you = a miracle

i really like watching the sky over the water.
i really like
colors swirling before my eyes,
the wind against my face and
sand between my toes.
silence and crashing waves somehow create
a melody i would be happy to lose myself in.

i really like staring at the stars between moonlit branches.
i really like
the breeze whispering in my hair, a thick rope swaying across my vision,
threads beneath my fingers as the swing rocks from side to side.
stars smile down at me and i don’t dare move,
afraid to disturb some kind of unspoken balance;
a pounding rhythm deep within myself seems to sync in time with it.

i really like feeling a part of my Creator’s masterpiece.
i really like
just feeling like the miracle i am,
like the miracle that His artwork is.

i wish we could take some time to love that a little more.
i wish we could take some time to appreciate that a little more.
i wish we could take some time to try to understand that it’s a miracle.
despite your problems.
despite your stress.
despite whatever it is that drags you down.
because yeah, i know it drags you down, but…

you’re beautiful and
you’re a miracle and
you’re alive and
nothing in this world can change that.

you are who you are and it’s a thousand times prettier than the stars…


//i will make you believe you are lovely//

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Peace, Child

she has stories that fill her mind to the brim,
forlorn words that drift about and
overflow from her eyes.

she has whispers that keep her up at night,
memories that replay and regenerate,
but always she sees
people, people, real people, inexistent people,
people who laugh and talk and move in her mind’s eye.

threads and tendrils of life
spiraling about in her brain,
stray connections of colored patterns,
blank patterns that aren’t really patterns at all,
yet somehow her mind plays with even cold darkness.

she has musings she longs to
fit on the paper,
crush between letters and
soak through ink
but sometimes
even paper can’t handle her mind.

she lunges at wisps of brilliance,
or seemingly brilliance,
but they slip between the spaces in her mental fingers,
spaces she thought she had closed.

she wonders of so much
or so little, it seems to her.

sometimes her mind is chaos in a bottle,
swirling and twisting and turning and screaming and
she is the girl between the glass,
trying to cover her ears but it
doesn’t stop the thoughts —
thoughts and words and swirling twisting abstract figures that
somehow speak her language.

oh her mind is complicated,
her thoughts complicated,
her words complicated,
a chaotic rubble where she stands and seeks peace,
or the essence of peace.

her flesh does not know peace, true peace,
peace from a screaming mind fed by a
screaming world;
her soul thirsts for it.

she wanders for awhile,
lost and confused,
afraid of her own doubts,
until she hears a sound unlike all else.

hungry, hungry, she falls to her knees
crying God please,
calm the chaos, remove the madness.

hungry soul.
seeking eyes.
longing heart.

ancient pages of truth stirred by
trembling, searching hands.
another prayer.
a voice.

rest here, child.

in His arms
her raging storm is calm,
her chaotic mind is flooded with tranquility,
her soul is filled to the brim with peace.

suddenly her thoughts,
her words,
her stories,
have truly happy endings.

The Wordcrafter

She was a wordcrafter,
For she gathered letters in her hands.

She liked to weave wreaths of them,
To encircle them about her neck, her head, in her hair.
It delighted her, the way they rolled on her tongue,
The way they fitted together to reveal a picture in her mind,
A picture she could enfold in the crimson pages of her memory and hold close to her soul.

She was the wordcrafter, the carpenter,
Only she worked alone with her hands, her heart, and the letters she gathered,
Fitting pieces together and
Singing along the melody they made.

People didn’t know that beyond every smile, every laugh, every tear,
That there were words in her head;
Wreaths of them, bundles of them, baskets of them,
Hidden nooks and crevices, hidden away inside where her collections abounded.

Sometimes she stayed up late at her desk,
Unwinding them, examining them, listening to the words and pondering over them,
Before she would mold them and open them deeper still, searching for meaning behind them,
Her meaning. Her words.

But once, they weren’t hers.
Once they were his.

She didn’t know him, didn’t know how he had gathered them before her,
Didn’t know how he too had held them, had unwinded them, had listened and pondered
Had thought they were his,
But before they were his they were another’s.

Once they belonged to the girl who didn’t understand,
The girl who cradled late night thoughts, who fought unknown battles,
Who stayed awake at night in the dark with a swirling mind until her words urged to spill out,
Raw words, bare and scraped devoid of lies, and there she began a journey.

Once they belonged to the boy with too much to say,
The boy who wished they would listen to his cries,
The boy who gathered words but left them there to collect dust on the shelves of his mind
Until he armed himself with a pen, a notebook, and there his puzzle unfolded.

Once they belonged to a woman with a powerful imagination,
A woman who locked them up beside her dreams in a cellblock of her mind,
A woman who crafted the bars with cold, sterile lies born to reality, and those words
Scratched at the tender lining of her soul until she finally listened.

Once they belonged to a man who discovered something new,
A man who found within himself a desire to share his joy with a broken world,
A man on a new path, a path to redemption, a man who found words in the darkest corners
Where he shined light upon them and there, he found beauty.

Once they belonged to me, the wordcrafter weaving myself into this great puzzle,
The wordcrafter who’s cracked open these words, examined them,
Breathed into them, listened to them, sewn them along the seams of my life,
And now I am holding them to you,
Wondering if you, too, are a wordcrafter.

Still

i saw her there one morning.

she leaned against the window,
elbows propped on the sill,
breath clouding the glass,
absent gray eyes searching.

what she was searching for
i didn’t know.

the house was quiet, but her mind was not.
inside there were a thousand questions.
i could almost see them swirling in her head,
pounding at her skull,
infecting her mind,
demanding for answers.

answers to what
i didn’t know,

but probably a thousand different things.

suddenly her hand snuck to the glass,
to a fogged circle,
created by her breath,
where her finger made contact
and then swirls were drawn there,
a maze of shaped lines,
a smile.

until she erased it and there was only glass.

i promptly saw her that afternoon.

she was in a window-seat, i think,
her knees pulled to her chest,
her head titled slightly to the side,
and there i saw her breath gathered upon the glass again.

not just her breath but steam from a mug;
the coffee swirled as her finger had in the fog the day before,
but these are only little things she noticed in her churning mind.

i look again now and see her reflection staring back.
questions are still pounding but they dissipate when i close my eyes,
for i am a daughter of the King of kings and i give him my doubt.

he gives me peace in exchange.

in the glass i see a reflection of the girl i’ve always known,
the girl i am.
the girl who thinks too much.
the girl who’s learning to be still.

Lord, i want to be

still.