Dear Reader,
Lately I've been thinking a lot about what it means to grow up in Christ. Various scriptures have come to mind through this little journey. You can read them here and here and here.
Through this pondering what it means to grow up in Christ, here are a couple of conclusions I've reached:
Growing up in Christ means:
-...taking responsibility, for yourself and for the people around you.
-....saying, "This isn't mine, but I will take care of it. I will own this, even if it's difficult.
-...showing up, being vulnerable and honest and faithful.
-...bringing your whole self to the table to give, because grown people are life-givers, not takers.
-...owning the inheritance that your Father gives you and living in the footsteps of your older brother, Jesus.
And you know what? I've come to realize that growing up is always more about the people and the world around me than about just this self of mine. Yes, this self matters, but mostly, this life is meant to be about the ones the Father loves.
And that changes the way life is lived. It just does.
Imagine, Dear Reader, that the Father was saying to you today, "The world depends on you showing up for your life and growing up in Christ."
You were meant to receive the full inheritance bought for you on the cross, Dear Reader. You were meant, not just for heaven someday, but for bringing heaven to earth right now. You were meant to love in ways that astound you. You were meant to forgive and to breathe life into broken relationships. You were meant to live a life of supernatural proportions, to be supernaturally natural and naturally supernatural. You were meant to take spiritual dominion over places that are currently being inhabited by an enemy who stands defeated. Kick him out by the full power of the Spirit that lives in you, Dear Reader. The world depends on you showing up for your life.
The Father is on a mission to get his family back, and you're invited to join Him. You don't have to; Papa never forces you into your inheritance. But he does offer it [Him]. If you choose in, life will be more painful and beautiful than you thought possible.
This morning, a friend texted me to tell me that someone she knew had been shot and killed in a break-in at his home. Senseless violence. A 26 year old man's life ended in his own home. The spirit of violence taking the life of one of God's kids.
And you know what?
I believe, ever so strongly, that a part of the reason I'm in this city is because the Father is not okay with this. His heart is to put an end to this destruction. Before I knew about this young man's death, while I was still waking up this morning, the Spirit was whispering to my sleepy-heart, "I've established a Covenant of Peace on earth to destroy the spirit of violence."
I turned my Bible to some sections that talk about peace this morning, and this is what I read,
"Let me hear what the LORD God will speak, for he will speak peace to his people, to his saints; but let them not turn back to folly. Surely his salvation is near to those who fear him, that glory may dwell in the land....steadfast love and faithfulness meet; righteousness and peace kiss each other. Faithfulness springs up from the ground and righteousness looks down from the sky. Yes, the Lord will give what is good, and the land will yield its increase. Righteousness will go before him, and make his footsteps a way." [Psalm 85]
"For unto us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the LORD of hosts will do this." [Isaiah 9]
We have a Father who spoke peace to us through the violent death of His son. We have a God who has made a Covenant of Peace with us through his own son's blood. His peace, His kingdom, His glory in all the earth will increase and be upheld continually. How, Dear Reader?
Look in the mirror. That's how. The fullness of Christ in you--the hope of glory dwelling on the earth in the hearts of those who choose to receive and live in their identity as Sons and Daughters of God Himself.
Your choice.
Show up for your life, Christian. The world depends upon it.
You live where you live with whom you live for a time such as this, for a time when His kingdom and His Covenant of Peace are reigning and increasing, carried forth through His Spirit living in you and moving through you powerfully. Your fully-alive self has the power to influence the spiritual environment around you.
Your life has more meaning and more purpose than you thought possible. The inheritance you can choose to receive by growing up in Christ is greater than you ever dreamed. And it means carrying Kingdom into the world around you. It means living with a heart set on seeing heaven invade the dark places--in your own heart and in the neighborhood around you.
Dear Reader: Grow Up. Become Christ with skin on, not just the nice Christian who fills a pew on Sunday, not the righteous argue-er of politics on Facebook (no matter which side of the political spectrum you live in). There's nothing wrong or evil about being that person, but there's so much more life to be had and so much more fullness to live in. Choose in, Dear Reader. Live assured of your identity as a Son or a Daughter and take some ground, take authority, spread the Kingdom you were welcomed into in the first place.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Brown Bread.
Dear Reader,
I don't known about you, but I have a number of childhood memories that are inexplicably tied to food: the smell of it, the texture of it, the taste of it.
I remember getting into the car with my mom and and my baby sister for a trip into town for groceries. We'd stop at the little grocery store in my small hometown, and then we'd go across the street to the bakery.
