on a friday

words
falling like
confetti

twirling
like snow
blinding
with the white
barrage

of paper
raining down

but the one
caught on the sleeve
revealing
a finer print

words up close
shockingly
not so pretty

strife and rancor
yelling loud
letters on bits
of paper
these words

owning our
futile attempts
to fix
and paint
pretty
the landscape
of our lives

and instead
the living broken
everywhere
we look

words flying
falling
misleading
and destroying

the discourse
ugly and
a smattering
of expletives
too often

haunting us

these
veiled attempts
at happy

and
our story

the one
we want
to be so
beautiful

just isn't

but in the midst
of ordinary
everyday living
on a friday

right now

other words

exploding
ordinary
into
smithereens

my God
my God
why have you
forsaken Me

like a bomb
blast
careening
into our lives

changing everything

jaw-dropping

staggering even

the events

on a friday

because

the confetti
our parade
these best
efforts
just
not enough

but what is

words exploding

across time
into
the
cosmos

it is finished

ripping into darkness
ripping into lives

changing everything
no greater love

to be continued

on a sunday

What that mirror tells me

 

 

 

Capturing beauty through a lens.
Collaging words about grace.

But truth.

Coming first.

Showing up.

Whether I like it or not.

And putting up the mirror.
To my soul.  To my futile attempts.
At being something good.
The living well.

And what that mirror tells me.

This truth.

Well.  Here it is.

That I am deeply flawed.
Unfixable.
Irreparably damaged.
Beyond repair.  It's called sin.
And I don't like it.

But it is the truth.

And this world full of.
Broken.  Miserable. 
Shocking heartbreak.
Disappointment.  Decay.
And we blame God.

For.  Well.  Everything.

And then.  On occasion.
Watching transfixed.  Something beautiful.
Stirring my soul. Heart full.

But not for long.

Because the things of life destroy.
And disappointment runs deep.

And I can't fix it. 

Because it is I who is broken.
And sin has marred everything good.
And continues to destroy.

And myself.
Clinging to shreds of self-worth.
Hanging on for dear life.
This ride.  Life.

Leaving me exhausted.  Weary.
In my attempts to be happy.

When all along.
I've been thrown a life line.

Holy God came down to rescue.

And when we see it is our ugly.
Having pierced the flesh.
And He hung.  For hours.
And the heavens convulsed.
And the day stood still.

In shock.  
The enormity of this rescue.

I hang my head.

For I cannot imagine.
What He suffered.  Endured.
On that tree.

This Jesus.  Holy God.

Laying aside glory. 

So we can live free. 
And my deeply flawed covered.
By His sacrifice.

Dying.  And then living again.

Spilling grace all over our lives.

And rolling around in it.
Like a cat in the sunshine.
This grace so good.

But never to forget.

The price.

Why did I ever start this?

 

 

Why did I ever start this?

Perfectionism like fingers around my neck.
Strangling me.
Screaming for one thing or another.
The wanting.  In my life.
Getting a hold.  Things beyond my reach.

Knowing better really.
Going round and round.
In futile attempts.

But one thing getting the attention.
Again and again.

The scream that won't die.
For the want.  A life full.
And not knowing the how.
To get there.

Collaging words.  Snapping beauty everywhere I go.
The hunt.

And in the hunt.
What I am learning.  Even now.

Broken.

A theme in life.
With God.  Myself.  And others.

Fear bellowing loud.
Exploding on the page.
Daily lack showing up hungry.
Throwing off track.
Scaring.  Isolating.

And me.
Running to whatever fixes.

For a while.

And it's been a theme.
In this space.
Because maybe you too.
The reminding.

And the best counseling.
Sometimes a friend.
Having already dug deep.

And in the safety.  I find.
The not-giving of trite.
Or disguised contempt.
Or weary showing through.

But gently.  Humbly.
The redirecting.
Reframing of the snap shots.
Of everyday life.

Because.

When we take off our mask.
In the real and the messy.
And still.  Do not scare.

When judgment does not knock us over the head.
In the reality of who we are.

And the scream dying a thousand deaths.
In the gift of grace.

We stop being scared. 
Stop running.
Turning around. 

And really see.

A love story never more beautiful.

Jesus.  Full of grace and truth.

And so.
Finding the intimacy I crave.
A life full.  Of Him.

The unmasking. Gloriously liberating. 

And offering it.  My broken.
To a world that sometimes scorns.
Knowing all along.
It may not be enough.
Or it may be too much.

But offering it anyway.

Why did I ever start this?

Because.

Talking about the grace of God makes me come alive.

What I will remember

 

You know
when you're in pain.

Hard to think.
Hard to see straight.

To see color. 
And hope. 
And light.

And so.

Good to know
the truth.
In my head all the time.
My body
telling me differently.
In a season of recovery falling hard.

And so.

Others struggling more than me.
And maybe others less.
But we all struggle.

And in the pain
when people reach out;
arms of Jesus surrounding.

I will remember this.

And so.

When I am better
to be arms
to another.

All I have to do is whisper

Jesus.

What does it mean?  The Word.  This name.

Sometimes expressing irreverence.
Sometimes engraved on jewelry.  On skin.
Sometimes the brunt of media humor.

But for me.  This year.
More.
Even more.

Coming from the Advent season into a new year.
Singing still.  Emmanuel.

