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.



It’s hits me slow, creeping up in a whisper, a cold hand on the back of neck. Yes, it’s true, the word I don’t want to admit aloud, the truth most difficult to write here, even though I have laid down the decision to keep secrets of the soul long ago. Narcissism. . Yes, I do believe it is the word I want nothing to do with me. It is the opposite of all images I want to portray here, on this blog, the face I want to hide from all my friends, the prayer I don’t want to pray.

“Father, I focus so much on me. . . even when I don’t think I am. . . I make so much about me.”

There was a girl who cared more about herself, more than anything or anyone. And she made a decision that proved it. There was a girl who didn’t want change, couldn’t admit she had done a thing wrong, and continued to hide, finding solace in an arm around her neck on a Saturday night, in the back of a boyfriend’s car.

There was a woman who worked long hours, nervous she wouldn’t do her job well enough unless she stayed up late, night after night, caring more about the opinions of strangers at her new job than the people, loving her, whom she took for granted.

Striving to make myself big because I don’t know I am loved or enough or qualified to do the thing in front of me to do hurts the heart of the King who made Himself small because His love was too big to do anything else.

Yes, I need to be small. I need to bow low to gain this life He promises. Help me lose this life, Father. Keep killing off this old self wanting to come on back and prove it needs to be big to be love.

There is nothing small in the way He loves.

Let me love like You, Lord. Turn me upside down. 

Come on over to Lisa-Jo’s and read the hearts of other writers exploring, for just 5-minutes, “Small”.



I know this place, the place where you believe you aren’t seen and you forget there is a place all your own, hidden among the rushes, the tall greens bent, swaying back as you pass. It is both familiar and new, and longing for home quickens the pace, lets the hands open up a bit more, fingers spread so they would fly, like this.

If only you could fly. 

But you can walk. You can walk home, to the place where the whole land bursts with energy, the soil singing, rocks crying out. Yes, yes, you know how to get here. The water in the river sparkles blue and the fish jump out, singing, too. The earth is awake, the animals leaping and running and you can hardly realize you are here. Here, where you are part of the canvas, the song, the creation, all folded in and exploding and it’s where you know to stay now.

No matter the doubts about being good enough, worthy enough, beautiful enough, interesting enough.

Called home, you are alive and singing and surging and busting forth.

You are busting forth.

And lonely? Well, lonely. . . there just isn’t a name for that anymore.

I’ve been missing my Five-Minute-Friday community. So thankful for these 5-minute writes and the writers who courageously venture out, exploring a single word. Head on over to Lisa-Jo’s to hear her beautiful words and countless others, on the prompt: Lonely.



It will be the beginning now, He says. And the world slows and my heart beats fast and I remember the truth: this is it–all I am and all I’m meant to be.

You take me here, deeper into the place where water tumbles from a place so high I can’t even see. And the spray kisses my skin, my face leaning toward You. Fold me in, Father. You whisper the beginning and more and I don’t want to miss it.

It is in the whispers that I see You, feel your breath on my skin, your hand on my shoulder.

Wrap me up tighter now.

Girl, I wrap you in. I whisper  . . .’Beginning.’

Yes, I hear you.

And the mountains aren’t so high. And the water isn’t rushing so fast. The bridge across feels sturdy now. And my feet aren’t tired of running. I slow now, keeping steady with your pace.

Resurrect me, now. Lift me up into those arms, Father, the ones that hold me and are too strong to ever let the fall be too painful for me to bear.

You carry me. So I can stand. You carry me, so I can risk. You carry me, so I can go to her . . . and her, and whisper back the words you tell me. And I don’t have to worry about what comes next.

That’s not my job. Only listening.

Only listening is.

So loved by a community of writers who just listen and write and trust and say ‘yes’. (Thank you, Lisa-Jo.) Want to come visit them over here?

Don’t be afraid to fall

Don't be afraid to fall

Quiet now, girl, I’ve got you. Lean back, remember your safe place, the way your head fits in the crook of my arm.