The bakery was very much like all of the other storefronts in town, older, with linoleum floors and a big glass front door. When we pushed open the door, a wave of conversation and fresh-bread smell would rush past our faces. The bakery was also a little cafe, and in the morning-times, the booths were filled with older folks, sipping their coffee and taking big bites of scrambled eggs and donuts.
We'd walk over to the counter, my sister and I, and gaze at the sugary treats behind the glass. If we were lucky (which happened most every week), Mom would let us pick out a donut. In those days, I usually chose a giant glazed one or one filled with raspberry filling.
The real reason for the weekly trip to the bakery, though, was the brown bread. In hindsight, it was probably called something like "Rye," but to my sister and I, and, by extension, to my parents, those tall, chewy loaves were known as Brown Bread. They were, afterall, much darker than the white bread from the store.
The Brown Bread was always wrapped in a plastic bread bag, twisted up with a twist-tie, and, since we usually bought two loaves at a time, they were placed, side-by-side in a rectangular cardboard flat.
Our little bakery always had fresh, beautiful loaves of bread, and that car ride home was filled with the most wonderful smell in the world: absolutely fresh, possibly-still-warm bread. When we got home, Mom would cut us a slice. My favorite was always the slice at the end of the loaf with mostly crust.
For the last couple of months, I've been making a version of that Brown Bread. It's been a wonderful way to know that the bread I'm eating is something very real, and the process of making it is a bi-weekly, end-of-the-week relaxation technique. A nice, slow process that brings the weekly rush to a grinding halt and gives me a few hours to alternately knead and wait until the loaves finally fill the house with a familiar smell.
Life rhythms like this have become much more important lately. Regular life has been a whirlwind, and I find myself needing these moments of routine and simplicity. Dear Reader, please take a moment to breathe this week. Knead some bread dough, walk around the block (if you're in the warm Mid-South like me), sit down with a book for half and hour, or ask those dear ones you live your life with a meaningful question or two. Take several deep breaths and really notice your life for a little while. The everyday, simple things hold so much beauty and promise.
I don't known about you, but I have a number of childhood memories that are inexplicably tied to food: the smell of it, the texture of it, the taste of it.
I remember getting into the car with my mom and and my baby sister for a trip into town for groceries. We'd stop at the little grocery store in my small hometown, and then we'd go across the street to the bakery.
The bakery was very much like all of the other storefronts in town, older, with linoleum floors and a big glass front door. When we pushed open the door, a wave of conversation and fresh-bread smell would rush past our faces. The bakery was also a little cafe, and in the morning-times, the booths were filled with older folks, sipping their coffee and taking big bites of scrambled eggs and donuts.
We'd walk over to the counter, my sister and I, and gaze at the sugary treats behind the glass. If we were lucky (which happened most every week), Mom would let us pick out a donut. In those days, I usually chose a giant glazed one or one filled with raspberry filling.
The real reason for the weekly trip to the bakery, though, was the brown bread. In hindsight, it was probably called something like "Rye," but to my sister and I, and, by extension, to my parents, those tall, chewy loaves were known as Brown Bread. They were, afterall, much darker than the white bread from the store.
The Brown Bread was always wrapped in a plastic bread bag, twisted up with a twist-tie, and, since we usually bought two loaves at a time, they were placed, side-by-side in a rectangular cardboard flat.
Our little bakery always had fresh, beautiful loaves of bread, and that car ride home was filled with the most wonderful smell in the world: absolutely fresh, possibly-still-warm bread. When we got home, Mom would cut us a slice. My favorite was always the slice at the end of the loaf with mostly crust.
For the last couple of months, I've been making a version of that Brown Bread. It's been a wonderful way to know that the bread I'm eating is something very real, and the process of making it is a bi-weekly, end-of-the-week relaxation technique. A nice, slow process that brings the weekly rush to a grinding halt and gives me a few hours to alternately knead and wait until the loaves finally fill the house with a familiar smell.
Life rhythms like this have become much more important lately. Regular life has been a whirlwind, and I find myself needing these moments of routine and simplicity. Dear Reader, please take a moment to breathe this week. Knead some bread dough, walk around the block (if you're in the warm Mid-South like me), sit down with a book for half and hour, or ask those dear ones you live your life with a meaningful question or two. Take several deep breaths and really notice your life for a little while. The everyday, simple things hold so much beauty and promise.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Faithful & True.
Dear Reader,
Do you have those friends who consistently and wholeheartedly show you the love of the Father?
