tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51376389940367515172024-02-07T14:27:17.768-05:00RemnantsScribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.comBlogger137125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-10098715266797239452015-05-05T12:39:00.000-04:002015-05-05T12:39:21.059-04:00Ink and Ideas and all things newJust dropping by to let my faithful few know that I have begun again to blog. It is different, new, and scary-beautiful, and I am so excited to share both words <i>and</i> art. I have opened an Etsy shop and am selling and writing and all around having a grand new adventure. God has blessed me immensely, and I hope He gets all the glory for this new direction. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3SUIVcg3E58kUYEosM0nAY5IPFPt38r_D22rGq2K5Y3P7EMBVTukvQ-fbyKTyhahMU4ch8wd0NwSic5G7kfJrwy4yKTqwN09yPXSwTAcOfH5qFUNGy_v_U0URDNiQrmOXtnp7N6FNrUFG/s1600/Untitled-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3SUIVcg3E58kUYEosM0nAY5IPFPt38r_D22rGq2K5Y3P7EMBVTukvQ-fbyKTyhahMU4ch8wd0NwSic5G7kfJrwy4yKTqwN09yPXSwTAcOfH5qFUNGy_v_U0URDNiQrmOXtnp7N6FNrUFG/s1600/Untitled-4.jpg" height="83" width="640" /></a></div>
Hope to see you over at Ink & Ideas! http://kasmithscribbler.wix.com/inkandideas<br />
<br />
With Joy,<br />
<br />
Karly the scribblerScribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-14630390004948538802015-01-30T22:39:00.002-05:002015-01-30T22:39:13.837-05:00write & wait<a href="http://katemotaung.com/2015/01/29/five-minute-friday-wait/" target="_blank"><img alt="Five Minute Friday - 4" height="200" src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4-300x300.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<br />
I have FMF-ed in ages. I haven't blogged for a month exactly, today. This blog is one I don't use anymore, but it is where I always did these precious five minutes.<br />
<br />
When my dear friend told me that the word today was wait, I gave a forced laugh. (via facebook) and I avoided thinking about it for the rest of the day. But He brings us back to things, and as the day folds slowly into a yesterday, I come to an old place I have left behind, this lovely meeting of minutes and hearts.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to write about waiting. My friend and I wonder if all we do is talk about and write about waiting. It is pretty obvious that this is a time of waiting for me--waiting for many dreams, an in-between time. Waiting for a full-time job, waiting to settle in, waiting for the duller days of subbing to end.<br />
<br />
Today I wrote poems. Not my own, no, today I wrote down poems by Luci Shaw into my poetry journal where I keep the poems that are my inspiration. I learned something as I meticulously, slowly, deliberately hand-penned the words of another. I learned patience. Hand-writing a poem you like is an exercise in slowness, in steady digestion of words and thought-particles. And in that careful absorption, I found a sense of peace. As though He has given this time for me to slowly go over all that I know of His promises, adding what He wishes to teach me, so that I know it by heart. So I believe it when this time is over. I am an impatient one, who was brought to her spiritual knees by the thought that He cares for me as I drove away from that slow, difficult day. Even when I refuse to find the joy where I wait, He gives, and gives, and never stops--He gives snow-iced landscapes and western gold that purples into sharp, star-flecked night.Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-83258826305746027712014-09-20T08:45:00.002-04:002014-09-20T08:58:39.976-04:00fade into a new glowThat is what it feels like--this blog fades, but into a new glow, of my new blog, <a href="http://thestonesbytheriver.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Stones by the River</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAMA5j0TQxMca7HjuQXd-o6SW-E_i3c8gypH0ythKULSTDhf8E3VTjpE0_y36-WN6teiArE5-zQUxRLlj7C_65cENzAjaEC630DNEAshNVXZWZgwZRSDhmxu86A2VIYr6JL3VTnGua8Hq/s1600/spaces.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAMA5j0TQxMca7HjuQXd-o6SW-E_i3c8gypH0ythKULSTDhf8E3VTjpE0_y36-WN6teiArE5-zQUxRLlj7C_65cENzAjaEC630DNEAshNVXZWZgwZRSDhmxu86A2VIYr6JL3VTnGua8Hq/s1600/spaces.png" height="336" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I want you on this journey with me.<br />
<br />
He has plans--small big ones, and I want to give you what I can, what He can give through me.<br />
<br />
To give you encouragement, to give you empathy, to give you small reminders, because it is the small that add up greater than anything we see as great in our lives.<br />
<br />
So art--my illustration & graphic design skills will be used for His glory, for your knowing His glory. And my words, hopefully even better.<br />
<br />
There has been self-doubt. There has been back-and-forth. There has been trying to measure the success of a blog, when I should have just been counting the ways He loves. I mean, there are hundreds of other blogs. Thousands. Maybe more. Why add to the clutter?<br />
<br />
But I ignore my small-mindedness, and I step out on the faith He asks. He doesn't promise 100 readers, or even 50. He promises that if I follow Him, I will know Him, and He will finish the work begun.<br />
<br />
Maybe this new blog will be used to fill small <a href="http://thestonesbytheriver.blogspot.com/2014/09/spaces.html" target="_blank">spaces</a> in lives. Maybe I won't ever know--which is probably for the best.<br />
<br />
Being a writer is hard--the self-doubt is monumental. But there is One I cannot doubt.<br />
<br />
So join me? Walk a few minutes every other week or so beside me? Have tea, coffee, cocoa? I will bring art, my heart and words, won't you bring your eyes and soul?Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-8911246883324170312014-09-12T14:08:00.001-04:002014-09-12T14:09:53.155-04:00I wasn't ready10:46 pm, and I decided I wasn't ready. No five minutes of free-write and community for me.<br />
<br />
I didn't think I would even do it. I will probably be among the last, and my blessed few will read it.<br />
<br />
Everything is messy just now. Complications to finding work, friends bleeding hearts half out from a hundred miles away, Restlessness itching me from the inside. Transitions, transitions.<br />
<br />
I won't be using this blog much anymore--I have decided to start a new one, because I am ready for something new. This was my first blog, my first brave, and I will be letting it go soon. I might still do my five minutes here, but even that is unknown just now.<br />
<br />
I am ready for something different, something focused, yet more encompassing. I am calling it <i><a href="http://thestonesbytheriver.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Stones by the River</a></i>. It will be my space to mark the places where He has been in my life in the hopes that we might all see Him more clearly. I want to incorporate my other artistic skills--photography, lettering, drawing. Remnants was what I had time for when I had time for it. But He deserves more than my remnants, and I am ready now to give more.<br />
<br />
I <i>must</i> decrease, I must, and this new blog will hopefully be a way for Him to increase.<br />
<br />
I wasn't ready to post these words, wasn't ready to share this part of my journey, this risky venture into new, uncharted lands. But He was ready.<br />
<br />