You ache for restoration, for time to discover more–more of whom I’ve already made you to be. Oh, girl, daughter. Just stay.

Do you hear the beating of my heart? The sound in your ear as you press it against my chest? That is the sound of love within you–the very beating of a heart that came and stopped and started again for the sake of you.

For you.

Don’t worry about not having answers, not knowing what is ahead to achieve. Achieve?

Remember, just stay.

Stay with Me and then you will begin again. You will be revived and restored and still. It is in the stillness, with Me, your surety, that you will move from fear and doubt to confidence, to even more of my goodness, to my presence, to see my everlasting pursuit of you.

I pursue, so you may stay.

I come, so you may have courage.

I whisper, that you may speak truth.

I twist lies inside out and push them into light.

Lies wither in my light, child.

Come, now, breathe deeply and lean. Just lean.

Relax in these arms that know you, that have held you since the beginning, that are the ones that lift you up and keep you safe.

May you never fall, my love. May you never fall except into these arms that do not ever let you go.


Confession: last night, even though my internet was down and I couldn’t upload my post to connect with the lovely community over at Lisa-Jo’s, I wrote for five minutes, to the prompt, “Fall.” Our internet was still down ’til late this morning (I’m at a coffee shop with my hubby now) and I broke the rules of 5-minute Friday and I reread what I wrote. . . And it just broke my heart. Last night I was in such a tough place, doubting myself, discouraged about writing here and wondering if it all even matters . .  . (You know that place, when you just feel down and you just want to be rescued from your very self? Can you at all relate?) And, honestly, I just didn’t want you to see those words of mine–me, in my sad place, not trusting God. . . I didn’t think it would bring anyone any hope. It didn’t even help me to write it down. . . But here they are, in all their troubled glory:


The post from last night:

Here I am again, in this place. Looking around me, trying to find a place I recognize. Or be recognized myself. Who is that girl—heart still at the back of the room—doubting herself, distracted by the success of others and forgetting that the walk He calls us to may be one of hard work.

To follow, I lay myself down.

To stay close, grasping the hem of His garment between two desperate hands, I must stay low.

To stand with this heart of mine, confident in the shape of me, His hands forming each and every part of me—my mind, my hands, my heart—I unfold it all.

To be most myself—to pour out His glory—I must see only Him, watch what He sees, listen to how He responds, study how He moves.

I fall again, desperate to be picked up, held. For I am weary and strong and determined and weak.

Oh, Father, let me fall. But keep me safe, too.


The answer to prayer:  What is posted at the very top of this post, under the photo, is the answer to the prayer. . .when I threw up my hands and asked God what He wants to say to me, about the word, “Fall.”

I like it better. But maybe I needed to be honest with where I was to allow myself to be found. . .

What about you?



Joining a beautiful community of writers . . . for just 5 minutes. . . on the prompt: song.

There is a song playing deep within, but, oh, how I struggle to find the notes. I have had trouble finding words. I type these here, waiting for words to come. Song . . . What is it, God? Why do I have so much trouble writing here?

You doubt your words, your voice–the delight I have for you as I hear you sing. For you do sing, my girl. You sing in the arms reached around, the deep reaching for me, the moments of restlessness when you try to pray but you can’t.

You sing in the tension of wondering what it is you are to do with your time this day. You sing in the doubting and the giving and the pondering and the hoping and the playing. You sing the only way you know how.

Daughter, I’ve made you to sing. Sing of beauty and laughter, of dark places where light has been brought to shine. Sing of hope and hard places, of pride and running away and turning around and raw tears spilled on cold ground. You sing of silence, of new places, of rebellion and obedience and redemption and suffering. You sing of desire and searching for more, more of Me. You sing from a true place, a beautiful place, a deepening pace, where I come and teach you notes to wait again, expectantly, for Me.

Want to read what other writers had to say? Come on over to Lisa-Jo’s. What comes to your mind when you hear the word, “song”?