I've been overwhelmed by His goodness to me through some very-dear ones lately. Life has hit a rough patch, as it does sometimes, and the Lord has been nearer than ever, frequently, through the kindness of my dear friends.
They're the ones who...
...send packages in the mail just to bring a smile to my face
...call and ask the honest questions and just listen
...drive hours out of their way to say hello
...live ten minutes away but send real mail anyway
...fight for me in prayer and wash my soul with scripture
...buy me dinner, and ice cream, just because
...take time off to say hello
...say, "Whatever you need, let's do that."
...walk around the neighborhood with me and recall all the strangest adventures we've been on together :)
...mean it when they say, "Call me, anytime, day or night, okay?"
...remind me of what's true and real and beautiful
Hey, all of you wonderful friends: I am so thankful for you. This little life of mine is better and more full because I get to share it with you.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
(You know who you are.)
Do you have those friends who consistently and wholeheartedly show you the love of the Father?
I've been overwhelmed by His goodness to me through some very-dear ones lately. Life has hit a rough patch, as it does sometimes, and the Lord has been nearer than ever, frequently, through the kindness of my dear friends.
They're the ones who...
...send packages in the mail just to bring a smile to my face
...call and ask the honest questions and just listen
...drive hours out of their way to say hello
...live ten minutes away but send real mail anyway
...fight for me in prayer and wash my soul with scripture
...buy me dinner, and ice cream, just because
...take time off to say hello
...say, "Whatever you need, let's do that."
...walk around the neighborhood with me and recall all the strangest adventures we've been on together :)
...mean it when they say, "Call me, anytime, day or night, okay?"
...remind me of what's true and real and beautiful
Hey, all of you wonderful friends: I am so thankful for you. This little life of mine is better and more full because I get to share it with you.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
(You know who you are.)
Monday, March 24, 2014
Springtime Purpose
It's a season of re-purposing for me. Life has been that way, and usually when the Lord is doing something in my soul, it spills out into my house. (So, as long as you keep your eyes open, and have an insightful heart, you'll probably be able to guess my state-of-soul.)
Last week's project was a really fun one. The neighbors across the street must have been doing some spring-cleaning, and, fortunately for me, their taste differs from mine. They threw this lovely old desk out on the curb to be picked up by the garbage collectors.
Thankfully, I had two strong men around to pick it up for me and carry it across the street under the cover of darkness. Thanks, guys, you're great!
Now, I had only seen this desk from afar, so when it was graciously brought indoors, I knew my suspicions of its loveliness had been well-founded. It's minus all the drawers (no idea what happened there), but beautifully made. Old and sturdy. Right away, I set out to clean it up with a mild solution of Mr. Clean and warm water. It was a bit grimy, but that was soon taken care of.
The next issue to address was the top of the desk. The veneer was quite scratched, in some places, down to the under-layer of wood, so I knew some sanding would have to be involved.
After the sanding and a bit of wiping down with a damp paper towel, I decided on a painted surface for the top of the desk. I happened to have some leftover chalkboard paint from a previous crafting project, so that became my paint-of-choice.
After 3 simple coats of chalkboard paint (and a little drying time in between), my desk was ready to become an organizing station for my crafting supplies.
Since the desk was missing all of its drawers, I decided to look for some bins to stand in place of drawers. I found some lovely ones of various sizes on sale at Target.
After I finished stocking the shelves, I used the top of the desk to store Anna Mae Vintage's supply of vintage book decor, and I even started some ornamental wheat-grass seed on one corner of the desk, courtesy of the desk lamp, of course.
Spring is for growing things, cleaning things up, and starting again, in life, and in the house.
Happy Spring, Everyone!
Last week's project was a really fun one. The neighbors across the street must have been doing some spring-cleaning, and, fortunately for me, their taste differs from mine. They threw this lovely old desk out on the curb to be picked up by the garbage collectors.
Thankfully, I had two strong men around to pick it up for me and carry it across the street under the cover of darkness. Thanks, guys, you're great!
