peonies and daisies and day lilies too. It grows in raised flags, wind whipped and fighting in breeze. It grows in stories and faces and generations living, past the lives there once brilliantly lived.

I went to the cemetery today. I hung back, washed by water, remembering the same, that Day.

I burrowed inside, remarking the mourning of the year the crows and the locusts came.

I rejoiced. At flowers spurning upward. At growth inside of me. At freedom of forgiveness. At release in the depth of me. At a live well-lived, blessing abundantly, marked by years.

"It was the year the crows and the locusts came..." It ate away at all I had, I knew, I was.

Yet now I see outside the grave - the flowers, the petals, the trees. The garden of hope, a world anew, and a blessing of good to me.

Front Porch Sitt'n.

I have a neighbor; his name is Sam. Sam sits on his front porch everyday, almost the entire day. He smokes cigarettes and survey's the neighborhood and swats bugs and tells stories.

I listen in, with girly delight, to this toothless man talk about Marine days in France, multiple wives, his son Wes, marketing success, working with adolescent boys. I listen to stories about bar brawls and bleeding knuckles, about singing Lady Antebellum at karaoke, about cicada bugs shedding skin. I listen to 190s mill-town adventures, black-woman hair combings, and the trouble he caused as a teen. He shares bits of church years growing-up, and says things about the boys I should date.

I laugh a lot, let my legs dangle over the rail, and sip sweet tea. I look at him, shake my head, and love the hours that pass between us.

Sam is sixty-four, smart, and as crass as a man can get. He takes me in, like a little daughter with a lot of sass. He speaks about things I should do, or shouldn't do, and watches the clock over my place. He swears and scratches his brows at watching me trying to haul boxes in my door, or power wash the siding, or string ceiling fans. He stares at the people going in and out of my house, and lets me know what he thinks as he sizes them up.

Front porch sitt'n with Sam is always interesting, always good, always something to love, laugh, and ponder about. I am so thankful for this neighbor, for front porch sitt'n with Sam.

To Love My Husband.

She sat with a pink boa around her neck. Feathered and frilled and fluffy, a tea cup dangling in her hand, and a delighted smile across her lipsticked face. I gathered at the table with her, with four other friends, all decked out in dresses and dainty jewels, holding tea sandwiches in our hands. She had invited us in, invited us to her table. Her tea.

And I'll never forget her words, "I was called to love my husband. I wasn't called to the Philippines, but I was called to love him..." And she told the story of how that looked.

She was born into a family with a distant mother, no sisters, and few women who were flourishing in her life. She longed for that companionship. Then she married her husband, and birthed boys, still waiting for the love that only exists between ladies. Then mid-life, her husband pursued a calling to go to the Philippines. She felt no such pursuit. Yet in wrestling it over, she knew it was his calling and resolved, "I was called to love my husband, and that meant called to go and serve wherever he was called."

So they packed bags and headed to this foreign land of darker skin tones, crowded alleyways, honking cars, and steaming rice. As roots for him began to spread, her heart still craved meaning, purpose, and her own places to bloom. So she started to pray. And God put it on her heart to start blooming where she was planted; to start loving the women she was with. So she started teas and welcomed women into her home to linger and love and form friendships, as only ladies do. And God used her.

I have seen other women do this. Live called to love their husbands. I have seen my friend Amy move across regions to plant in Wisconsin, in loving, obedient support to Gordon. I have seen my friend Bekah leave the life she thought they planned, to root in Grand Rapids to love Ryan through seminary. I have seen Danielle waddle pregnant through the Moroccan airport towing two three-year-olds, to love Dave on a pursuit of business. I have seen my mom attend Corvette Conventions, my friend Sandy stand near helicopters, and my sister set dinner on the table.

I've seen women take this call, this godly command, to love their husbands. In seeing them, I feel honored. In witnessing their Covenant, I am encouraged. In knowing them, I am blessed. And I am thankful for these women who live called, to love their husbands.

This is Morning.