I pray you have the most beautiful, song-filled weekend, girls.


bravebluetextIscriptclose my eyes and see myself galloping on a steed through mountains, my hair blowing back, a weapon fastened to my side. I am fearless, His brave one, in battle alongside my king. I will rush through desert, climb mountains, run though I am thirsty and there is no map. He is my steadfast, my warrior King–Brother-Father who goes before and leads me to the high place where the enemy awaits. I am here, with Him, a warrior-girl fighting the fight I was made for.

I am His strong one, His ascender, the girl who knows who she is and does not shirk from doing the hard thing. She steels her head against the opposition, her strength the very weakness the enemy tries to use against her.

No, she is not strong–so she is. No, she is not mighty, so she is. No she is not fierce, so she is. She raises her head, her eyes sharp and jaw set.

She knows what brave looks like. She enters in, already home.

Come on, girls . . . Now it’s your turn to write for five-minutes on the prompt: Brave. Go on, be fearless. I know that’s the truth of who you are.

Here’s to riding with our King,



There is the beginning of me, those first memories of riding on the back of the pipe trailer when Dad went row to row in sloppy brown mud between trees. And there is the music of the piano, my mom’s fingers marking middle C with masking tape and sharpie so I would remember where my thumbs should go. The rumpling of my fine dish-water brown hair, Old Spice, the smell of dirt lifted up with each bounce in the pickup, my dad’s singing “Rockin’ Robin”, my mom in a tube top and red bandanna to hide the rollers in her brown shiny hair.

Buckets of kittens, walks to the creek in big-wheels, almond blossoms in February, white blooms of fairy magic taking up each piece of fresh air. My sisters’ laughter, my tiny brothers running, their soft skin, blond hair, tangled and sticking up.

Dinners where the seven of us crowded around a small round table, bare legs in underoos pressed close, mom’s food always gathering us, bringing us closer to true, the mark we still circle hungrily, these roots, home.

Five Minute FridayWriting fast and loose for five-minutes with Lisa-Jo and the gang. Come on over and join in!



We sit in the circle–the open one my friend identifies is real, the one He makes, the true one that does not end.  I have to trust this now, the words He gives, the ones He speaks to each of our hearts here. We lean in and listen, surrendered, open.  We can’t hear unless we abandon our own voice for His.  The whispers are true, girls, the echoes long and beautiful. He sings it true.  He speaks it in the way we laugh, we play, we cry, we reach up our hands and say, “Yes, I see You.  You are here.  You surround me and I heed Your voice rising up, the song of my heart, my life with You.”

Girls, lean into it with me, your life rising to meet His. Because then I hear His voice too, in in a new way, the song of your heart that leaves me breathless.

It is the calling to live, to love, to dance, to echo with the arch of beauty and hope that only He brings.  Sing it now.

I can hear it.

Five Minute Friday

Typing this live, for just five minutes, side by side with Lisa-Jo and other precious friends, at Allume.


She sits at the counter with the markers spread all over.  Rainbow of pipe cleaners out every which way, too.  She get out paper after paper to fold and cut and glue and make Christmas cards for best friends, two months early.

My eyes rest on her and I bend close, cheek to cheek, smelling the sweetness of her skin, her golden hair.  I want to drink her in and keep her a part of me, but she is so beautiful, like this, separate and pure.  A marvel.  A beauty. A dancer full of hope and magic and light. I delight in her, her sunshine smile, her twirls during movie credits, the purple unicorn pillow pet offered to me as my pillow when I read to her, snuggled in under the covers, at bedtime.

I treasure her, the moments held like packages all wrapped up and ready to be mailed.  I hope my heart can receive the gifts, so full and bound with hope.


Five Minute Friday


[T]hrough the arc of this day, through sunrise to sunset and on, I will hold you.

You too weary to stand, I grab that hand of yours and pick you up.

I know the breeze lifting your hair, blowing it like the fan you used to hold when you were young.

