Why

Why do I want a relationship with my Savior?
Because for once in my life I understand the meaning of healing and what it looks like to be completely turned around in the depths of my darkness.

I strive to be in a relationship with this man because never again do I have to say, "no one will ever love me."

I want Jesus because of the chains I have been set free of in coming to know Him. I want Him because He desires me.

I have loved better, more deeply, more intently, and experienced love out of being washed by His grace.

Never again do I have to think that I have to be someone else to be loved because I am loved for my past and present state.

Why do I want this relationship? Because I have never understood the meaning of true love before Him.

It means I get to live for others instead of myself, which is the most suffocating place to be.

I get to have hope in my future and even in my death of who will be there for me. I want Jesus because I want to see every painful event in my life and in the lives of others as an opportunity to become a stronger, more relatable, loving person and not as the struggle I have to get through to survive.

I want Jesus because there is no better evidence of His work of change than in me and to have others experience what I have experienced would be the biggest breath of fresh air for my soul.

I want this because ultimately I want love; to be loved and to give love and to understand fully what it means to have both.

A relationship with Him means that I am not just a physical body but a soul that is delighted in, despite how much weight our society puts on physically beautiful.

It means I don't have to hang my head in shame of my past or wall myself up in my fears because I am afriad it will happen again. Because He has held me in His arms, I understand the benefit of pain and past events was all for a purpose.

I want a relationship with Him because he saved me, and there is no greater love than this.

Surrounded

When surrounded by everything, we can’t seem to imagine what nothing feels like. We are caught up. Lost in translation, as it were. We seek the masses, catching a high off of the identity WE find in grasping some kind of identity WE’VE established IN THEM. We seek the body, that figure we know is appealing, finding satisfaction when we know that the work WE did on OUR bodies was built UPON THE REACTION. We seek the glory, finding satisfaction in the work WE did on any task performed well, feeling rooted IN THE AWARDS provided by MAN. We seek friendships, thriving off the feelings they instill in us and grounded in who we are IN that person’s life. The point: We desire identity. We desire a home in which to dwell securely.

Desperately seeking face value with everyone, and being loved by all, we lose the security in what a real relationship with our Creator looks like. We are all idolaters, worshipping and burying our roots in all that is temporary. We have it all, but we have nothing at the same time. We can have all the riches, the friends, the relationships, the body, the awards, the glory and yet we seem to have nothing of value; placing hollow memories on our shelves. Called to be set apart for our Beloved, we are allowing ourselves to become clay figurines for society to mold and lump into one.

While at a restaurant the other day, I noticed a girl who was sitting by herself and by the world’s standards she is pretty. For a solid five minutes, she stared at herself in her hand held mirror, checking every little part of her face, making little adjustments here and there, adding more makeup. I could tell she was in a heavy critique of herself, occupying her thoughts with the imperfections and the things she could possibly fix to hopefully achieve the unattainable perfection society says is lovely, or occupying herself with thoughts of what about herself could be noticeable or found desirable BY others. I wanted to walk over to her and take the mirror from her hands and tell her that her identity is more important the mirror or the imperfections she finds in her physical identity. I wanted to tell her that she was desirable and it wasn’t because the mirror found her pleasing that day.

There are certain cravings the soul has, I believe, that consistently nag us to find a place to belong, to find identity, to find the home we want to rest in, to simply…be loved. We are all dying to be there, whether recognized or not. And the beautiful news is that the desire comes from a good place within you, we just lose track of how to follow through with the desire. We’ll find it in anything other than God, who is the only one who wants to take our faces in His hands and desperately say, “I delight in you, let me show you!”

The gospel of grace is simply this: Abba is enough (props to Matt Chandler). Sure, we have all the power to make our identities in something else and, believe me, I know what that looks like. It has only come at the feet of my Beloved that I have laid to rest my identity in anything but Him. We have casually built up our foundation in the wrong things.

