Well, imagine an entire field of flowers; they are all the same, and so there is beauty to watch them from a distance, the sweeping planes of color.

What do I have to offer that is unique?

Pluck a single flower from that field. Hand it to your lover, drop it on a grave, arrange it in a bouquet for a young woman in white, press it in your journal, replant it in a new garden.

And just like that you have found your purpose, the area of the world that was made just a little brighter because of your beauty.

On my walk beside the riverbank, I pause to look about. I take in all of the trees, their golds and greens, melting together in plumes of foliage that spill over the embankment. I see the honey colored dusk pouring over a gushing river and catching hold to the Spanish moss that drapes languidly from the shoreline’s canopy. Just by breathing, I’m able to absorb the life covering every square inch around me, filling every sense with peppery crimson leaves, living waters, sunset dripping over my eyelids, all of it beautiful....

And then I look down at my own two legs carrying me forwards. The world has taught me to think they’re not perfect; my mind echoes the world’s word to me that they jiggle a bit too much, their proportions aren’t quite right. To others, the world might say the color is too dark to be honored, the shape is too large to be loved...

But why is it that I find every piece of His creation beautiful except for myself? Im sure I’ve told this riverbank it’s beautiful more times than I’ve told my own self. I marvel and express reverent praise to a body of water and limbs of wood while i denigrate my own figure.

As I take a step forward and plant my foot into the earth, it becomes completely continuous with the lush green grasses I find so lovely. He created the entire universe, and He constructed my body with just the same precision. And in moments I can even attempt to fathom what that means, I love Him for it. And so i will work on loving this body just as much as I admire the complex detail in all the rest of His handiwork.

“I don’t wanna go if you’re not going before me...” ~Chris Renzema

For we are his children; and I’m sure you remember that moment, back when you were still below your father’s waist, when you went though a crowd, and you thought you were brave enough to set out on your own. So off you ran giggling until you turned around and realized your parent was nowhere to be seen. I’m sure you remember that drop in the pit of your stomach after you realized you couldn’t make your way on your own, and you had no idea where you were supposed to be going.

The Lord does not want that for us. He wants us holding tightly to his hand, a step behind him, trusting that he knows how to navigate the crowd.

And you know the difference between pursuing something you know He has already bowed before, compared with the thing you think you want for yourself but feel a void of connection to from your soul.

That difference is the difference between waiting on God to point us in the right direction, and thinking we know our way when it will ultimately leave us more lost.

Frigid river, ever-rushing forth, sweeping me up in its current; I paddle endlessly, for the river gives me no rest. My arms fatigue, my hands turn cold, clammy, pale as death. It is all I can do to stay afloat here.

Then You send me a raft. It is no more wood than what can barely keep me afloat, but it gives me rest. And as the floods of cold water overflow me, I can at least allow Your handiwork to support me.

All is perfect, or so I think—for I come from a worldview of endless flailing of limbs. This idea of rest is lifesaving, and I cannot imagine it any better than this.

That is, until my small haven capsizes upon a rock. I ask how You could allow this to happen; I blame your weak handiwork and ask why you did not give me something more. I am back to swimming.

Little do I know, you have sent something better along. I drag myself aboard a small sailboat You have sent. Sprawled across the smooth deck, I realize that for the first time, my body is fully removed from the frigid waters. I burst into tears, thinking of how I had been so quick to doubt You at the first sign of trouble. For the first time, I can bask in the warmth of the sun. It dries the river and the tears from my skin.

I look up at the sail attached to my new transport. It is pristine, white, embracing the wind; and yet, despite its beauty, I cannot discern its purpose. What good is a sail when I can only go where this river current carries me? Without an answer, I lay back against the deck, content to flow along.

But the river soon begins to widen, more and more, until I can see nothing but endless blue in all directions. Salt on the wind kisses my tongue. And soon I see what this sail is for. You saw my need before I ever could have. You hem me in behind and before. And something new, something I had only heard whispers of before, comes to me: Your voice. You tell me Your spirit lives within me, and I feel it. I hear You clearly as I begin to discern how to maneuver the sails.

At first, I take this newfound knowledge You gave given to sail as I please. I have never had this freedom before, to decide my own direction. I feel power and control over these winds. I am no longer bound by a current, and I can choose my path. My pride grows like the crest of a wave.

But I soon grow weary of this endless sailing. I think I can master the winds, but I have no destination. I realize Your voice has faded, because I stopped listening for it. I find myself lost, in the open, realizing how little control I actually have. A large wave breaks over the deck, and I cry out to you, my salty tears becoming one with the ocean.

I expect silence in return, but You are still there. You have no reason to be, yet despite my wandering, You have awaited my return. This time, I tell You I am here to stay and You tell me where to point my sails. I rush to the helm without hesitation.

At last, You bring me ashore; I am unsure. I have trouble discerning Your directions from here. I have never set foot upon the sand before. My boat idles in the water, a short distance from the beach. I deliberate my next move, but remember the miracles that abound from having nothing but trust in Your guidance. And so I dive into the water. At first, I am reminded of the frigid river from what feels like a past life. I am ready to start flailing for life again, but You then part the waters, allowing me to sink to the sea floor and walk to shore. Because of my first leap of obedience, You have made progress possible. You have once again cleared away the icy waters.

I reach shore and lay upon the soft sands. Stable ground, at last. The sway of the water cannot reach me here. It is complete stillness, and it is with You, who guided me here without my knowing, with only my trust, my listening ear, and my obedient heart.