I know the delight of the pictures you drew of rainbow slides and the teddy bear you were given that scraped its nose on its first turn down and it tumbled.

I know your kindergartener’s first Open House tonight and that she held your hand so tight you thought you could memorize the creases, the pressure of her fingers, and you let her step match yours. And I walked with you two, on the other side.

Let it be this way, darling, the walk through bumpy roads and cool nights and adventures that promise to bring you more walks, more whispers, more hugs — My arm around your shoulder — from Me.

I am yours, you know.  I am the kiss of the breeze on your once freckled nose, the light melting into deep blue, the swoop of the blue jay as he hides for the night beyond your window.

Don’t you just love the mystery of this night, the folding of it all towards morning, all the possibilities of new discovery and brand newness of Me in you?

Of you discovering, again, Me?


Hey there, girls.  I love Five-Minute Fridays with Lisa-Jo.  She helps me surrender to truth a bit more, listen a bit more closely to what is on my heart . . . as she encourages us to write whatever pours out from these hearts of ours and let it all sit there, on the page.

It is so good to just let. it. go. . . These week’s prompt is real.

[S]weet girl, let’s start here. These words. My words in you? They are real.

I see you look in the mirror, wishing time weren’t going by so fast.  I see you counting the grays, wishing they didn’t show. I know you hate the blue veins pushing out the skin on your legs, the ones that came when pregnant with sweet O.  I know you compare yourself.

And I know you know how that makes Me sad.

Daughter, I whisper to you.  I see you.  I let you see Me.  And I watch the wind blow ripples in your hair.

I let you dream.  I give you plans. I love when you sing the lullabies I teach you to your children, My darlings.  You are all my darlings, you know.

Sweet one, you are more beautiful to Me than you know.


And, for the sake of being real, here is an iPhone video of me and my daughter, singing, by the King’s River, a few weeks ago. Did you learn this song, too, growing up, in Sunday School?  Can you help me not feel so silly and sing along, with me?

{Subscribers, click here to come on over and sing along!}

How is it hard for you, friend, to be real?


Gotta love that Lisa-Jo.  Here we go.  It’s Five-Minute Friday:

[T]here is a weight to this word: community.  It gets stuck in my mouth a little. Like peanut butter.  Which I love.  But, also, it makes me a little worried, too, if I’m honest.  I love it, and I also worry about the consequences of it, what it will require of me.  If I’ll get sucked in too much and feel guilty about indulging this heart of mine, later.

I’ve been in so many groups — the first before children, when my  husband and I joined three other couples and shared our lives for a good almost two years — before the Silicon Valley bubble crashed, and then everyone moved away.  And then, with our first baby born, I joined a mother’s group, and I thought I would die if I missed a Tuesday and couldn’t see them.  It was the being together, not so much what we shared but the love of the Father helping us to physically get there, together, despite all crazy motherhood obstacles, that made our hearts sing.

And then the couples group — four other couples that each had two kids, and then almost all had three, all our kids the exact same age — that we shared our hearts with for over five years.  {Or was it longer, friends?}  And that ended . . . as parenting seemed to sap us dry for a bit, calendars pulling us each away. It seemed we had forgotten how to fight for each other.

And then there is My Girls — and here — where it all begins again.  Community that sings to my heart and heals and where there is no pressure to be a certain way. The Spirit leads, and that, there, is the beauty, the magic sauce, the sticky wonderfulness of it all.  We don’t have to do a thing to stay connected.  And that is what I finally learned, through it all.

He brings the community.  It is only my job to listen close and trust that these friends He gathers up are fine to love, and He will show me how to do it too, and trust with His heart, no matter how sticky it gets.  He wasn’t afraid to get messy, His hand in the jar.  I want to be just like Him.


I want to add that I am overwhelmingly blessed by this community, this one, right here.  He gathers us up in this place, all together.  We are His girls.  I hope you feel all that sticky yumminess that He brings, here, too.