I wish I could give you, dear neighbor, something more profound, more interesting, more beautiful, but today this is all I have.<br />
<br />Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-83212765201504025412014-09-09T20:55:00.000-04:002014-09-09T20:55:27.576-04:00let us createtonight I link up brave with Aliza Latta on her <a href="http://alizanaomi.com/someday-letuscreate/" target="_blank">blog</a>. Sharing hidden away writing that doesn't seem ready for the light of day. So here are two.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A restlessness<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
wrestles<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
below my skin<o:p></o:p></div>
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beyond currents of blood<o:p></o:p></div>
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through tendons and muscles<o:p></o:p></div>
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and burrows in my bones<o:p></o:p></div>
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then deeper<o:p></o:p></div>
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to a place I cannot point to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
or touch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
or even explain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
except that<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it is<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my soul. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This restlessness is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hunger,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that gurgles in the night<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
or a slow rising<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of invisible wings<o:p></o:p></div>
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and the gentle lifting<o:p></o:p></div>
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of my chin to point<o:p></o:p></div>
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to that blue ceiling <o:p></o:p></div>
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speckled with collections of dandelion seeds<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in preparation to take flight<o:p></o:p></div>
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when the wind sweeps a certain way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But restlessness never uses<o:p></o:p></div>
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plain sorts of words<o:p></o:p></div>
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is never explicit or clear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She is a haze that clouds <o:p></o:p></div>
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the places I rest<o:p></o:p></div>
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so that I am never certain<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am where I hoped I was. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She gives a depth to life<o:p></o:p></div>
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and reminds me the breadth of <o:p></o:p></div>
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living,<o:p></o:p></div>
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widening eyes and <o:p></o:p></div>
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opening windows to let in fresh air. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She never speaks,<o:p></o:p></div>
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but looks out every window she passes <o:p></o:p></div>
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with a little bit of<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
longing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
********************</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The strings tremble,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">shaking out<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">a tune. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">and the songs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">that are sung<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">by the <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">trembling<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">are perhaps<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">the most beautiful <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">of all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-90548397210452430882014-09-06T23:01:00.001-04:002014-09-06T23:01:59.745-04:00remembrance<div class="MsoNormal">
He speaks between,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
behind and before my own words,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
turning them back to me,<o:p></o:p></div>
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as though writing is really like tossing a <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
boomerang.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I write, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
forget,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
write, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
forget,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
then read those words<o:p></o:p></div>
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and remember in humility,<o:p></o:p></div>
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in rain from my light-catching eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My words are crumbled bits of bread dropped,<o:p></o:p></div>
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small reminders<o:p></o:p></div>
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stone altars at river banks,<o:p></o:p></div>
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as though He is whispering<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I was here.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-87728190060590239112014-09-04T22:37:00.001-04:002014-09-04T22:37:09.103-04:00whisper<div>
<a href="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/FMF-Whisper-2-600x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/FMF-Whisper-2-600x600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Five-Minute-Friday: a chance to sit down and pen unfiltered, unedited, with community about one word. Share your story, won't you?I have been hanging out with these wonderful writers for a while, and it has been one of the most encouraging experiences of my life. So please, come sit with us awhile?<br /><br />Just link up with Kate Motaung <a href="http://katemotaung.com/2014/09/04/five-minute-friday-whisper/" target="_blank">here</a> and encourage the writer who posts before you--that is the best part!<div>
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WHISPER</div>
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Sometimes I don't listen very well. </div>
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After the way Job's God-words have been walking behind me and throwing shadows across my path, you would think I would get the picture. But <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Job%2026:14&version=ESV" target="_blank">Job 26:14</a> is back for another round of unedited writing and community. </div>
