Here we go, from the top
Open Bible, open window
Old words, new morning
Old truths, new mercies
Sun emerging, thoughts converging
Weaknesses many and mighty
Strength in Him alone
Lies rejected, grace accepted
Here we go
in His power
in step with Him

Seasoned

I hate how weak I am when it comes to grace and patience - particularly inside these walls.  Particularly with these four I love most.  I don't want to bark at them or snap at him.  I really don't.  But I am so weak and so tired of the endless cycle I am stuck in.  I'm so weak and I'm so sorry.  Sorry that it's going to happen again in an hour or two or maybe less.  What could He make of me if I believe that my glaring and embarrassing weakness is truly His strength?  What if I just stop?  Just slow down and let His praise wash over my lips?  What if every conversation is deliberately seasoned with grace because it is slow and careful and gives me time to behold Him?

Inside Me

Sometimes I just run away.  A few times a week it is in the form of literally lacing up and running down the sidewalk.  But right now it's just in the form of leaving on the premise of laundry or dishes or something-believable and then ending here.  On the couch in the dark in my thoughts.  Breathing deeply and feeling the oxygen reach to the very bottom of my lungs.  Stretching slowly and spreading out into the edges of me.  Sometimes my Inside-Me-ness shrivels under the demands, small but incessant.  It pulls back from the edges of my skin and steadily shrinking away from the chaos, the busy, the juggling of everything and everyone.  Until my Inside-Me-ness finds itself occupying very little of Actual Me, who is now filled to the brim with Everyone-Else-Who-Needs-Me and I start to feel a little sad, a little empty.  And I run away, to be sad and empty for a bit.  And to let my Inside-Me-ness unfurl itself back into the real estate it was made for.

Gown (Judges 6:12)

Mm-hm, I nod so Christianly as I read the words I am used to hearing.  They sound nice, encouraging even.  Maybe I should write them on the bathroom mirror or put them in my pocket for the day.  And then I hang the beautiful gown of truth back up in my closet and walk away in my stained and grubby sweats.  His words are truth, but sometimes it's just easier this way.  I know what these chains feel like.  That freedom, that power, that unrestrained love?  People might notice that.  A gown amidst the casual, even filthy clothes of those around me?  What might He make of me if I truly believed?

Appear (Judges 6:11-12)

Papa, I don't want to miss You.  Keep my heart in tune with Your melodies and my feet in step with Your spirit as You and I move throughout this day.  As You hover just on the other side of my ordinary life, use every sight, sound, smell, sensation and interaction to tweak my heart, reminding it evermore to recognize You through the thin veil that separates us.  Even as You sit under my oak tree, I just don't want to walk by without noticing You.  I don't even desire the flashy, but don't let me get caught in the flesh either.  Can we just plan to be present to each other today?  Thank you for being the one who is present and on the brink of appearing at every moment.  Papa, open my eyes.  

Grace

The problem with Grace is that she isn't here.  Which is more of a problem for us than it is for her.  Because in her not-being-here she is so painfully present.  She is in the absence and the silence.  In the should-have-beens and would-have-beens.  In the row of heads around the table and the almost perfect family photo.  She doesn't run or walk or play among us, her footsteps frustratingly elusive as milestones go ambling by.  She doesn't speak or sing or tell stories, but her voice is the one we almost hear, heads spinning around before we remember that the problem with Grace is that she isn't here.

Shaggy Headed Reader (Acts 7:2 & 7:33)

Sometimes, no mosttimes, this house and our days feel so ordinary.  One morning looks much like the next and it is fine but hard to feel much excitement.  

But today my heart bursts with thanks and pride and joy and awe as I watch this boy that is first His before he is mine.  He gathers all three littles around his shaggy head, asking which of the cartoon character chairs they prefer.  He confirms that they can all see the pictures before beginning to read his rendition of the story.  When one of them points out that he is using the wrong word, he gently explains that he doesn't actually know how to read and he's doing his best and that's okay too.  I swear he's older than five today.

Thank you, Papa, thank you for the gift that is Niko.  Thank you that every so often this very ordinary place becomes holy ground and I can sense your glory so much closer than I would have thought in my self-absorbed distraction only moments before.  You are the God with a years-long habit of appearing in glory and making holy that which, by all accounts, is the most ordinary of ordinaries.