This is morning. The quiet whisper of lawn mowers, the softness of dew on the grass. The chorus of birds in the distance, the click of keys from my hand. This is morning.

This is morning. The smell of coffee steaming, the filled terracotta pot. The raspberry almond slice, the Lord listening in. This is morning.

This is morning. The sun stretching over, the umbrella a created shade. The piles of books and journals, the linger of life in me. This is morning.

Redwoods and Roots.

I was 'home' in Michigan the month of July. Enjoying the fellowship of family and friends. Fully living the days of the lake, of little boutiques, of freedom in that place.

While driving on a day trip, a discussion came up about my feelings of family, friendship, and the fellowship that formed the night before at my home-warming party. With flying hands and a full heart, I bubbled about how beyond-blessed I felt, how I couldn't believe all the faces I saw there, huddled in that space, supporting me.

In response, my Aunt said, "Christina, your life is like redwoods" and she went on to explain:

"You will not see a redwood standing by itself. While these majestic tress look big and powerful, their roots are quite shallow for their size -- only about four to five feet deep. They are only are as powerful as they are because the root systems of all the trees are all intertwined. This invisible yet powerful interconnectedness gives the redwoods the strength to withstand the elements and let them survive for centuries."

I rested into this wisdom. Believing and thinking the truth of it. Thankful for all those who hold fast to me like redwoods, and give me roots.

Rocks In the Mail.

Rocks. In the mail. Wrapped in little cardboard boxes or manila envelopes or containers for packaging. They kept coming in. Like little secrets. Little promises. Little mysteries.

They read: II Corinthians 12:9, Psalm 23, I Timothy 1:12, Mark 12:28-34... Little passages etched in crevices.

They are life to me. They are hope. They are meaning.

They are symbols of love during loss. They are markings, makings of reality in desperate hope. They are gift.