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It has been easy for me to feel down. There is a hold on my dreams of students and books tumbling around a classroom under my direction. Some days feel heavy with the weight of imagined judgement and my own disappointment. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I began the adventure of substitute teaching today. I watched the sunrise spread all purple and pink and golden rays and lines flinging across a sky scaled with grey clouds, and the sun came up orange. That ocean wave of mist twirled up in the hollow in a perfect curl.``</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>All I have is what I need, this I know</i>, Audrey Assad sang quietly. I felt peace then. I knew not that I would be blessed by the coming day.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He'd been whispering in my lonely, tear-flecked moments "My ways, you cannot know." Whispers of His goodness to come, outskirts of ways, incomprehensible thunder, hemming in behind and before, searching out paths. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I could talk about my day for quite a ramble. But I will just say this: I couldn't stop smiling on the drive home. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Grace spilling into smiles, and hope rising like a second dawn, slow and misty.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-13391303400983242842014-08-28T22:24:00.001-04:002014-08-28T22:45:52.557-04:00outskirts<br />
<div>
<a href="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4-300x300.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4-300x300.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>Five-Minute-Friday: a chance to sit down and pen unfiltered, unedited, with community about one word. Share your story, won't you?<br />
I have been hanging out with these wonderful writers for a while, and it has been one of the most encouraging experiences of my life. So please, come sit with us awhile?<br />
<br />
Just link up with Kate Motaung <a href="http://katemotaung.com/2014/08/28/five-minute-friday-reach/">here</a> and encourage the writer who posts before you--that is the best part!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
REACH<br />
<br />
There wasn't even a word yet, and I was writing. Because I needed to. Because the writing awakens wonder.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I don't live like I believe Psalm 139. "You hem me in, behind and before," "I am fearfully and wonderfully made," "in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me," "I awake, and I am still with you," "for darkness is as light with you."<br />
<br />
Darkness is light in the eyes of the Creator. No darkness His sight cannot reach, and not just a reach that grazes with shaking fingertips, but a deep reach.<br />
<br />
His eyes see what ours cannot—but our soul-eyes gaze, as Tozer writes, and this is faith, the things unseen. And yet all that darkness, all that not-so-simple dark as Luci Shaw says, “swims with complications” subtleties that He <i>knows</i>. How does God see? Does He have eyes? Or does He sense as Aunt Beast does, things beyond those who see can sense? (A Wrinkle In Time)<br />
<br />
And how can I forget this? This wonder—not at the world or sunsets or winging birds, but at the Spirit hovering over the waters, and maybe that is why the wind across the lake fills lungs like no other, for He swept across the waters and breathed life into lungs and veins and minds and the wonder of Him sweeps over again, each breath a whisper of His name, and a remembrance of that first Adam-breath. <br />
<br />
And remembering the last breath as He gave up to give us breath beyond this worldly air.<br />
<br />
And these, Job reminds, are but whispers we hear of Him, the outskirts of ways reaching far beyond what eyes and minds can sense. A God we cannot overestimate. He knows “when I sit down and when I rise up,” knows “my thoughts from afar,” is “acquainted with all my ways.” Oh, to marvel that He knows.<br />
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<br />Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-46774335928136813572014-08-27T11:03:00.000-04:002014-08-28T21:28:31.224-04:00letting go<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/bUONnfHb7a8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<i>This has been the song that echoes my heart. That whispered soft "I understand" when I needed</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">—</span><i>well, need it. Only He could orchestrate such a collision of music and soul. So please let the notes find routes to your heart and know that you are not alone.</i> <i>Letting Go by Paul Cardall </i></div>
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The ache, soft sometimes, that comes with the slow uncurling of fingers. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The rhythmic release, repeated slowly, gently, rocking back and forth in a quiet tug-of-war. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Thoughts of what is lost, sway forward to thoughts of what could be discovered. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Remembering Who it is that loves first. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Then stillness, surrender, and slow relinquishing of control, of dreams, of all that lay in sweating palms. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Freedom follows. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A smile curls on face, corners of mouth lifted by joy. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9vCWr-BUaEvQoeioKSjTJ-p-tStc4a8dWI9EH7ARejMD_UFPfBj095zXQQa6yXeXSuf1v1gpI2697wiH2pKDiv0zacZoYSxZr2QikSsZE1LwrblaShf_JWGdFysbQOYViN35l2TGqEWJc/s1600/joy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9vCWr-BUaEvQoeioKSjTJ-p-tStc4a8dWI9EH7ARejMD_UFPfBj095zXQQa6yXeXSuf1v1gpI2697wiH2pKDiv0zacZoYSxZr2QikSsZE1LwrblaShf_JWGdFysbQOYViN35l2TGqEWJc/s1600/joy.jpg" height="276" width="400" /></a></div>
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Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-88809342678768867732014-08-21T23:16:00.003-04:002014-08-21T23:17:55.261-04:00noticing change<div>
Five-Minute-Friday: a chance to sit down and pen unfiltered, unedited, with community about one word. Share your story, won't you?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4-300x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Five Minute Friday - 4" border="0" src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4-300x300.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>I have been hanging out with these wonderful writers for a while, and it has been one of the most encouraging experiences of my life. So please, come sit with us awhile?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Just link up with Kate Motaung <a href="http://katemotaung.com/2014/08/14/five-minute-friday-tell/" target="_blank">here</a> and encourage the writer who posts before you--that is the best part!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Today's word: CHANGE<br />
<br />
<br />
I look in the mirror and wonder a bit. Could that be me? Staring out placidly from those hazel eyes?<br />
<br />
I don't look different. But then, I don't look in the mirror as much these days. I have been too busy looking in other directions.<br />
<br />