.jpg) |
| [Big round of applause for these two. ] |
Now, I had only seen this desk from afar, so when it was graciously brought indoors, I knew my suspicions of its loveliness had been well-founded. It's minus all the drawers (no idea what happened there), but beautifully made. Old and sturdy. Right away, I set out to clean it up with a mild solution of Mr. Clean and warm water. It was a bit grimy, but that was soon taken care of.
 |
| [Really fun numbers scrawled across the back] |
The next issue to address was the top of the desk. The veneer was quite scratched, in some places, down to the under-layer of wood, so I knew some sanding would have to be involved.
 |
| [Kind of a messy inside project, but that's what vacuums are for!] |
After the sanding and a bit of wiping down with a damp paper towel, I decided on a painted surface for the top of the desk. I happened to have some leftover chalkboard paint from a previous crafting project, so that became my paint-of-choice.
 |
| [I've always been really happy with the final results whenever I do a project with this stuff.] |
After 3 simple coats of chalkboard paint (and a little drying time in between), my desk was ready to become an organizing station for my crafting supplies.
 |
| [Blur of a dog named Buddy. He was awfully excited about this restoration process.] |
Since the desk was missing all of its drawers, I decided to look for some bins to stand in place of drawers. I found some lovely ones of various sizes on sale at Target.
 |
| [Lower Level: Chalk-board front bins for painting supplies and kid crafts Middle Level: Painted wire bins for ribbons and hot-glue gun crafting bits Top Level: Drawer openings hold sheet music from Anna Mae Vintage's inventory, while a deep, slender drawer-organizer serves as a catch-all for small bits and pieces in place of the middle drawer.] |
After I finished stocking the shelves, I used the top of the desk to store Anna Mae Vintage's supply of vintage book decor, and I even started some ornamental wheat-grass seed on one corner of the desk, courtesy of the desk lamp, of course.
Spring is for growing things, cleaning things up, and starting again, in life, and in the house.
Happy Spring, Everyone!
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
When You Grow Up
Yesterday, a friend asked me about my wildest childhood dream.
"What's the craziest thing you wanted to be when you grew up?" she said. Honestly, I really had no answer, and as it happens with most questions that I'm not expecting, I ended up thinking about it long afterwards.
And so last night, I tried to put myself in my perceptions of life as a little girl. I didn't dream of being a firefighter or an astronaut. I didn't imagine exploring a jungle or saving the day as a doctor or a nurse. In fact, I was probably one of the only little girls out there who didn't grow up planning her wedding! (Truthfully, it's never happened.)
I know that I lived in expectation and dream. Childhood has a rosy glow of hope and excitement in my memory. That was the atmosphere that colored the season. So as I thought about why I didn't have any big expectations or goals for myself as a little girl, I realized that my overall sense of security and excitement came from love, not from doing. My sense of myself-my hopes, dreams and aspirations, were never tied up in something that I would someday achieve. They were tied up in belonging.
I knew, deeply, that I was loved, by my parents and by the Lord. This love filled up my little personhood, and I knew that this love was for who I was in the present, not who I would be someday. My parents always told me that I could do anything I dreamed, but they never suggested that those "anythings" would increase my worth. They loved me, and still do, simply because I am theirs.
And that planted a seed of contentment deep down in my soul, and a trust that the Lord's love, like my parents', would always be for me. The security of the Father's love sends down roots into my soul, deep down into the bedrock of Jenny Claire Tokheim. And roots of that sort will support a tree more steadfast than I can imagine, with branches whose directions I can only dream about right now. Expectation, hope, excitement--all of those still remain.
I'm still not too worried about what I'll be when I grow up either, because I trust that who I'm becoming has always been about whose I am, not what I'll do. The doing is important, don't get me wrong, but I trust that the achievements of my life will always be more profound when they're endeavored for in the strength of His love, not out of my need for accomplishment.
Let His love be your source today, Dear Reader. Let His love be your strongest motivation and your most steadfast security.
"See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are."
-1 John 3:1
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Sorrow and Victory
A friend died the week before last.
His funeral was a week ago today. I was far away, and I couldn't go to the funeral, couldn't participate in the communal grief, and that was difficult.
My sister described grief so accurately in an email this week. I'm so thankful that she always tries to meet me where I am, no matter what kind of crazy place that may be:
"Grief is a mess. A necessity. A hold you by your ankles upside down for awhile kinda thing. It kinda messes up the functioning of normal life because it's a response to a great rip in life. There's a space no longer occupied. And the soul hasn't adjusted to it yet."
I've done a lot of crying. A lot of remembering + praising Jesus for the beautiful life and heart that still lives--lives with Jesus where he belongs, lives at home.
And still there is sadness, sorrow, the deep sort that ambushes you.
Tonight, when grief snuck up on me, I was spraying a pan to make some banana bread. For some reason, a familiar baking pan--one of my mom's old ones--caught me so off guard in the midst of all the unfamiliarity and isolated feeling that goes along with grieving. I burst into tears- and I picked up a pen...