Here I go, letting the words run, trusting language He gives to tumble out, prompted by the beauty of Lisa-Jo’s prompt, Together.  Do you hear the whisper, girls?  Do you hear Him speaking?  He sings beauty to your heart.  It can’t be helped.


[G]ather us up, Father, and we will go where You go.

She picks up her baby, little girl eye’s soft, tender cheeks aglow, eyes shining.  There You are.

She feels the pressure of her friend’s hand on her back, prayers lifted to You, her heartache a song woven into something beautiful.  Your voice catches, more than a whisper in the wind.

She remembers the beauty of the proposal, when the promise of marriage, the dream of it all, seemed more beautiful than the reality, and she lays it on the cross, knowing this one flesh You’ve united is real.  And You sew it all together again, when she hands You the tattered threads of hope-bled-dream.

She cries from some place deep, the yearning of a little girl heart not fulfilled, not seen, not spoken to, and she begs for an answer, pleading for ressurection, a new life to begin in her.  For the dead one threatens to pull her under again, to that unspoken dark ground.  And You hold  her close, hold a mirror to her heart, showing her what You have seen all along, and her tears reflect Your promise, and shine

You come, pulling us together, Your girls, to common ground.



I hear you loud and clear, My love.  No hoops to jump through.  No unmet promises to make up.  You are mine, just like always. Running away, feeling lost, pretending you don’t hear Me — that’s okay.

But I miss you when you do that.  And My heart breaks when I see you flail when you reject Me from holding you up. {Can I help it if I do it anyway?}

Sweet girl, My delight, sunshine warms your skin as we dance and search for mysteries right before your nose.  There is a map here, My dear one.  I can read it, and I show you bits of it once and a while.  But not revealing the whole uncurled beauty of it all is not because I don’t love you, but because I do.

The things you have to do are stunning in their stretching of you, the need you have to let everything go but lean on Me.  What power you have within you!  What glory shines from that heart and beauty I gave you before you were born!  All My glory, all My love, all My treasue I give to you.  I hold nothing back.

How can I hold back My love?  That is not My language.

You speak My language, child.  We speak the same one.  Your heart in Mine.  Our beating the same.  You are mine.  I know you hear Me.

Loud and clear.

Brave {and more}

Here we are, all gathered up, in this space He’s given.  And on Fridays, some of us are listening for words prompted by the beautiful heart of Lisa-Jo — words that He’s poured out, trusting that He will do something beautiful with them — and that He will bring them to whomever is supposed to read.

Over at the Allume Blog on Friday, I am sharing, through the Sisters in Bloom Friday Bloom in Blogging series, what I believe is the heart of blogging — why we do this, what is at the core of why we write and hit “publish” and share our thoughts for all to read.  Wanna come on over?  I would love to know what you think.

But before you do that, below is what I wrote is response to the prompt BRAVE, by Lisa-Jo, of The Gypsy Mama. I love 5-Minute Fridays.  {Just write, without worrying if it is right or not.}  Want to come on over and play along?


I will sit here, listening for  Your voice, believing that what You say is true, that You want me, no matter what, that I am adored, Your beloved, and nothing I do can achieve this love.  So many times I want to turn away from Your cross, saying ‘no’ to the suffering You did, that I feel I must do, in order to die to this flesh that gets in the way of living.

Let me be brave, Father, standing there, at the foot of the cross, looking deep in to the eyes of Your Son and say ‘yes’, I believe.  I believe it is all worth it, and joy comes, and newness comes, and breathing comes, again, when I let You strip away the disease and mangled, dark clay that needs to fall away for the Potter’s hand to continue to mold and shape and make beautiful this heart of mine that wants to play it safe.

I don’t want to play it safe.  {But I do.}  Let me be brave, Father.  Let me want Life more than anything, and please, remind me, more than anything, what it is.


P.S.  I am delighted that Saturday I will be guest posting over at the MOB Society, and I would love to hear your thoughts about what you do when your child asks you, right before tucking him in:  “Mom, what’s life all about?”  {Really . . . I really, really want to know!} :)