It sure is me, in that reflective world. Makes me ponder, reflect. What has changed? Why do I feel so different? Something is missing. It is not gone completely. But it is smaller--something in the way I breathe and the words I speak. Not explicit, but an undercurrent of something filling in.<br />
<br />
I run my thoughts over heart-scars and they tell me what I have happily lost--fear. And what fills? Him. And His courage.<br />
<br />
My circumstances have not changed. I still don't have a job. And it looks right now as though I will be substitute teaching this fall. Something I used to look down on. Something I used to fear. All of my friends who just graduated with me have jobs--teaching and in other fields. And I find I am to wait. But I am not afraid.<br />
<br />
This small place is much larger when you look closely, count details and see opportunities in humble places. And as much as it hurts, as disappointing as it is, and even though I grieve my dream, I am excited.<br />
<br />
There are so many small ways to serve here, and if this is where He has me, this is where I will bloom. I will have time for people and writing and art and music. Time to prepare myself better for future students. Time to grow.<br />
<br />
Only He could be such peace.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAxEutmdLGHqgzJhODO5m3qN2lcV9dq_A4VvldS6L_yNjQjEIIE9MtoEk1-1oeQ_ddwzZK7ItiC2Ti0QHXvGy2KrLkuI3uOhrya-ztE6snRVzjbLQ-ZbBZ4e67zyJRV4jXrmZsOFmcNUdq/s1600/IMG_6134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAxEutmdLGHqgzJhODO5m3qN2lcV9dq_A4VvldS6L_yNjQjEIIE9MtoEk1-1oeQ_ddwzZK7ItiC2Ti0QHXvGy2KrLkuI3uOhrya-ztE6snRVzjbLQ-ZbBZ4e67zyJRV4jXrmZsOFmcNUdq/s1600/IMG_6134.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-19256514624769794282014-08-14T22:16:00.001-04:002014-08-19T11:54:25.618-04:00how to tell<div>
<a href="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4-300x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Five Minute Friday - 4" border="0" src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4-300x300.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>Five-Minute-Friday: a chance to sit down and pen unfiltered, unedited with community about one word. Share your story, won't you?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have been hanging out with these wonderful writers for a while, and it has been one of the most encouraging experiences of my life. So please, come sit with us awhile?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Just link up with Kate Motaung <a href="http://katemotaung.com/2014/08/14/five-minute-friday-tell/" target="_blank">here</a> and encourage the writer who posts before you--that is the best part!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today's word: TELL</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes I don't know how. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How to let the words spill unfiltered--how to release the fear that dams my thoughts, my feelings, my self. I sat in a cold room and tried to express how much I love teaching, and the words came out all wrong.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I sit here wishing I could express my frustration with people I cherish. Speak my affection for people I love. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But sometimes words just don't work quite right. This word is too long, too many hard sounds--that one is too short, not enough vowels. The emotions wear the words like an ill-fitting dress that bags where it shouldn't and squeezes everywhere else. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe we can't always tell our hearts with words. Maybe we were given eyes and hands and tears and laughter by the One who weeps and laughs with us because they can speak where the words don't fit. Perhaps there are pauses and spaces in conversation on purpose, to make room for all that words cannot do. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I adore words, but I cannot help but admit their humility. Is not silence more eloquent for the contrast of wonderful words? We were given both. We need both. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are so many ways to tell people about the Love that casts out fear. Let Him show us. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
"When God will not use thee in one kind, yet He will in another. A soul that desires to serve and honour Him shall never want opportunity to do it; nor must thou so limit the Holy One of Israel as to think He hath but one way in which He can glorify Himself by thee. He can do it by thy silence as well as by thy preaching; thy laying aside as well as thy continuance in thy work." Mr. Oldfield's Soliloquy, <i>North and South</i>, Elizabeth Gaskell<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkztGHBhYqvciQP92o9Rgt9ORDA9kpbWR5A0nWWvAxod2p7ufM0Bn7qhl0aFOZx6StVW1JWj7Z-aBJWxxhNvCb8LDxbHCSTnAwRKxiA67N3-uwgv_ByMdIYSJ_137sGPLksg3CFW7WRkCv/s1600/silence+and+speech.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkztGHBhYqvciQP92o9Rgt9ORDA9kpbWR5A0nWWvAxod2p7ufM0Bn7qhl0aFOZx6StVW1JWj7Z-aBJWxxhNvCb8LDxbHCSTnAwRKxiA67N3-uwgv_ByMdIYSJ_137sGPLksg3CFW7WRkCv/s1600/silence+and+speech.jpg" height="312" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-13266105789729740852014-08-10T21:33:00.000-04:002014-08-10T22:50:59.644-04:00earthy<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My thanks to Luke Mathys for the "earthy" metaphor describing God's love, and his lending of the idea to me.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh27w7npsu1-YEBdtYiB2sIDhUOweSp-eHTioTjVWxCWAPvMGoYbq5X7tZfKrCTGCUksba9wYKRYGvrGQ4DWMz1SV6gK2M0jww_Lz9dmcDxJl6tCtVpBYyzHDY9e8WP3AQHse7ZEAv5omE/s1600/earthy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh27w7npsu1-YEBdtYiB2sIDhUOweSp-eHTioTjVWxCWAPvMGoYbq5X7tZfKrCTGCUksba9wYKRYGvrGQ4DWMz1SV6gK2M0jww_Lz9dmcDxJl6tCtVpBYyzHDY9e8WP3AQHse7ZEAv5omE/s1600/earthy.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">His
love is<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">earthy,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">yet
unearthly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And
deep within it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I
am pressed and planted,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">a
tiny seed,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">feeling
a little lost in the thick of it,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">startled
by the vastness <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">reaching
softly round the globe—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">immensity unable
to be held or contained in frail <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">clay
pots that break like<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">idols’
feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It
is here that I wince as<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">my
outer walls break open—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">an
awakening eye—and something <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">grows,
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">reaches
up,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">part
of me I had never<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">known
or seen or hoped for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Waking
is an ache <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">sometimes—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">can