Dragging it into the new year like a favorite worn blanket.
Familiar.  Much loved.  And calming.
Like a silent night.

Christmas around the table not as full as in years past.  And yet.
For our family.  Goodness.  Just in being together.
The demands of the past year pulling hard on preparedness.

And my heart full.
For what is.

Because life is a struggle.  A battleground.

And though I have loved for many years.  This Jesus.

I feel at times much like a prodigal son.
And the Father running toward me.
In my pain, my fear, my scattered. 
Reminding me. 

Again and again.

Grace.

And all that is required of me.
To love back.

This indescribable, unfathomable love.
I too easily forget.

The pain helping me to see.

Emmanuel.

All year.
In the depths of my being.

And all I have to do is whisper.

Jesus.

 

 

What if I miss it?

What if I miss it?

The beauty of this season marred.
By loss and anxiety and things that really wound.

A young mother in the prime of life.

A loss leaving us reeling.
Barely able to cope.
Most of us.  On some level.
Wounded.
By disappointment and despair.

What if I miss it? 

The merry of Christmas.

Not showing up as expected.
The sorrow and what ifs threatening to crush.
And my own lack blowing up in my face.

Filling this space I call Christmas. 
With noise.
With political correctness.
With busy.

And then.  Something helps us remember.

Not to miss.

The humble birth in a stable. 
Holy God.
Coming gentle at Christmas.
Wooing our hearts.  Whispering love.

A night shimmering and we all shivering to remember glory coming down.

And then the coming off the tree.  Years later.
Shivers again.
Holy God.  Suffering.
And then.
Announcing grace.  With fanfare.

Answering the pain in our hearts with a love song.

So maybe this Christmas.
The tree's not up.  Cards not sent.  Maybe not feeling like it.

But still.
Doesn't have to be missed.

Because of Christmas; the manger scene.
Because of Easter; the tree.  And then.  An empty tomb.

And so everyday.
A relationship with Holy God.

Our beautiful sweet friend didn't miss it.
And though we miss her.

She.  Beholding the glory.
Of which we only get a glimpse.  Right now.

Because of.

A shimmering night when everything changed.

This. Exploding.

Running down the narrow street.
Anxious to see better.  The view.
A vista unveiling; grandeur unedited.
Never failing to impress.
This.

Just an autumn Saturday; unexpected and mesmerizing.
The telling of glory.

Worth the hunt.  Worth the chase.
Nature exploding. 
For all to see.

In the midst of ordinary.  Every day. 
Homes built to see it. 
Tables set before it.
Windows thrown open wide to it. 
Weddings planned around it.  Vacations too.

This glory.
This telling of the heavens.
Thrilling us.
Stirring the soul.

The reasons artists paint and architects draw and photographers snap.
Lovers linger and climbers climb and people take delight.  In the beauty.

A rainbow arcing high.
Waves crashing wild on sand.
Galaxies strewn across inky black.

A window. To something greater.
Than ourselves.
The going public of infinite God. 

And the heavens are telling.

Our hearts made for this.   
Because, on some level, us all; chasing.
That which fills us to the brim.

Taking our conflicted, emotional, soul-searching lives.
And filling us.
The goodness.  Pointing.
As good as this is.  There is more.
And I run.  With my camera.  Snapping glimpses of God.

 

Because.
Life is hard. Sometimes stories harsh. 
But into this realness, the broken of life.  God has spoken.
Nature pointing. 

No fuller or more final expression of God.
Than Jesus.

Deep calling to deep.
The roar of the waterfalls.
The waves and breakers sweeping over me.

And God.  Is there.

Unfathomable love painting the skies.
Raising the sun.
Sustaining the universe.

And my heart running each day.
Breathless for this love story.

The angels know.  Creation knows.
Beauty only pointing.
To the author.
And sustainer and redeemer. 
Of this world.

Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty;
the whole earth is full of his glory.

My camera points. 
And my heart responds.
Beauty exploding.

Good Friday

The holiest of days.  Good Friday.  It's hard to breathe.  Words do not come easy.  It was the third hour when they nailed Jesus to the cross.

From the sixth to the ninth hour an inexplicable darkness covered the land.  Jesus then cried out in a loud voice, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

What to do with awful loss . . . ripping apart . . . feeling forsaken?
Is there not amazement, in experiencing great loss; life going on?  That everyone is not stopped in their tracks?  Gazing and somehow knowing life is forever altered.  Does it not show on the face, in the eyes?  The rapid heartbeat, sweaty palms; emotions swirl and eddy.

On that Friday the sun stopped shining.  God turned His back.  Jesus was forsaken.  He hung there on the cross.

It was evident in their faces; his loved ones, hovering nearby, bent low with grief.  Weeping. Mary, his mother. Her sister.  John, his best friend, and others.  Sorrow beyond words.  Confusion and hurt.  Death and darkness.  Life had been forever altered.

They didn't know that was the plan.  From the beginning.

But today, we know.  It was always the plan.

Restoration, redemption, reconciliation, to bring back, repair.

Around the ninth hour Jesus bowed his head and gave up his spirit saying, "It is finished".

The words hung there too.  For the religious leaders, the Roman guard, the enemy of this world, Jesus' loved ones and us today.

It is finished.  The most astonishing gift the world has ever seen.  That He would die in our place.  Life is forever altered.

Does it not stop us in our tracks?  Show on our face?  Are we amazed?