Our roots belong grounded in none other than IN Him, and will be nourished by none other than BY Him. I am all that I need to be according TO Him. It’s simply allowing ourselves to be loved by Him. The depths of our souls are longing to be called to a home to rest. In The Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning he gives a beautiful description of the cry of Jesus in offering us a home, a true identity, and place to stop running away from fear:

You have a home. I am your home. Claim me as your home. You will find it to be the intimate place where I have found my home. It is right where you are, in your innermost being. In your heart.

And Abba whispers to us, “Come home love.”

Apart of me

These hands.

These hands have seen only 20 years, but they're already rough with experience. Cracked with weather and time, no longer young. They used to know of innocence and felt smooth, tender without pain. But these hands aren't those hands anymore.

They've seen, felt, and experienced more than lines can write about, or an artist can put on a canvas. They've played, danced, created, held, and loved all the along their lifetime.

They're imperfect. Wishful thinking can only change what they've seen. But I wouldn't take back a single moment of what they went through. From my fingertips to the bony knuckles, to the insides of the lines of my hands, to the narrow wrist that holds them they've been through a world of time and space.

In another time, they've wiped away tears from a scrape, they've covered my eyes when I was scared, they've dirtied themselves from making mud pies, and they've reached out to mommy when walking anywhere or grabbing for daddy's pocket because they wanted to belong somewhere safe. They didn't know much then, only smiles and a sense of dependency on those around.

In another time, they locked hands with a first kiss, they wiped away tears from a hurting friend's eyes, they've taken exams and tests, they've created art, and they've dried themselves up with chalk from endless routines on the uneven bars. They knew of some pain, they knew more, and they saw some experience then.

And in another time, they started growing up and finding some sort of an identity. They found new hands to hold and to love for a time. They found a better way to hug and to love. They were excluded and hurt, disappointed and ashamed. They were successful and creative, brave and independent. Callousing more with time, more with experience, more with heart break, and more with dreaming.

By now they've seen a lifetime plus, worn but ready for more.

I used to hate these hands. They were once ugly to me.
But I'm learning to love these hands, they've seen a lot. Provided more works than I can even remember. They were created specifically for me, created purposefully for me. All my worship has existed with them and they've loved beyond reason for those I cannot live without.

They are designed. Created for purpose and reason. Although worn by time and experience, these hands were trained for battle. Through pain and fears, they grew strong and developed, beautifully so.

These are my hands.

Awake, O My Soul

How narrow the pathways of the human mind. How much can we actually understand? How much can we really grasp? There are times in my feeble mind I feel like I am standing on the edge of something so profound and want to understand it with such a deep desire, and it's like for the first time I sense that I am starting to grasp something, instead of letting the grains of sand fall between my fingers. Truly I have my hands around something more than dust.

With the idea of there being a God, can I ask that we really think through that idea. Really, stop. Think. Does not the idea that there is a creator, a maker, a being so huge that with a breath he forms oceans, stop us so quickly in our tracks? Even if you don't believe in this, just contemplate the idea. That the very earth you walk on could be created and wasn't an accident. That a Being so immense exists in every corner of the earth and was the prime mover of every single little thing. And within it exists this unexplainable love.

I want this all to be my existence. To fill every cavern of my soul.

Then I am turned toward history. I can only read about it. See it in a movie maybe, get an idea of what happened. I can put myself in the eyes of history, but it doesn't do it justice. And it's not just about this event, because so many people experienced the same exact thing years later. It's about this man who shook every part of existence 2000 years ago. His message: Love. His death: Sacrifice. He said, you won't be known by any other aspect of your life except if you have loved, just as he had. My friend mentioned to me yesterday that one of the shortest verses is that "Jesus wept." He wept. Why is this profound? Because he was so intent on loving those who didn't love him. So ready to sacrifice for those who wouldn't understand what his sacrifice meant. He wept. "I love them." Can we even understand that deep of a love? Can we grasp an inkling of this sacrifice? He Wept. "I will die for them." To his Father, this creator we have learned about, he wept. To the very Being we have come to doubt and push away from because we cannot understand.