I keep my eyes open?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Face
the bruises and jabs from thorns, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">sticks
and stony hearts? Face darkness?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But
here He slows me <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">to
a pace—a place—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">where
I can feel textures,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">lean
into loam, and know,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He
is closer than all that dark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He
readies me to bloom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-64241485219444485802014-08-07T22:07:00.004-04:002014-08-07T22:09:44.814-04:00Fill<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgdDf7d0yRrqsiva2Km1jBQm4VytbDDLw1ylauQQ4ako5X9Ty9ru6rJyiaRXXIXPhASpHwfSUICbIxhCjUXrPDKntl81wG-BtkiIEp4q5NhSjSasMI6uYN_s22FCUyPWq67yTsZOumFQnkE-rMUW_Bikev-E873y1_6Tux7Z2YUV61piWccmOmmc4w=" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>Fill, <a href="http://katemotaung.com/2014/08/07/five-minute-friday-fill/" target="_blank">Five Minute Friday</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Running on empty,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
as they say,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
wondering how to get through the day.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
trying not to break</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
when I think of what</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I do not have--all </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
the things I crave, and never get.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But maybe I need broken,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
a crack to let the light in,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
the love in;</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
spill</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and be filled.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We seal ourselves</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
up so tightly,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
so that our hearts don't bleed out</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and our souls don't fall.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But we aren't plastic bags</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
or tightened mason jars,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
but cupped hands,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
that hold what is given, </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and let the rest slip through </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
with gratitude.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Release what is not to keep,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and receive what is blessed.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This is how we fill.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I walk on remembering that you know this place. I trudge
through the uncertainty, the flailing arms and flinging questions that sit on
my shoulders and whisper to my mind: Why does it seem that no one wants to hire
me? Why does it feel as though all the work, the care, the dedication, the love
of it cannot be translated through the iceberg with writing we call a resume, hardly
anything worth resuming. What part of my flat, paper self falls thin to the other papers that are not
even papers but electronic files, just lines and lines of code—and who can find
soul in words that cannot be poems?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But you know this place, this path of that dreaded word that
smacks us in the line of the grocery store when we cannot bear to think the person
in front of us might dig another coupon out of her carpet bag with the
bird-handled umbrella sticking out of it. That p-word that demands of us what
we are too angry, too hurt, too scared to give because we wonder if calm means
we don’t care? Patience. There, I said it. You’ve known the path that requires
that precious commodity found only in choice.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You’ve had to wait.</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqPPTx9pLzBdUE7usKCtfqTE2V_rFSXyAO42ZzV5A4_LLBzSouj6wa2MzHZ11E-c6aPDeLFM41jkt1ykkNGWs28iM-UNtaQ8bLxikvpSBjk2fGEkZDXmEPUr2NqbKwHb4DoiIm6FvfAO7/s1600/timing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqPPTx9pLzBdUE7usKCtfqTE2V_rFSXyAO42ZzV5A4_LLBzSouj6wa2MzHZ11E-c6aPDeLFM41jkt1ykkNGWs28iM-UNtaQ8bLxikvpSBjk2fGEkZDXmEPUr2NqbKwHb4DoiIm6FvfAO7/s1600/timing.jpg" height="320" width="278" /></a></i></div>
<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And in my fluttering honesty, you had to wait longer. I
think you still are. For those dreams, and I have waited, what, two months? And
already I’m fidgeting because impatience is an uncomfortable position in a hard
chair that aches your bones and cricks your neck.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I remember trying to find the words to say trying to grasp
the difficulty of walking without certainty. Of being encouraged by your
certainty in the one thing we both know is a firm place to found a life. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Him.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I remember them because you said them, and I echoed them
back to help you remember them, these electrifying promises. For our good. Friend, for our good. That is
what He said, and we both know our good is not the smooth slope, because smooth
seas and skilled sailors and all that stuff they say. It is the narrow valleys,
steep cliffs and tear-stained nights that do the difficult, sometimes painful
work of making us </i><i>whole.</i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That tearing off of darkness to make way, make room for
dawn.</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-84042857985348316472014-07-31T22:46:00.001-04:002014-07-31T22:46:55.144-04:00beginbegin--<a href="http://lisajobaker.com/2014/07/five-minute-friday-my-last-week-hosting-begin/" target="_blank">Five Minute Friday</a><br />
<br />
Well, it seems I don't know where to begin. Yet I know I am at a beginning. The truth of it, the promise lingers below my language, below my awareness sometimes. I am standing on the edge of a beginning. He is standing beside me, holding my hand, reminding me to stop squirming, to stop straining my eyes trying to see where we are going.<br />
<br />
Endings are always beginnings.<br />
<br />
I ended college, and summer slipped her restful evenings into my lap like a good book. But not before worry planted weeds in my mind, cluttering up the wildflower thoughts He grows for my good. So I tend to my mind, weed out thoughts that don't belong, and pray that whether rain (a job) comes or not, the garden will grow.<br />
<br />
Maybe there are bigger plans. Maybe there are smaller plans for bigger good. But I am learning patience, choosing trust, living uncertainty, finding joy. Beginnings seem muddled to the ones who are in them. But peace does is not dependent on or provided by my understanding.<br />
<br />
Peace is Him.<br />
<br />
And if peace is Him, and He is with us, we cannot fear to begin.<br />
