Saturday, December 31, 2011

Far broken.

For the sins of my people
For the blood on their hands
For the idols in their hearts
For the adultery in their minds
For the other gods they place before You
For the distractions that hold their gaze
For the empty lies of business that eat up their time
For the darkness that consumes their attention
For the land mines of doubt in their deep
For the apathy with which they chase You
For the hollow nothings that they use to fill their emptiness
For the fallacy of self as the highest

I hunger
I thirst
I weep
I bow
I beg

Body of Jesus, usher me in, that You may hear my solemn cries and pardon the large comings of my people

Choose them
Chase them
Woo them
Use them
Restore them to Yourself


The musings that come when I cannot fall asleep.

Sunday, December 18, 2011


I cannot fix me.

I cannot make me.

I cannot change me.

I am who You have made me.

I cannot add to, nor subtract from, who I am.

Who I am is Yours.

Fashioned with Your hands, fashioned of Your heart.

I am not.

You are I Am.

I may be from You and I know that I am of You, but help me to rest in this tonight:

Just to be with You.


Saturday, December 17, 2011

Part of Me.

My Immanuel.

You hold the only high seat in my heart.

May I gift You with the prime of my time.

The first of my thoughts.

The rawest of my emotions.

And steadfast devotion.

May me knee always bend to you, with my foolish pride to follow.

Cover me in the blood of the baby, of the lamb, of the Man that is You.

Paint over the doorposts of my soul that I may no longer be recognizable.

May You never stop until Your work is complete in me.

I am desperate for You.

May my soul be humbled, my lips be silent, my hands be dirty, my heart be broken, and my knees be worn from exalting You higher.

My joy and whole heart soar at the height of Your Spirit.

May I never tire of Your salvation story.

and May I offer You the sweetest part of me.



In between seen and the promised.

Spoken and fulfilled.

All I have is time.

Time, impregnated with anticipation.

Carefully, I carve out my expectations.

My timeline.


May they be removed from the equation.

So that all I have left is You.

For I am certain that You are enough.

May You be my portion this day forth and forevermore.


Tuesday, December 13, 2011


Dark and quiet.

Early and soaked.

My mind is saturated with thoughts of You.

I poke.

I give.

I tuck in.

I listen.

I hold hands.

I bestow what I know.

I care.

I think of You.

I am the perpetrator.

I am that person, in the bed, that seems impossible to care for, care about.

Far from deserving, I am silent at the thought of experiencing Your grace.

You know how to love each and every one appropriately.

And You love me so well.

You are my Good Father.

You have prodded me with Your message of hope, joy has wrecked my story.

You have given me life and life abundantly.

You have tucked me in before and behind, and I am beautifully made.

You listen and respond, I am still quiet, undone by that reality.

The lines of Your hand have been memorized by my heart, You hold me close and never have I doubted Your company.

Your Spirit fiercely brings me to the realm of the holy, pardons me with the knowledge of You.

As I close the door at night, hands fresh with sanitizer, I know that I care because You cared first.

None can be before You.


Tuesday, December 6, 2011


Sitting still.

Quiet mind.

I inhale {Abba}

and exhale {I belong to You}.

I let it sink in.

It becomes my cadence.

The rhythm of my life.

Like shingles nailed down to something secure.

Every fabric of my being is rooted in this.

Rooted in You.

For You are my truth.

You are true.

My Good Father.

My delight.

I sit here, eyes closed, and lose myself in Your countenance.

I seek Your hands, not for what they hold, but for You.

To hold Your hand.

To be held.


I belong to You, my Good Father.

And my pressed lips break the silence, to speak of Your return.

Maranatha; Our LORD cometh.


Sunday, December 4, 2011

Sackcloth torn.

Grief worn.

Tears come streaming down.

Life is of You.

Breath is from You.

Love is You.

is You.



Praying for Troy Gray. May our copious amounts of tears and prayers wash the holy feet of Jesus and may we adore Him for who He is, not for what He does.

Friday, December 2, 2011

A story like this.

Once fallen, twice removed.

Covered in the ash and surrounded by the ruins, of a decision made once; responsible for all.

Dark and dirty.


My guilt hands -- buried.

My brittle soul -- in shackles.

My greatest thought couldn't have come up with a story like this.

Your story of Red, of Revival, Renewal.

And in it You, the Good Creator, sought me.

And You kissed my soul with the purifying coal.

And You said My daughter, you are dark, but you are lovely.

My Great Redeemer has come for me.

Rising from the ashes, it is all I can do to sing of Your Holy.

Freed from sin, from shame, from self.

My whole being can attest to Your wonder.

Your work.

Your worth.

And I have nothing to give You in return, except for my awe and affection.

This soul's admiration.

And I may have dreams, but I awake to the reality of Your vision.

I realize now that the colorful dreams of You are the fill for this desire.

And these tears are the only gift I can muster up.

I return to You my longings, plans, and identity .

I take Your spirit in return.

Joy will not leave me, praise will only come from me, Your truth will continue to transform me.

May I only grow lower as You are exalted in me.

You are Holy.

You are Radical Love.

You are lettering this story.

You are responsible for this Beautiful Exchange.

And in the silence, in the leaning, in the tears, I am undone.


{Renew with Sam and friends with coffee and drinks to follow <3}

Thursday, December 1, 2011


Engine turned off.

Vehicle of the soul, now coasting.

Heart bradying down.

Lips sealing shut.

Mind releasing the curtain for the final time tonight.

It is now, in the quiet, that I seek You.

Everything inside of me wishes to rush in.

To draw close.

To be held.

Loudly, I have come to find You.

But tonight, I remember.

You are tangible in the quiet.

Sitting on the pew, mostly towards the front, I am facing the Holy Place.

Between me is the wood, the stake, the cross.

Reconciled with my lament.

Aware of who I really am.

I will come boldly to the cross.

The symbol of my life, the marker of my hope, the wood that took the brute of the stones I had to throw.

The body that was mishandled, that my healing might spring forth.

I come boldly.

For I am shamelessly desperate for You.

Drown me in the blood, cover me in the Red, that I might move forward anew.

Anoint me with the Holy Oil of Your presence, that I might quietly move in.

Stepping forward, moving on, I come into Your Holy Place.

And I enter in to find that You have already made Your home in me.




You are my portion, and I will forever be satisfied here, with Your presence.


Unc-tion: the [act] of anointing someone with oil.

My favorite word from this week.