Rocks in the mail.

~~~

Backstory to this Post:

July of 2009 I e-mailed friends and family asking for prayer, for Nehemiah's Wall.

I'm asking you to go to battle with me and pray. In Nehemiah,

half of the people went to the wall to rebuild it in Jerusalem,

they were captives and exiled and now going home to rebuild.

But the surrounding countries were angry and tried to stop them,

so the other half of the people and to stand

with swords and armor and protect the wall.

So I'm asking you to be the swords and ready and pray over me...

These words spurred a secret e-mail from my cousin to everyone I'd asked to take up sword, requesting them to send rocks. To carve verses in them. To be physical parts of my Nehemiah's Wall. They still symbolize that today. Grateful, I am, for this compassioned enactment. This marking of faithful friends and family, always fighting forward for me.

Prayer Chair.

I have this chair, cozy and cornered in my piano room. It fluffs with a soft violet blanket (gifted to me from a student when my mom died) and a small quilted pillow. Aside it resides a round metal stand, my parents, with lavender scent, Jesus calling, wooden flowers, and the Bible inscripted with my name from my grandma. It's this corner that I look at, and rest. And remember...

I remember that God hears prayers. He hears personal prayers. He hears prayer chair prayers.

There used to be an old, wooden, stiff-backed chair in this corner. It drew no longing, and posed like a cold fortress. It kept me out of the room, the room I had envisioned and sought to be my most comforting, my favorite with Trish's old window, cracked and hanging, Aunt Mil's wood book shelf, stacked and treasured, Homerich baker's rack, resourced and decorated, mom's fingered piano, tuned and remembered. The room needed a prayer chair.

But I felt selfish, spending so much on my house, my home, and the chair seemed like one more extravagant purchase. Yet I longed to cuddle in it, to grab my phone and linger with friends or journal the hour away or flip through Colossians and meditate or melt into Jesus Calling and be reminded.

So I prayed about it. As foolish as it seems, I prayed beyond my selfishness that if God willed it, he would provide it. And flippantly added that he provide the money from somewhere other than my depleting bank account. And I let it go. Released the prayer chair to his hands and walked away.

My mom had a prayer chair the last few years of her life. She kept her books and Bible and journals right near it and would settle in with a cup of tea and the morning light. As children, her bedroom became her shelter place, away from the hub-bub of us kids scurrying around for school. My most treasured memories are her tucked in her covers with hair all-amess and layered with sheets and pens and leather and lists.

So I prayed this day, and released it to His faithfulness, with honesty, little expectation. Until I opened the mail and pulled out a blue slip. A check. For several hundred dollars from my insurance company. With no explanation. I stared. Re-read the contents. Peered around the room. Furrowed my brow. Then touched my hand to my heart.

The Lord gifted me. He gave me my prayer chair!

Now the chair sits in my corner, a comforting reminder that the Lord hears. The Lord whispers permanent promises to us. The Lord longs to be gracious to us. The Lord leans in to be with us.

And when I doubt, and there will be days when I doubt, I will curl up into the cushion and constant testimony of my Prayer Chair.

Who God Says I Am.

A scaffold of conversations grows with in me an impassioned earnest to stamp friends with the Truth of who they are. I'm listen in to their self-doubts, lies, and ambiguity. Stories of family history, hurtful words, and concealed pain hang like heavy burlap. Their faces reveal angst, anger, fear, and self-disappointment. Frustration builds in me, as I know the opposite. I anger at the devil, piercing them with such deceit and fear and question.

About two years ago, I found myself destroyed by everything that unraveled and not knowing what that meant as my identity seemed shattered. In the fall of that year, I was ruminating on a Beth Moore message "You Are Who God Says You Are" and felt Him speaking Truth over me. I was lost in the chaos of definitions, labels of worldly worth, and scarlet letters people drapped over me.

But God pushed through. I sat down that night with colored construction paper and photographs and a plethora of pens and created a poster, like a child in kindergarten. The result turned into a Billboard of Truth for my life:

I Am Who God Says I Am is printed boldly, strongly in the middle. Words of redeem, renewal. Words of strength, truth, reality. Then around the frame I scrawled words, each like statements of Truth gifted: discerning, feminine, compassionate, creative, just, empowered...

As listen to the heavy hearts of friends, I beckon the same for them. That they may wear Billboards of Truth around their neck and be purposed in who God sees them.

At Home.

If I'm baking a raspberry white chocolate almond tart at eleven pm on a Friday night, does that make me a 1950s throw back or a Proverbs 31 woman?

Okay, seriously, I can't help it. I'm home. Yes, home. Which means I've been baking and cooking up a storm. I pick up fresh grated parmesan from my Harris Teeter, watermelon from Providence Produce, and vinaigrette from Trader Joes. Then two years of bent up energy is released in baking brownies, layering truffle parfaits, decorating tacos, pouring wine, refilling peach ice tea, slicing tomatoes, arranging limes with lemons, chopping onions, sprinkling ice cream dessert, stretching pizza dough, stirring banana bread, sprinkling feta, stacking spices, and sautéing peppers.