<br />
<br />Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-57898518602549392112014-07-25T12:20:00.002-04:002014-08-07T22:49:42.343-04:00finishFive-Minute-Friday: Finish<br />
<br />
Finish--I think of the finishes my mom coats on her art, the finish she puts on to echo age, a brown varnish, a walnut dye. And I think of how He is finishing me.<br />
<br />
I wait here, watching the opportunities fall to those I love--jobs, interviews, fellowships. And I wait. Still being touched up, while He is painting that patience and trust, finely adding shadows, that small flower in the corner, that little stroke of courage.<br />
<br />
But this work in progress is learning to enjoy the process, this leg of the journey that moves so slow. Waiting for the finish of this part of the story, this summer of struggling to find myself in Him. But here in this shallow valley, there is inspiration. There are words that flow unchecked, marking white pages and typing patterns and being written alive by His story. There is painting and the careful mix of colors, the smooth strokes of love for the canvas that create something humble-beautiful. Even the carving of wood--hard cuts, frustrating grains that run the wrong way, a bird growing from what was once tree.<br />
<br />
So as He puts the final touches on this chapter, adds a finish to make me shine, I find something more encouraging and life-altering than a job or a published book: Him.Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-53796572073192996862014-07-23T10:24:00.002-04:002014-08-07T22:51:46.646-04:00Tarnish<div class="MsoNormal">
We print it <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on our coffee mugs,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
tattoo it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to our skin,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
slather it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on social media,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but do we really believe it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does it sear into our very souls?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does it burrow in our bones? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does it soak into our skin<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like a watering rain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
down in the deepest roots<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of the oak <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that stretch into the dark soil?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want it to be the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
bones<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
soul<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
roots<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and blood that paces<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in ceaseless rhythms around<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the hollow tunnels of my heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want the truth<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to be more<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
than tarnish.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
"I think it is virtually impossible to honestly say that knowing God, as God intends to be known by his people in the new covenant, simply means mental awareness or understanding or acquaintance with God. Not in a million years is that what “knowing God” means here...You can know about God by research; but until the researcher is ravished by what he sees, he doesn't know God for who He really is." John Piper<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPTme0n3fbpYZLeY8FzktdfuDeVInScr4DvIBWxP9xwTr19LbokQ1eTdWtlYNYG0dfnBI9-8DXH_Sr1-19Fqzp5v-dU68sIwsLcfRWTer9KwhRUVdPlFaAf16TINjK9Gj0ezupEZTB1LJL/s1600/tarnish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPTme0n3fbpYZLeY8FzktdfuDeVInScr4DvIBWxP9xwTr19LbokQ1eTdWtlYNYG0dfnBI9-8DXH_Sr1-19Fqzp5v-dU68sIwsLcfRWTer9KwhRUVdPlFaAf16TINjK9Gj0ezupEZTB1LJL/s1600/tarnish.jpg" height="320" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-88256602761293553462014-07-17T22:49:00.001-04:002014-07-17T22:54:28.716-04:00bloomFive Minute Friday: Bloom<br />
<br />
It seems so perfect, so planned by a great Orchestrater. I spent time with the flowers today. Smelled them. Arranged some in a vase to replace the sagging, wilting crew dropping pollen and petals on the table. A fresh bouquet so that mom will feel a little loved when she gets home. To remind me to go outside and let the flowers bump my shins and thighs and nose when I get too close.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQdRCz_B4B5ks2ljd2PTSchSuFwQuPyw3XuYvD9RFOYhVdvfTWG29zbzAXW_DEz_J1BQn7Jkm_fqqJlma8JVigrT0GyGP3oixdqTw9MH0zYMnPCG56Vs_GVTtTHI04454dLaqQDY0ihnK/s1600/_MG_4429edited2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQdRCz_B4B5ks2ljd2PTSchSuFwQuPyw3XuYvD9RFOYhVdvfTWG29zbzAXW_DEz_J1BQn7Jkm_fqqJlma8JVigrT0GyGP3oixdqTw9MH0zYMnPCG56Vs_GVTtTHI04454dLaqQDY0ihnK/s1600/_MG_4429edited2.jpg" height="400" width="343" /></a>To remind me to live. To remind me that this state of limbo, between college and (hopefully) finding a job is not a conveyor belt taking me to the next place. No, wherever we are put can either be a garden or a pit of dirt.<br />
<br />
I've been digging, taking off the sod, preparing the ground for a patio. It really doesn't look nice, that rectangle of dirt littered with hacked grass and an annoying abundance of small rocks. That stretch of dirt will be something else soon, but right now it is ugly and barren.<br />
<br />
I want to be a garden. "Bloom where you are planted," people always say. Yeah, that's something people get right, at least in the head. Even if you are in a tiny, plastic pot instead of a gorgeously landscaped raised bed with stepping stones and sun--bloom.<br />
<br />
I am learning to make each day count in small ways--a kind note, an encouraging text, praying for and thinking about friends in hard places and good, showing kindness instead of retaliation, patience instead of frustration. It is hard work--gardens usually are. But He has the greenest thumb to ever exist.Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-19901979467184139832014-07-12T22:26:00.003-04:002014-08-07T22:51:46.627-04:00AheadThe words flow, and I speak to myself, write pictures of what I need to hear. But the poem bursts, and blossoms, and though humble, perhaps in need of more tinkering, I tremble and lay it in your hands. <br />
<br />
Perhaps you need these words, too.<br />
<br />
<div>
Ahead<br />
There is a darkness ahead<br />
that eludes my endless scrutiny. <br />
<br /></div>
<div>
The future is in black white,<br />
and we are painters,<br />
stroking with the colors we choose.<br />
But we can only paint<br />
today.<br />
This moment is our canvas—<br />
woven and gesso-ed,<br />
and we can paint <br />
as many blockades,<br />
as many closed doors and blinded windows,<br />
with as many shades of dark<br />
as we please,<br />
but only the Master painter<br />
can paint the open ways.<br />
He will paint our paths,<br />
and we may recount the susans,<br />
black-eyed and cheerful<br />
in sunny shades of gold,<br />
or sage trees stretching praise,<br />
and even paint our own lips <br />
in the midst of <br />
hallelujahs. <br />
