kingdom letters

now, if you want to read them, you might find my words pressed behind the seal. that is my final riddle. thanks for the good times, tumblr. i'll be around.

 A good reminder.

I wonder how the church would look if we took to heart this truth - that Jesus was poor. How might things be different?

the gifting of music an awareness of privilege a sensitivity to culture the deception of sin the bondage of flesh a dullness of heart the joy of repentance an empathy for parents an ear for cliche an eye for insincerity a search for authenticity and the patience to struggle the hope of grace and the faithfulness of God the promise of unconditionality and arms of love.

I realize that something I am missing is a sense of shelter. I miss a place of peace, a home for freedom and belonging, a space for no filters. It is not just a feeling or a person but also a physical space, complete with ambience and tone, filled with many people, for that is the difference between friendship and family. Three years ago Mary Keyes was my shelter, specifically rooms 106C, 408, and 203(?). For the last two years Broman was my home, and last year, Beauman was my second shelter and a place of refuge. Shelters are close; they are within walkable distance so that you can visit on a whim without having to strive. Shelters have open doors; you can walk in as if you owned the place, even when you don't. Shelters are filled with warm hearts and open arms who welcome you whenever you pop by, no matter when. Shelters are slowly filled with memories that become engraved in their walls and experiences that are steadily tiled into their floors, and shelters gradually, inexorably become an inseparable mix of real personality, past happenings, and present physical realities. These three become so intertwined that to lose one is to lose the meaning of a shelter in it's entirety.

and it can come from anywhere. like a film about childhood creativity. or a movie about love and life, and loss.

oh, let's run far from here and leave all our fears aside and we'll go, even when we know we're over our heads this time

the words we say and the paths we take are more than just intangibles. they are tangible. like chisel on stone, they etch into the rock of human existence the markings of a legacy and the writings of a life story. and just as a sculptor spends hours in his work and, when it is all over, stands back, looks back, and smiles at what he has carved, so we too will one day look back at the legacies we carve into the lives of those around us. and just as a work well done yields a joy and pride well deserved in the heart of the sculptor, a life well lived yields such joy in our hearts. there is no joy like that of looking back and seeing one's legacy written in stone, never to be wiped away, permanently sewn into the fabric of the past, yet still standing tall and gazing ahead, marching onwards as it carries itself into the future.

what gives life is receiving much and giving much. for such yields the sensation of power surging through one's soul, as quickly in as it goes out, straight through one's body. energy without movement is dead. movement without energy is weak. full energy with maximum movement, however, is truly alive.

I remember the joy, the pride, the worry, the tenderness. I remember the closeness and the intimacy. I remember the love. Is that how you feel over me? 

and I am alive in You.

I love Kari Jobe.

Tim Keller

the blackness of space, the dust of nebulae, and the blinding light of a thousand suns, and we are ever floating, having long depleted all fuel, but still drifting towards an unknown and never-ending tomorrow.