I moved my old ipod speakers to the kitchen, tucked beside the mini coffee pot and beautiful cookie jar. So with a background of Lady Antebellum or Sugarland or the Walling Jennys or Music from the Wine Lands, I mull around and drink wine and create...

Aside me, a crystal knob apron rack hangs yellow fabric from my sister, another with white roses from my mom's best friend, and a pink frill I bought with my mom. They remind me of aprons in heaven. Pictures of friends and favorite places hold like lingering love and memories against the buttery yellow wall. This space is dotted with treasured memories, delicate details, and the fresh feeling of cottage comfort. It's home to me. Home.

Bedtime with Lindsay.

I love bedtime with Lindsay. I flop onto her mattress and listen to her day unravel. Or she climbs onto my bed and we sit and talk like college girls. Or we sit on kitchen counter tops and spill out the contents of the day. Around midnight we part with thoughts flowing through the air. Later, she brushes her teeth and we laugh about funny things or her stories and shenanigans. Finally, we pitter patter to our rooms with smiles on our faces.

There is something so special about sharing bedtime. Especially when it's bedtime with Lindsay.

The Separate Life.

SUNDAY, JULY 31, 2011

I've been having conversations recently with a few people about texting, tweeting, Gchat, smart phones, etc. In most of my friendships, I'm not overly concerned about their/our use of these technology tools, because they really are tools to help us connect, relate, network. Not distractions or illusions.

Yet, I am wary of overuse of these instruments of communication. Because some relationships seem to formulate through emails and Facebook messages, but then fall flat face-to-face. Yet the human heart, is lured and drawn and comforted most fully, face-to-face. It is expressed in the twinge of the lips, the curl of lash, the crinkle in the brow.

What I am more fearful for, is how sometimes the use of these resources lend to a 'separate life.' For example, you can text one guy for a week, multiple times a day, and no one else would know you're even friends with him. Or, you can text comments to a co-worker, that you know if his wife saw it, she would be mortified. Or, you can do the same with Gchat, FB messages, etc... formulate relationships that almost appear secretive, and some purposefully are.

I have a few friends who have said so, about themselves. I have others, who I know if someone checked their computers or phones, that person would be ashamed, defensive, and/or humiliated.

The definition of integrity is "adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty" and "the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished." (dictionary.reference.com)

In your use of technology tools, live, act, and communicate with integrity. Create and sustain a whole life; one that weaves in and out of these instruments as methods, but that still measures your character with respect and your relationships with reality.

Seeds on Thorns.

"The one who received the seed that fell among the thorns is the man who hears the word, but the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth choke it, making it unfruitful." (Matthew 13: 22).

Unfruitful faith is the result of distracted hearts. Choked by the things of this world, by the daily, the mundane. Distracted by our fears, worries, concerns. Knotted by our introspection which stare us focusing at ourselves. Mounded by lies. Lies of words -- the worries that wrench at us like a gnarled witch's and twist into our thoughts and hearts until we no longer see out of them -- and lies of worldly things. That heaping desire to acquire and appear and attain.

The seed falls on good soil, on the heart of a believer, ripened to grow. The ground has been tilled and planted, good has great possibility of blooming. But the life from this soil bears nothing. Why?

Worries. Worries kill faith, kill fruitfulness. I wrote a statement down several years and resonates with me weekly and I pledge it over my heart: Fear is the opposite of faith. Worry is fear. We become so consumed in ourself, our plans, our ideas, our thoughts, our busyness that the running keeps us from using that energy to build the Kingdom and grow closer to the Father (The Chase). If a we are consumed inwardly, it is difficult to grow and bud outwardly.

Secondly, wealth in itself isn't bad. It is the deceitfulness of wealth that kills the fruitfulness of faith, thus the fruitfulness of the gospel, of the heart. Jesus knew many wealthy, they were the Lydia's that spun cloth, the Nicodeamus' that sat at the city gate, the Simons who welcomed him in. He did not question their wealth. He loved them, deeply. And was blessed by their use of wealth -- providing meals for him and his disciples, home to sleep in at night, and secure Senators even who believed his Truth.

Jesus' problem is wealth is a heart matter. It's like reading about David, "The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearances, but the Lord looks at the heart" (I Samuel 16:7). Christians can have wealth, as long as it is not their idol (Matthew 6:24). The Lord cares about generosity, integrity, character, serving. Dollar signs are indifferent in his book. He can use us with little, lots, or none. But for the gospel to be alive and prospering in us, it is important that our heart (perspective and financial use) is not deceived by the lure of wealth, but rather is trained to use it to honor truth, life, and the Kingdom.