There are so many horrible things in this world, and I understand the bitter disappointment in seeing all of these things. But how do you think the Creator, of all that is good, that all he intended for good, thinks or even feels about what He sees? Is it the bad that pushes us away? Is it the evil that presses us down? Of course! It's completely natural. But how was this reaction instilled in us? How did we know how to feel about those things? Created after Him. My fingers begin to grip.


How badly have you wanted someone to get something that you thought you would break down? How deeply have you wanted to reach out to someone and just say, "can't you see it?" This dwells in me. Jesus felt the frustration, the weakness, and the surrender of human nature, and that is EXACTLY why he was put in this form, because we need to feel understood, and he understands. It's we who don't seem to understand this intensity. He wept. "They won't understand and they don't understand, yet I love them."How beautiful. How desperately he wanted to us to see him and what he wanted to do for us: love us, die for us. Crying out: "Can't you see?" Because he LOVES us. And that creator? He Started that Love. I grip tighter.

So I'll stand, with arms high and heart abandoned.
Awake, O My Soul. For this moment, for this hour, awakening.
Don't let go of me.

Call it

Being beautiful makes society lie to everyone. Am I being protected or falsified in the face of a magazine utopia? What makes a pretty face or who measures what is intended to be beautiful? If I am supposed to live up to this measurement then I will fail, I will not be considered worth because my looks will not uphold me. Beautiful. It's a word that we can smile or cringe at. Beautiful. It's the word that measures a multitude of physical and emotional aspects. Beautiful. It has become the vain of our existence. If being beautiful means I have to transform into who I wasn't meant to be, then I will lose. If being beautiful means that only by physical standards I will find a prince, then that measuring stick was never meant for me. I can put on a mask and hide because then I will be acceptable, but only then. And why? Because in any other sense, being adorned without looks or a goddess complex will not get me a second glance or even a first chance. If it is only that I am best when I am "ugly" then I will take that chance. If it means then that I will have a beautiful heart then I will take it. If it means that I can grow old and my heart will remain the same then I can face it.

To fight

"Stuck between the depths of my fears"

My fears...hard topic. Because it seems immeasurable.
Today? The struggle was finding adequacy in where I am. Right here. Right now. My thirst and appetite for recognition from people seems insatiable. And here I don't mean for fame, for glory, for any award. I mean simple awareness. I find myself searching for the call, the recognition of value, the need...for me. I fear abandonment, I fear loneliness, I fear what I cannot control without love from others, I fear being forgettable. It's as if someone stuck me in a dark room, uncovered my eyes to the pitch black, and I'm stretching my arms as far as they will reach, in some desperate measure to reach out to anyone near me. And within the arms of someone I can find peace.

But what is the truth here? My flesh screams louder than His voice more often than not. It cries out lies to me, "You are lonely," "No one remembers you." But then I have to think of something else. Something deep and impacting. I once asked a friend, "when do you feel most lonely?" and she replied, "when I'm misunderstood, but I can only imagine how Jesus felt." I'll never forget that statement. Think about it. Here, a man came knowing one thing: to love. He came for one mission: to heal. And what he knew all along: he'd be abandoned and misunderstood. He came for the very people who would end up calling him a lunatic, leaving him, and killing him. Can you imagine living a life for someone you knew would ultimately would forsake you? I cannot. Even the 12, the closest to him, fled in the most desperate hour their Savior needed them. Even to Peter, Jesus looked straight at him and said he would even abandon him, even denying him. Denying him. I cannot imagine loneliness such as this. His beauty, dimmed by what I fear most.

And then I cannot remember that picture. I'm stuck again, in the trap of comparison. My illness creeping in when I feel like I can't hold it back any longer. My heart the open target. How do you fight?