...because somewhere in this torrent of tears, there is something holy. Just as Jesus wept for his friend, so I weep for mine. And just as Jesus' friend lived again, so does mine.
These days my song is sorrow and victory, death and life abundant, tears mixed with the Conqueror's joy.
His funeral was a week ago today. I was far away, and I couldn't go to the funeral, couldn't participate in the communal grief, and that was difficult.
My sister described grief so accurately in an email this week. I'm so thankful that she always tries to meet me where I am, no matter what kind of crazy place that may be:
"Grief is a mess. A necessity. A hold you by your ankles upside down for awhile kinda thing. It kinda messes up the functioning of normal life because it's a response to a great rip in life. There's a space no longer occupied. And the soul hasn't adjusted to it yet."
I've done a lot of crying. A lot of remembering + praising Jesus for the beautiful life and heart that still lives--lives with Jesus where he belongs, lives at home.
And still there is sadness, sorrow, the deep sort that ambushes you.
Tonight, when grief snuck up on me, I was spraying a pan to make some banana bread. For some reason, a familiar baking pan--one of my mom's old ones--caught me so off guard in the midst of all the unfamiliarity and isolated feeling that goes along with grieving. I burst into tears- and I picked up a pen...
...because somewhere in this torrent of tears, there is something holy. Just as Jesus wept for his friend, so I weep for mine. And just as Jesus' friend lived again, so does mine.
These days my song is sorrow and victory, death and life abundant, tears mixed with the Conqueror's joy.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Green Tea & Sugar Cookies.
Let me take you back in time, back to the making of me.
Come in, come in, step inside the breezeway; we're going in for a cup of tea. It will be green. If you're like me, like I was then, anyway, you'll pour copious amounts of milk and stir in spoonfuls of sugar. It will be sweet.
It will be almost as sweet as that cookie perched on the edge of your saucer. The little granules of sugar brush off so easily, don't they? The cookie is still quite chilly--partially frozen because she pulled a bag of these sugar cookies out of the deep-freeze just for you. She's always doing that.
Who is she?
Look across the table; she's the beautiful one. The one with peace written in every line of her face. She's the one who will look at you with understanding and love, who will hear your childlike story with as much attention as she would give to the most important of guests. She's the one who poured your tea, who will watch your cup empty and fill it again. She will listen to your stories, but she will also tell some.
She will tell you story after story of a world you are too young to know. She will speak of winter-time sleigh rides, of struggle, and of deep and true love. She will remind you who you are with her stories, where you came from, and from whom.
She will tell you the hard truth. Her stories won't be sugar-coated like her cookies.
And all the while, she will have that flash of merriment in her eyes, that dance of light that tells you she has a beautiful, exciting secret she'd like to let you in on.
And you won't even realize it, but she will.
She tells you gradually, carefully, in her own way.
She shows you her photo albums. She tells you the stories for each black and white picture. You soak in her stories. A family, woven around this little part of the world. Hearts, bound together and broken, sometimes both.
Every story of hardship ends with this phrase, "Ah well...whatever." And every story of joy ends with a chuckle that makes her small frame dance with amusement.
And through it all, His mercy. Times are bad, but never desperate. Sorrow comes, but joy somehow remains. And all the while, that refrain she loves to play for you on the old organ in the corner of the living room rings more and more true, "What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear, what a privilege to carry, everything to God in prayer."
And amidst all the moments remembered, from bubble-blowing at the kitchen sink, to being persistently and gleefully beaten at scrabble, to mending the old toys from attic with that super-sticky white tape, there's one small thing that always sticks in my mind and heart.
When we bowed our heads to pray--over a meal or over afternoon tea--after the "Amen" had been said in unison, she would always linger, eyes closed, head, bowed. She was in the secret place with her dearest friend just then. In the pause, there was such holiness, such volumes were spoken by a moment of silence before her God and Friend.
And so, she taught us the secret, the source of the merriment in her eyes. She taught many of us. The secret was Jesus.
Her infinitely sweet and precious friend was Jesus.
And yesterday, on this beautiful woman's birthday, I drank a cup of green tea, this time without milk or sugar, and I thanked my sweet and precious friend, my Jesus, for the life of a woman that changed the course of mine, with sugar cookies, laughter, and the presence of her dearest Friend.
Come in, come in, step inside the breezeway; we're going in for a cup of tea. It will be green. If you're like me, like I was then, anyway, you'll pour copious amounts of milk and stir in spoonfuls of sugar. It will be sweet.