Then a vision comes upon my mind. The waves quiet, and I swim back to the boat and break off the mast. I know this means I will not be able to go back to the sea, but every action I take feels correct in this moment. I carry it across my back to shore, split the mast in two, bind it together, and I erect a small white cross in the sands. I feel everything that it stands for, and I hold You heavily upon my heart. Tears pour forth—this time with love, with gratitude, with mourning for all You have given so that I can come to the shore and feel such a sturdiness beneath my feet. For I know that You once faced that same frigid river I was trapped in, but You were pulled under by the current. And only then was I able to receive a raft.

I feel You turn my eyes up the beach, where I glimpse a new world unfolding beyond the sea dunes. In the distance, I see a mountain coated in soft grasses. I wonder how it must feel to lie down there. Upon this land, there will be so much more newness than I ever saw upon the waters. But I look back at the cross, and I know You will point me in the right direction, time after time. If I wander, You will call me back. My heart has learned trust.

And so I take a step forwards.

(Isaiah 43:2. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.)

(Psalm 69. I have come into deep waters where the floods overflow me. I am weary with my crying...Let me not sink; let me be delivered out of the deep waters. Let not the floodwater overflow me)

It was not good that man should be alone

And so his own flesh should be opened

To make another,

flesh of his kind

From none other than rib,

side piece,

curved, not straight,

she was taken;

And was this chosen

to save man’s pride,

taken from a place that cannot be seen when he is naked?

Is she, molded from him,

forever beholden,

forever less than,

forever reminded where she came from?

But now then, his heart

was left more exposed—

did he give away protection for companion,

for bone and flesh like his?

Was she made not of bony rib, but

from the safety upon the other side of the hill,

or a strong beam holding the tabernacle in place?

For in this marriage

neither he nor her should find themselves

deferring, lessening,

to build the other’s dominion;

(For he was first a give,

and she was born of a take)

And so both were naked,

not ashamed

Nothing on the outside appeared missing;

but his rib was dislodged,

and her heart turned to sin

and his heart soon followed, seeking its bone of protection

(And she gave over the fruit

to his taking hand)

And ultimately,

both were left

before His wrath,

exile,

and at His mercy,

still not alone

There it is,

that feeling of undeniable peace—

like watching a tapestry unfold

forwards and backwards all at once.

It is colorful, threads drawn straight

from the hues of the earth:

sky a brilliant blue,

shepherd wandering through fresh green meadows,

deep purple of a ripe fruit in the palm of a hand,

amber gleaming from the harbor at dusk.

The folds of fabric settle upon you

and you know

so deeply and certainly,

that the universe beckons us and its voice is

God.

And His will becomes our quest:

traveling down a worn path of stone,

ancient footprints not visible but

felt in the heart;

hands brush along the surrounding fields

of bountiful golden wheat,

feeling the sow and reap of the harvest

echo over eternity,

and as fingertips skim the silken florets,

you sense that this here is your moment,

and it is as beautiful and painful as the threshing of grain—

a toil that is physical, tangible,

with rewards that are visible.

The universe has given this day to you.

And how beautiful that

the ultimate Weaver

lets you glimpse the tapestry

as it’s still being woven.

Feel the peace, knowing

you too will soon blend into eternity

as He draws your thread across the loom.

left open just a crack,

just enough that the noise still gets in,

just enough that there’s a draft coming through,

just enough that I can see the light seep in from the other room

(and at some point it starts to seem more like that soft, yellow-gold kind of light than I remembered, as hazy as my memory is starting to become,

And why is my subconscious starting to paint a golden hue on what was once bleak and cold?)

…so do I ignore it all and slam the door,

Or will that noise reverberate throughout the room and leave me more unsettled?

Is there a way to reopen the door a bit more, so that I can take in what’s outside, say a firmer goodbye than my last one, then close and lock up tightly?

Or do I just have to gently grasp the handle, ease the latch into its place, softly as if an infant fell asleep in the next room, and let it have its rest?

I just try to remind myself

that what’s most important is

my desire for the door to be closed,

by whatever means.

nothing but

poetry

and the slide of a bow across the string

and the gentle press of fingers into small white keys

and his soothing voice

spilling an arrangement of words, which

he pieced together in such a way, that

it feels

as though

the bow has been lifted from his instrument

and is now gliding across my heartstrings,

creating a soundless music:

Joy.

As much as I love this dozen roses I got today,

as much as I water

and tend to

and admire them

and breathe in their scent of newness

and brush my nose to their soft petals,

I cannot stop them from growing brittle.

I turn to look at the single old rose laying across the dresser,

faded in color,

so fragile I can’t even touch those delicate petals…

Beautiful to admire from a distance,

but far from the vibrant, lush, LIVING blossoms

that consume all of my senses

and perfume my world.

I may collect a hundred dried roses,

and they may tear my heart between

loving reminiscence and agonizing “what-ifs.”

But will there be just one

I can somehow keep alive?

have faith for a little,

don’t play with your peace of mind;

there is so much more to be learned,

but you couldn’t possibly bear it all

right this moment.

look at that daffodil in bloom,

and the one next to it that is wilting.

mind that the fresh petals are not distracted

by their decaying neighbor—

they are still looking only to the sun,

conceding no fear for what comes next,

but basking in the rays

while they are here.