sometimes life feels like a war zone.and you never realize it until you step away for a brief moment.

funny, i used to think vacations were for rest and relaxation, 

but lately, they have seemed more like a basic training of sorts.

stepping away, flying away,

you see life from a distance.

you look into the snow globe and see the shaken up turmoil

of an upside down Kingdom and a discombobulated heart. 

sometimes it takes an unthinkable moment to wake your sleeping soul.

and suddenly you start praying for the man who threatened to take your life. 

trembling hands, sweating neck,

Lord, what do i do

what do i do.

Lord, what is this life.

what am i doing.

what are You doing.

sometimes you find a way to mutter the words “i’m ready.”

looking death in the face and grieving the potential loss of a sweet sister,

“she is ready, so i am ready, when He is ready.”

how did we get here?

almost three years from the moment that a common cold turned into deadly fluid in the lungs.

three years from the moment that i stayed up all night,

with a mom who didn’t know if her eldest baby would make it through the night.

“i’m ready.”

yet i sit here, or there, or anywhere in any moment, honestly.

i sit here screaming inside at the thought,

of wilting flowers that one year ago i painted on the wall,

for a “we made it, you are home” celebration,

for a girl who looked Jesus in the eye and was told the words,

“My child, I am not finished with you yet.”

are You finished with her?

we are not ready, Abba.

we will never be ready.

twenty years old and i have more stories than some do in a lifetime. 

stories, like trophy’s sitting on a dusty shelf, only take you so far.

stories, they wear off, and people forget.

maybe one day they’ll be written in a memoir of sorts,

and once again sitting on a dusty shelf of books we only read halfway.

i keep trying to run away. 

i talk a big talk about getting out of my city.

as if a plane ticket will somehow slow the chaos of my day to day.

hundreds of dollars in plane tickets, 

and i always end back in this town.

in my home. 

i know it is home, at least for today,

because the Lord has not called my heart to leave.

and more and more each day,

with each crazy story,

i fall to my knees for the souls of this city.

Spirit, pour out and flood this city.

Spirit, pour out and drown our hearts in the goodness of His grace.

Spirit, pour out and drench my fickle, fickle soul in Your strength.

for i am weary.

for i am burdened.

for i am hurting.

for i am terrified.

Spirit, You are good and You are faithful.

i am quick to forget and unhesitant to repeat.

there is merit to the idea of preaching the gospel to yourself daily.

there is value in hands of prayer being laid upon you as you walk through the valley.

and honestly the valley, 

though so often covered in darkness,

is protectant of the most deadly storms.

this is not a desert season.

this is not a journey of aimless wandering,

with dust blowing and vision skewed.

this is a journey of a Solid Rock covering a weak sojourner. 

and one day, with this mustard seed faith that i once clung to with closed fists,

i will hold out with open palms in hopes that He will bring growth, 

that He will lead me to the mountain tops.

“My child, this view, it will be worth the wait.”

“My child, this heart, it will find rest in Me.”

deep breaths.

take it all in.

the goodness of His majesty.

the faithfulness of His very hand.

the skies proclaim it over the peaks of the mountains. 

the whole earth will proclaim it with shouts of acclamation.

trembling hands, shaking knees.

bowing down to the King of Kings.

the war has been won.

the Victory has come.


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