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?