nothing ordinary to see here

There is nothing ordinary about you. Not one thing. You are made. You are created. You are fully you. Come on, girl, you are created to be fully you.

nothing ordinary to see here

I know it is tough to not compare, to not look at the girl across the room with the pretty hair, the gorgeous smile, the beautiful words strung together just so. . .and think that makes you less beautiful. Less valuable. Less important.

She can’t be compared to you. 

You are the only one of you God created. He didn’t make a second one. He looks at you, and He smiles. He looks at you, the perfect shape of your eyes, the perfect sound of your laugh, the perfect design of your brain, and He says, yes, she’s the one I want. She is the daughter of whom I’ve dreamed.

Can you imagine God dreaming? Can you imagine God smiling at the thought of you, the beauty of His girl, the delight you are to Him, His dreamed-up daughter?

He dreamed you up and it just wasn’t enough. He didn’t leave you as just an idea, a draft, a mistake to be improved, to be turned to later. He didn’t have second thoughts. You were the one. You were the vision.

He made a mold, just this one, never to be made again. And He created you. Just like this. With beauty and strength and hope and glory growing. Because in Him, in His love for you, nothing stands apart. See yourself with true eyes now, girl. You grow ever more beautiful in your fullness, with Him.

There is nothing that can separate you from the love of your Creator for you. You are creation. You are glorious, as you. Only as you. So embrace the word “only”. There is only one you. Celebrate the word “just”. He made just one you.

He loves you. Oh, He loves you. He calls you by a name no one else has ever heard. No one else could ever imagine. You are the one He has made, and He doesn’t look around, wishing you were anything, anyone else.

Do you know that when He smiles, when He loves, when He fights and goes ahead, He is thinking of you? Do you know that when He laughs, when He sings, when He dances, when He speaks, He is thinking of you?

He is love, and in Him, there is nothing ordinary. He made you.

Oh, girl, just think of it. Just this:

He made you.



 Happily linking up with other non-ordinary women, over at Lisa-Jo’s place, for Five-Minute Friday.



The way you grab my waist and rest your chin on my shoulder, your beard against my neck. The way you go fearlessly into this new thing we are doing and because you believe it I believe it more, too. The way you sit across from me, hour after hour, at tiny round coffee shop tables and share lattes ’til noon, and then wander through green lawns, side by side, to pick up the kids.

The way you cheer me on, believing in me and know how I find strength in His words and go back and forth about feeling okay about my own and then feeling like the fraud of that twelve year old girl who scrawled poems in lined journals and share them aloud to her parents, to see how they would react.

The way you dream and risk and go forward and press in. The way you love words and the crafting of a sentence and communicating ideas to men who forget they have a leader and who strive and strive to be the man they already are.

The way you sit for hours on bleachers, with your laptop, searching for words and watching our boys, in football pads, play. The way you are the voice of our sweet Fulton, the furry buddy who is fearful to not be by my side. The way you hold me and make me laugh, the way you tell jokes to our daughter and tell her she is beautiful.

The way you tell me I am beautiful, and you love me, and how you say, “my dearest friend.”

Grateful for this 5-minutes of sharing, thanks to the prompt, by Lisa-Jo.


She is the one in the beginning, the one who walked and believed there was no where else, no existence, except by His side. She leaned in close, felt gentle strength holding her up, knew nothing mattered except to be near Him, with Him. She had nothing to remember, nothing to forget. Her footsteps were sure and her path clear.

Rain could fall and it would be only drops of promise, of a future only good, only safe, only hope.


She didn’t know yet, what it meant to look beyond herself, see herself, doubt herself, forget she was the one chosen, the one molded with hands who held the earth and shaped the sun and strung heavens out one after another and then another. It was before she found there were other whispers beyond the voice she knew, whispers that come in bright daylight as well as cold night. Whispers that bring with them separation and doubt and death.

She found what comparison and envy and distrust and ugliness and self-worth is, turned vile and hot. She found her beginning and end, the reality of herself without God, what she is without Him, all corruption before Hope comes again and washes what was her, until beginning.

Until beginning.


