I know I am loved. I feel abandoned. I know I am cared for. I feel ignored. I know I am valued. I feel used. I know the truth. But I feel all the lies.  

These words have echo throughout my prayers lately, and I have the freedom to fully express it before my Abba. But no matter how deeply I feel it, It will always be just a feeling and a lie, because it was my Savior’s truth and his reality.

What is on your mind?  What do you think of? What makes your brow furrow? Does your face burn when you’re angry? How do you see things? What is your favorite color? What makes you tear? Does your lip ever quiver? What do you crave? Do you even crave anything? Do you have a sweet tooth like me? What is fragrant to you? What make your nose crinkle? Do the corners of your mouth lift when you smile? Do your eyes wrinkle or disappear?  What does your laugh sound like? What do your songs sound like? Are your songs infinite?  What does my worship sound like? What does the worship of creation sound like? What do you hear from your throne? My curiosity reaches out to feel the contours of your face, knowing very well the size of my hands; my questions, a finite frame for your answers. But still I seek you, knowing you don’t hide from me. 

I left my mind in bed today; it was too wild and unruly to tame. I left my heart on the counter today; its murmurs threatened to betray. I left my body at the door today; it was spent from lifting my head, fatigued from cradling my veins. I don’t know if I showed up at all today, but I’ll be carried home just the same.

I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow in this process, but today I can say it’s okay if You don’t ever answer my “why?” just as long as You give me Yourself, because I’ve never known a love like Yours. What a gift to be a child who has the freedom to ask. You meet me in my unravelling and I am far from empty.

Winter asked, “How do you love me?”  Heaven replied, “I love that you see me.”

Lord, would you give anything else?

My 27.

you sink your teeth in my arms and claw your way up my neck. you arrest my shoulders and you linger on my chest. you strike my bones with your lies and my flesh by your charm, but you’ve no claim to my spirit and no hold on my song.

Your crimson, given as a dwelling for me and my wreckage, cleansed by Your weeping

there is a feeder worn, near empty where birds come to peck they leave it barren full before flight

Rest for my weariness. Carried by my Maker.