Gone Before.

FRIDAY, JULY 29, 2011

"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged." (Deuteronomy 31:8 NIV)

Driving to Porter Ridge my first days in October, this verses was my mantra. The sun rising over 485 going eastward to Lawyers Road, my heart pumping and mind racing with anxious thoughts all blurred into one big, daily episode of fear, overwhelm, and insecurity. Everything in me became constrained and swirling, my composure fighting for dignity and strength, my head immersed in lies of self-defeating prophesies.

Then my friend Amy lent me these words:

"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you;

he will never leave you nor forsake you.

Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged." (Deuteronomy 31:8 NIV)

This truth over me prevailed. It receded the angst and inabilities and questions and fears. It set HIM above all, through all, and with all. With me. Truth that lighted my path, cleared my way, and postered divine purpose to Porter Ridge.

This summer, I've had 'little' ways which the Lord has gone before. Trish and I are both reading this phenomenal book, A Praying Life by Paul Miller. (I'll write about this another day, but it's an instant classic on my shelf and in my heart.) It has opened the curls of my lashes to the presence of the Lord preparing the way in my life.

Let me expound a bit. He's so intensely showing up in the little things, that I can't help but lean over and say, "Did you pray for that?"

Like providing me with a free cup of coffee on a delighted day post-Marie Catribs where I craved one so bad, but couldn't get myself to fork over the $2.59.

Or praying one night about how to "end well" with friends and family yet torn between times and schedules and places... which turned into Trish & I opting out of the beach which allowed good time with Bekah, and our Grand Haven day turning to rain, which sat us at my sisters table with tea and then laying later on tubes with ice cream and book covers and conversations...

Or accidentally reserving only one night in Nashville, amidst our many tries to expand our stay, which found us then along Main Street Franklin with shops closed and driving home that day anyway...

Or standing outside of Church At Charlotte with my friend Katherine, asking her to water my flowers for a day or two while I was gone (after endless and anxious reorganizing of how I was going to try to get my flowers watered while I was gone; trying to take the burden off any one person). Her reply instead being, "Why don't I just live there!?" in exclamation and expectation, full eyes brimmed with enthusiasm. So, sure enough, she moved in for a month and watered my flowers which thus bloomed with boasting hydrangea blues and spurning hosta stalks.

Like sprinkles atop frosting, God has gone before me. These little clippets declare Him like testimonies along the way. I see his hand marking my steps, his palms clearing the way, his heart setting a stable path for my feet. He knows me, he loves me, he claims he, he proves himself through me. Whether anxious worries or coffee cravings, the verse collaborates with the common pronouncing that the Lord has gone before.

On Writing.

Launching a blog is a little bit like giving your head and your heart away. It's all your thoughts and heart whispers lended to the world to see, react to, weigh in, and wonder. It's a little scary. Okay, maybe a lot scary. But it is also something the Lord uses in me, for me. It's this inkling that I have inside that compels me to share, to write.

In my original blog I penned:

In writing, I am often tempted, and I would say, rightly so, to hide some parts of me. Some of the real depths of what I think and feel. And at times, write moreso so my reader can feel and gain from my words than for me. This is good as it shields some of the recesses of me. But it is also something I wrestle with.

The people I love the most don't hold back. They are real and honest and vulnerable to the core. They allow themselves to be teachers just simply in who they are, not in what they perceive others to gather from them. They are my favorite people to converse with, my favorite writers to read, and my favorite artists to listen to..."

It's only fitting then, I would share from

Sara Grove

s. I think if we met, we'd instantly be Sara and Christina, sitting at a quaint little cafe sipping on tea or coffee and downing scones while pouring out our hearts about love and life and the Lord and good things. But I also know the Lord has worked through her words, rendering a surrender and transformation. At one point, she felt like am observer of her work, and her producer Charlie

Peacock prayed forth:

"I want you to enjoy God and the gift of songwriting." Something about this stark statement is freedom. It's also the words that birth this blog. It's in writing, that I enjoy life. That I gather and glean good. That I sense the Spirit of God at work in me. It's in writing that I linger, love, and process the beauty of life.

In the writing life, one levitates on the weight of sharing, the worth of transparency, and the honesty of words. So as I begin this blog, I pray that God uses growth, complication, strength, stirrings, joys, thanksgivings, hurts, and healings, by Letting My Words Speak.