There's a story that I find unbelievably beautiful, and I'm learning to fight with it:
For 12 years, she fought. Long and hard against an illness she could not stop. From doctor to doctor, healer to healer, she turned to anyone, but to no avail did she find anyone who could heal her. The internal bleeding made her weary and it seemed unstoppable. One day, she heard a great healer was in town, and this man was whispered about all through the country side. He seemed to be very important. But many crowds gathered to see this man and to hear him speak. She had a little chance of seeing this man face to face. But she was desperate, willing to do anything for healing. She went out into the crowds and she saw the man walking away from them but the crowds pressed all around. She took charge through them, pushing her way to the man. She believed in the healing he could offer her. She believed in this man and his mystery of power. Finally, she made it through the crowd and fell to her knees, barely touching the fringe of his robes. Something happened. Her bleeding stopped. The man immediately asked "Who was it that touched me?" But all around him the people denied, but the man continued, "Someone touched me, for I perceive that power has gone out from me." The woman suddenly pushed forward, trembling, and fell before him. In front of the mass of people, she cried out why she had touched him, and how as soon as her hands had touched his robes she had been healed. The man reached out to her and said, "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace." (Luke 8:43-48).

Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace. DAUGHTER, your FAITH! Oh how my soul draws near to the words. Fighting for her life, this woman did not give up. Fighting for something she needed to believe in, she found healing. In the midst of my brokenness, my loneliness, my fears, I desire to fight the lies. To push beyond the crowds and find the hem of the healer, fall on my knees before Him and believe with all my heart in what he can do for me. Daughter, your faith doesn't include your fears. Daughter, your faith doesn't include loneliness. Daughter, your faith doesn't include being loved by the masses. You're loved by Me.

A thought

You can't appreciate the finish until you've run the race.

I'm sure someone else has come up with that analogy before, but that's what hit my mind last night. In the midst of struggle and hard times, I find myself redirecting my thoughts to that idea. The championship never tastes as sweet if you never knew the pain of getting through it. Sure we wish were all exempt from the hard times, the scary moments, the questions, the doubts, the pain, the insecurities, but when's the last time you looked back on it and didn't appreciate it for some reason? The materials to mold you.

Received a letter from a friend today that said I was carrying my cross beautifully. That was a statement that struck me. It makes me stop and stare at what my cross actually is. What is that I have to carry? What is this weight on me in these moments of pain and absolute confusion? The answer comes back in an echo that bounces off the hollows of my head. "I AM" It's the answer that makes me groan and feel so small. I didn't want it, but it's the truth. I run the race because I was asked to. And I chose to. My cross is of love and faith.

Someone else mentioned to me today that God will not violate someone else's free will to make us happy. I don't need to win the race by cheating. I will win it by asking for perserverance and joy. If we instantly felt the pain during the race, when our muscles scream to stop, then we would quit if we didn't beg for perserverance through that pain. The dangers of a feeling heart. Which I have. So what will I do with this feeling heart? Let it defeat me or let it mold me?

I often find myself rearranging my thoughts for others, replacing bad ones with happy ones, for the quick fix. I never stay in the moment. I never ask for the pain to grow my spirit positively or show me something new to learn. I always ask for the end. I ask for the finish line. As we all do. But He never said we'd get there by being exempt from pain. His Son was never exempt. Walking this earth for the very people he knew would kill and abandon him. But a prayer. Perserverance. He didn't want the process either, He asked for the end, but ultimately surrending to the process. The moment. The pain. I still, in this moment, find it hard to compel myself to give into this. There's too much loss there, I think. But I want to finish don't I? So here I have to contemplate what the race really means to me. It means not only winning but learning. Learning that the race is not possible without pain.

Hallelujah. O sings my soul. Hallelujah. When I want to scream and curse and cry, I fall to my knees and don't want to say Hallelujah. But out of my lungs escapes the praise, the curse, and the pleading. I ask for perserverance, I ask for faith. Let me run. Let me run. Carrying my cross of love and faith all along. I will win that race.