Or we can paint the rocks in the road,<br />
cast grey over sky and perpetuate<br />
our own kind of rain.<br />
As frantically as I try, <br />
I cannot paint the curved road straight.<br />
I swerve in haste <br />
and end in crippling decay.<br />
So I learn in challenging, small strokes<br />
to paint flowers<br />
and sunsets and the beauty<br />
of dying trees, fallen down barns<br />
of storms that rage, <br />
and the gentle hush they leave behind. <br />
To paint that which does not<br />
strive to be beautiful,<br />
but is good,<br />
sometimes hard, uphill good.<br />
To paint without words<br />
my thanks <br />
and my joy—my life.<br />
<br />
There is a brightness ahead<br />
that eludes my momentary scrutiny.<br />
<br />
"The cynics, they can only speak of the dark, of the obvious, and this is not hard. For all it’s supposed sophistication, it’s cynicism that’s simplistic. In a fallen world, how profound is it to see what’s broken?" </div>
<div>
Ann Voskamp</div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-84180775125647522812014-07-10T22:41:00.003-04:002014-07-10T23:03:02.855-04:00belongFive Minute Friday: Belong<br />
http://crystalstine.me/five-minute-friday-belong-3/<br />
<br />
I miss it already. The slight curve of the rows of soybeans that rose and fell faintly toward the tall stand of woods. I miss it because of what was behind me as I stood watching the sun rise through hovering mists. Behind me was a place I had been petrified to go to, because a lot of past hurt dwelt in my heart. I was used to being the outlier, the one who stood a little away because most people just tolerated me and weren't sold on the idea of being my friend.<br />
<br />
But somehow, I ended up at camp.<br />
<br />
It was all in the small things, really. Small kindnesses of negligent importance. A small golden bear full of honey brought just for my tea. The hugs that were scattered across days. Spontaneous side-comments of honesty.<br />
<br />
I thought I was too introverted to be a camp counselor, too shy, too weird, too nerdy, too un-athletic.<br />
<br />
But when God is at the center, everyone belongs. Because when you belong to Him, you belong where He is. And on that small plot of land, He was in charge, and with every breeze through the wide windows of the tabernacle I knew--I belonged.<br />
<br />
Where God calls is where I belong. "You must run the risk of fearlessly loving without running away." (Jason Gray) When I did that? When I loved with all I had? When I went where He called? I belonged. And the people around me did, too.Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-28823213496056613952014-07-03T19:29:00.000-04:002014-08-04T17:42:19.205-04:00pennings from the plot of landThese are a few of the poems I penned at camp. I cannot claim them to be brilliant, but they are mine, because they were His, and so I present them as the gift they were to me. May they bless you in small ways.<br />
<br />
Also, none of them have titles. I just haven't gotten there yet.<br />
_______________<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am an emptiness, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a hollow shell<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that echoes all I pass<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and all I crash into.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
until I found<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
the ocean.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
_______________</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soul trembles<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like aching muscles<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that strain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to hold fast <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to the rocky places.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No strength to <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
go higher<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
only to put off the fall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we’ve already <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fallen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun melts<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
into gold<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that runs into tiny<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
cracks in the rock—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in myself—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t know existed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is light in my veins<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and hope rises,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a pale moon,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as though shadows were silver.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trembling<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
has not ceased,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
nor the task made easier,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
only possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
_______________</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A thousand <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
tiny blades of grass<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and I am
counted<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
more than a<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sparrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-87379162182340868252014-06-29T15:46:00.001-04:002014-08-04T17:43:06.155-04:00a small plot of landA fragment of colors hung like a promise in the sky above the tidy rows of beans and corn, above the distant congregation of shadowy trees.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That my two weeks as a camp counselor at Camp Union would end with such a promise, an echo of Noah, is an inexpressible assurance. I cannot describe what He was promising, for I do not understand it yet. I don't need to understand, only trust. And maybe it was to remind me of promises He already gave--<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Daniel+10%3A19&version=ESV" target="_blank">Daniel 10:19</a>, <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Philippians+1%3A6&version=ESV" target="_blank">Philippians 1:6</a>, <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Isaiah%2030:15" target="_blank">Isaiah 30:15</a>. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On that small plot of land speckled with white structures, framed by fields that flood between patches of shadowy trees He flooded me. I could not manage it all on my own--kids were everywhere, and I snatched solitude like sneezes--unexpectedly and quickly. My patchwork of days was stitched together by learning most of all that I need Him--every hour every moment. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I learned about pride and about how much of it I have. It took days for me to finally admit to myself and to my dear friend who brought me to camp that he was right--I did fit in, I did belong there. I had given up on belonging in youth-church settings, there had been so many failed attempts to find a place that felt like a home. Too much hurt to open up. Too much pride to admit that I was comfortable living on the fringes of places. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I learned about love and how much of it He has. I spoke at campfire to some jr. high campers words that I had not planned nor knew until I had stood to loose them. I spoke about how we can never live out the love of God if we don't rely on Him to give it to us. A funnel cannot hold water, but when it is being used it is never empty. The Israelites could not keep manna, but they could receive it every day. We cannot hoard the love of God, but let it pour through and we will never feel empty. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I learned about people, and how beautiful they are. I could have sobbed both Saturdays when the souls I had known for a week stumbled away like little pack mules with pillows and bags. Some hurting, some joyful, some broken, some mending, some numb, some afraid. I did not want to leave them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I learned about the humble, and how He delights to use them. For camp has no draw--no fancy logo, no zip lines, no pool, no log cabins, no attraction to the worldly eye. But His eyes watch over, and He moves in strokes that paint what could not be illustrated by human hands. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I looked to see what He would paint in me and what He would paint with me. And I found that I had little faith about so many things. Perhaps I had struggled to believe His promises because I was looking not to Him but to other places for assurance. "Faith is the gaze of a soul upon a saving God." A.W. Tozer. And I came back to my One Word 365: Christ. "My dear friends, look to Christ. There die all our selfish aspirations." Alistair Begg. And our fears. And our pride. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There may be more posts in the future about camp--perhaps more specific, perhaps some of the poems I wrote while I was at camp. I could fill a small book with thoughts and stories from my two weeks. Maybe I will. I end with this, however:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Father, help us to give up our self-reliance...lest we live on the fringes of faith without ever being embraced by Your love." Alistair Begg.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-56578563092552798452014-06-13T00:12:00.001-04:002014-06-13T00:12:55.751-04:00Messenger<img alt="Five Minute Friday" src="http://lisajobaker.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/5minutefriday.jpg" />MESSENGER<br />
<br />
He is never late. So this Five-Minute-Friday was right on time. Lisa-Jo's words spoke right to where I am in various ways, not just about writing (thought definitely that, too), but living. My sisters and my mom and I were just talking about the silence I am shrouded by when it comes to job interviews. Friends on facebook, friends I text, they are all loud and excited about the multitude of calls and chances they have been getting. I am surprised at how genuinely happy I am for them--how I do not covet theirs, but simply wish for my own so I don't feel so...inadequate. Is my application so forgettable? Am I marketable?<br />
<br />
There have been guesses made to what this silence was for--some may be right, some may not. "All that quiet you’re uncomfortably comfortable with whispers, “rest” and maybe you actually need one, still you wonder and worry and wake up feeling a slow undercurrent of sad that you don’t quite understand." Lisa-Jo said.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It may feel quiet, and we possibly even feel forgotten, but God is moving to work out His plans all around us. What is our part? Trust." A Pinterest quote highlighted in pink just after Lisa-Jo. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And maybe I am finally getting it, because I read this today: "<a href="http://www.incourage.me/2014/06/what-really-happens-when-we-look-fear-in-the-face.html" target="_blank">Do what scares you today.</a>" And I promptly forgot about it. Then I looked fear in his shallow eyes and did something, began something that scares me, scares me a good deal. And I come to this night of a beautiful full moon gleaming over the trees and I talk with a faraway friend and I don't know what my right hand is doing until it is done. </div>
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He knows and is moving to work and I am learning to rest. Learning. Thank you, Lisa-Jo, for being my messenger, for releasing words not your to hold, but His to move. </div>
Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-32540108430930829442014-06-05T22:54:00.000-04:002014-08-07T22:50:33.470-04:00Hands<img alt="Five Minute Friday" src="http://lisajobaker.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/5minutefriday.jpg" /> HANDS<br />
<br />
I don't know why, but this one has been tough.<br />
<br />
Maybe it is the toughness in me, the stubbornness that refuses to simply leave in His hands what I never held. Never could hold. Clinging to my future is like holding a piece of air. It is unseen and impossible.<br />
<br />
"Just leave it in the hands of the Jesus," Brandon Heath sings quietly to me. "If we're gonna pray about it, there's no use worrying. If we're gonna worry about it, why are we praying?"<br />
<br />
I don't know Brandon. Maybe it is the familiarity of worry. Because the hands of Worry always give back what we handed them. But what a jumbled mess that is.<br />
<br />
The hands of the Healer hand us the dreams we don't deserve. He takes our small-minded ideas, our faint hopes, our blind wishes, and surprises us with things more beautiful; a re-crafting, recreating of our dim dreams.<br />
<br />
It takes courage to leave our hopes in His hands. Sometimes that means we'll never see them again. Which is only good news if we can be brave enough to see it. To see Him.Scribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5137638994036751517.post-87784584871418703582014-06-02T22:34:00.003-04:002014-08-07T22:47:27.228-04:00HomeHome is my center.<br />
<br />
The rhythms of my doings<br />
those syncopated measures<br />
are not drowned out,<br />
overrun by rushed triplets<br />
in cut time--if that is musically possible.<br />
I am no fine musician,<br />
I do not practice<br />
everyday<br />
my old flute, or my pitchy tin whistle<br />
or the flailing vocal chords<br />
that blaze out my open car window.<br />
<br />
But I practice another song.<br />
Joy.<br />
The song of thanksgiving,<br />
a sweet melody heard in calm,<br />
'midst rest and quieted spirits.<br />
<br />
I practice, too, the song<br />
of trust. That melody<br />
is tough.<br />
Not difficult to do,<br />
but difficult to choose.<br />
It is not always cheerful--<br />
it is far from being safe.<br />
<br />
This poem isn't shining,<br />
no brilliant metaphors.<br />
It's simple,<br />
to my rhythm that<br />
often changes course.<br />
<br />
But here at my sweet center,<br />
the measure of my living<br />
is clear, like water from a spring,<br />
that blessed Well of Life.<br />
I find my space and tree-friends<br />
and then I am free to still<br />
and listen to the echoes<br />
of His promises,<br />
as He loves away<br />
my fear.<br />
<br />
"God's purposes are not for me to understand His plans. His plan is for me to understand who He is."<br />
-Ann VoskampScribblerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16435342525085620493noreply@blogger.com0