5-minutes of writing, in community, at Lisa-Jo Baker’s. Come on over to read all sorts of other voices, on “She”.

Praying you have the most beautiful weekend, friends.



I wonder how much mercy I have, those days I felt overwhelmed. The whole world pressing in around me. Heavy. Hot. Suffocating. I didn’t know parenting would be like this. I don’t remember my mom raising her voice. Well, maybe a few times. But it was rare. And I remember the day in our home, our little condo on the third floor, and I lost my temper . . .and my mind . . . and I yelled at my 3 year old and forced him to sit on his bed and stay in his room and the room was spinning, spinning. I held onto the door, the sliding one right up next to the kitchen that he could open with his little hands, not letting him out.

Five minutes?

Ten minutes?

No, more.

It felt like a lifetime. I remember not turning to the Father for strength or peace or patience or help. I was not gentle or kind. I did not speak softly, with tenderness, with love. I don’t even know now, why I was upset. Probably upset about something I couldn’t control–one of those days that come one after another when there are multiple kids in the house and they are willfull (like me) and small.

I wish I could go back and rewrite some moments, hit edit, rewind, whisper into the ear of that exasperated mother who felt she just didn’t know what to do. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re not alone in this. There is a Father who loves you, who holds you, who sees you. Let Him parent you now. Let Him hold you now. And go on in there. Hold the soft body of that frustrated little crying child in there. Come on now.”

I hear it now. . .

Let me hold you both.

Writing, for five minutes, with Lisa-Jo and friends, on the prompt: mercy. What comes to mind when you hear that word?


The word gets kind of caught up in my mouth, near the back of my throat, when I read the prompt: Red. I’m not sure why and I’m afraid to think about it, so I just start typing, trusting that it will just come out with the letters pressed down, one by one.

Click. Click.

Oh, yes, I know. I know why. I think I did before I started and now I just don’t want to get it down.





It’s the color of life washed down, of rivers of veins pumping and the salty sticky smell, sweet and sour, the thickness on legs. I went right on to basketball practice the next day, you know. I had the appointment and the cramping, like they said, started in fierce, and this sixteen year old didn’t know there would be pain.

She was doing everything she could to escape it. And she lay on the sofa, in muted colors, pale pink and dusty white and darkish gray, watching the television flicker in and out while her teenage boyfriend changed the channel and his older sister tried to sooth her and pretend she didn’t know a thing about what was going on.

And the red kept coming, but not enough to stop her from doing what she thought was the responsible thing: keep going, don’t change lanes, stay the straight course, the sure one. Keep running where you know the end in sight. Don’t let that light turn now . . .  red.

Writing for five fast minutes, with the community of writers over at Lisa-Jo’s welcoming place.



I get tired of rules and boundaries and even words sometimes. I know our Father is one of words, of language, of beauty and that the beginning of the world was the spoken breath come down. As a girl I often worried about doing the right thing at the right time in the right way. I studied people, their voices, their actions. Approval was paramount. It seldom mattered from where it came.

I wonder what I was worshipping then.

And here, in this blog space, where I entered in, a  bit on tiptoe, a bit with my heart blazing, ready to burst, I was nervous and excited and a bit more fearless than I feel I am now. I wasn’t scared then, to share truth like I saw it. I wasn’t hesitant to not hide and unveil this girl He was showing me more of, this person He showed me He loved and wanted me to see more of, too.

And now, I tiptoe a lot, feeling like words are worth nothing if the truth is not painted out straight–yet I struggle, wondering what the point of all of this is. I listen for His words and I trust them, but I don’t trust my own. I write down His breath in me, His songs, and I scrawl them out, loop by loop in ball-point onto lined journals in edges of time, the beginning of me.

I don’t believe my words are worship, or a song is worship, or a moment worship unless I let my heart find Him in these places. In all places where He breathes I find my breath, too.

And I give it up again, Father. I surrender all I am, knowing I have been holding back. So, pull me forward. Let me sink in deeper. Let me throw aside my heart for this world and run right back into You.

Gloriously grateful to be linking up with hearts-ablaze sisters, over at (in)courage, with wordsmith beauty, Lisa-Jo.