It will be almost as sweet as that cookie perched on the edge of your saucer. The little granules of sugar brush off so easily, don't they? The cookie is still quite chilly--partially frozen because she pulled a bag of these sugar cookies out of the deep-freeze just for you. She's always doing that.
Who is she?
Look across the table; she's the beautiful one. The one with peace written in every line of her face. She's the one who will look at you with understanding and love, who will hear your childlike story with as much attention as she would give to the most important of guests. She's the one who poured your tea, who will watch your cup empty and fill it again. She will listen to your stories, but she will also tell some.
She will tell you story after story of a world you are too young to know. She will speak of winter-time sleigh rides, of struggle, and of deep and true love. She will remind you who you are with her stories, where you came from, and from whom.
She will tell you the hard truth. Her stories won't be sugar-coated like her cookies.
And all the while, she will have that flash of merriment in her eyes, that dance of light that tells you she has a beautiful, exciting secret she'd like to let you in on.
And you won't even realize it, but she will.
She tells you gradually, carefully, in her own way.
She shows you her photo albums. She tells you the stories for each black and white picture. You soak in her stories. A family, woven around this little part of the world. Hearts, bound together and broken, sometimes both.
Every story of hardship ends with this phrase, "Ah well...whatever." And every story of joy ends with a chuckle that makes her small frame dance with amusement.
And through it all, His mercy. Times are bad, but never desperate. Sorrow comes, but joy somehow remains. And all the while, that refrain she loves to play for you on the old organ in the corner of the living room rings more and more true, "What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear, what a privilege to carry, everything to God in prayer."
And amidst all the moments remembered, from bubble-blowing at the kitchen sink, to being persistently and gleefully beaten at scrabble, to mending the old toys from attic with that super-sticky white tape, there's one small thing that always sticks in my mind and heart.
When we bowed our heads to pray--over a meal or over afternoon tea--after the "Amen" had been said in unison, she would always linger, eyes closed, head, bowed. She was in the secret place with her dearest friend just then. In the pause, there was such holiness, such volumes were spoken by a moment of silence before her God and Friend.
And so, she taught us the secret, the source of the merriment in her eyes. She taught many of us. The secret was Jesus.
Her infinitely sweet and precious friend was Jesus.
And yesterday, on this beautiful woman's birthday, I drank a cup of green tea, this time without milk or sugar, and I thanked my sweet and precious friend, my Jesus, for the life of a woman that changed the course of mine, with sugar cookies, laughter, and the presence of her dearest Friend.
Happy Birthday, Great-Grandma Pedersen. We love you.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Sunshine and Snowflakes
There's a secret and small part of me that began to breathe in Spain. It started to stretch and yawn to wake up from its slumber, but, for some strange reason it didn't quite shake sleep's hold.
It is not the forceful part of my heart, not the proud, not the pushy.
It is the delighting part, the part that dances, the part that plays. It is the part of me that sees delight and every snowflake and birdsong, the part of me that wakes anticipating the simple joys and small adventure of the unknown day.
And that part has been stifled-by practicality or circumstance, by lies or by categories -I'm not sure-but it has been missing for quite some time.
This is the part of me that dances in the rain and jumps in the car a moment's notice to find a field to stargaze. This is the part of me that whispers life to growing plants in the garden and laughs as pranks are well-played.
This part of me, she's full of mischief and play and the light and the peace of his goodness and faithfulness.
And I must learn to nurture her, to coax her from her resting place and into the moment, into the present, into the need for beauty realized here and now. And today, it starts with a fearless, honest cry and snowflakes falling on my upturned face.
It is not the forceful part of my heart, not the proud, not the pushy.
It is the delighting part, the part that dances, the part that plays. It is the part of me that sees delight and every snowflake and birdsong, the part of me that wakes anticipating the simple joys and small adventure of the unknown day.
And that part has been stifled-by practicality or circumstance, by lies or by categories -I'm not sure-but it has been missing for quite some time.
This is the part of me that dances in the rain and jumps in the car a moment's notice to find a field to stargaze. This is the part of me that whispers life to growing plants in the garden and laughs as pranks are well-played.
This part of me, she's full of mischief and play and the light and the peace of his goodness and faithfulness.
And I must learn to nurture her, to coax her from her resting place and into the moment, into the present, into the need for beauty realized here and now. And today, it starts with a fearless, honest cry and snowflakes falling on my upturned face.
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