made for another world

i'm not really sure when i first realized it. 
that shocking truth that was the thing i was missing but knew all along. 
the kind of thing that you feel with your soul but can't name.
the kind that burns inside with an indescribable mix of fire and ice.

maybe it was when i was little, pulling the ripe, indigo blackberries off,
popping them into my mouth and feeling the burst of summer in my mouth.
reaching down to pick another, the sharp sting made me pull back.
mommy, what was that? i asked, raising my finger to my mouth.
that's when i learned about the thorns and thistles and briers.
the things that weave themselves in among the best parts of life, 
and just when i least expect it, they reach up and sting.

or maybe it was when i was older, taking the prettiest walk of my life,
strolling along the cobbled lane lined with trees of fire and their autumnal litterings.
the blue, blue sky and the breeze that carried the faint scent of goldenrod,
making something suddenly come alive in my heart.
then i looked up and saw the last thing i expected- the stark contrast.
the rows of  painted gravestones, just beyond the jet black iron fence.
i stared at the out of place scene- and gulped at that stinging inside.

maybe it wasn't either of those times, or any of the others i could drag out of my memory.
maybe it was just one of those things that creep up on you, and you have a moment of realization
but it was so long in coming that so, so many things contributed to it.

however it dawned on me, i will never forget that truth that once was the explanation of so much,
and now is further ingrained on my soul by the chisels of time and experience.

this place has beauty, life, and even love,
but this can't be, won't be, and is not my home.

i was made for another world.


they are not of the world, just as I am not of the world (John 17:16
but according to His promise we are waiting for new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells (2 Peter 3:13)

i find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy. the most probable explanation is that i was made for another world. // c.s. lewis


real + alive

Being real is not as easy as it sounds. Not in this world, this day, this age. Not at all.

We've changed our own mindsets to where everything has to be somehow subconsciously worthy of something else that it really wasn't created to be. But yet- for the sake of image- we stuff it in and force it to be that something that doesn't belong to it. It happens with pictures and words and memories and beauty of all kinds. Oh, and it also happens to people and their lives.

Aesthetics and how things appear to everyone else isn't life. What we do and how we do it and who we do it for is life. 

Sure, the aesthetic life is much more appealing. Where everything looks put together and beautiful and enviable. But truth is, nobody has a put together and beautiful and enviable life all the time. Or even most of the time. No matter how much it looks that way. 

The brokenness and heartache and struggles of real life are there for a reason. We humans have thought we knew best for way too long, and look where we are now. But yet, the pain teaches us a lesson.

It whispers that you are still here and that these feelings you have are being sharpened for one day when everything will be felt in perfection without pain. It guides us to do things we wouldn't do otherwise, shouting that one day you may not have the chance to do them again. It might hurt a lot, it might hurt occasionally, but it will hurt. There will be pain. But ultimately, the pain reminds us we can't do it on our own. We weren't made to.

Being real is being vulnerable. 
But being vulnerable in the right place is being free. 
And being free is being alive. 

I don't want to live a fake existence. The One who came so we could have life lived a real, perfect life then died a real, horrible death, then rose to reign again with real, forever love. And He still is. The price He paid was much too high to live under bondage to a made-up existence of our own creation.

I'm not perfect. This post isn't perfect. And I'm going to venture to say that you aren't perfect either. But that's okay. He is perfect. He's also real, and alive. And He frees people. 

Oh, He also binds up wounds and mends shattered hearts and resurrects dead things and fixes broken lives. Meaning, there's nothing He can't renew, in case you were wondering.

Whatever it takes, let's live real. Real is freeing, and to be free is to be alive. <3


This is what I call prosetry- not a poem, but not exactly pure prose either.... it has the soul of a poem somewhere in there. I debated what form to put this in, but I went with this very imperfect little ramble in hopes it might encourage a little today. xx


He did it for me

shoved down the narrow street in stark humiliation 
while every prod -of hand or whip- stings like fire and knives
on the back that no longer looks human, torn to ribbons and
forced to bear up the cross of shame, too heavy for words
since the weight is not of the wood alone- it's the world's too

stretched out on the planks, the ropes cutting in raw and deep
the strokes ring out, the screams ring out, the soldiers ring around
the foot of the crosses to divide the robes and watch as
people scream out and the body is racked with pain of two kinds

the sky begins to darken, the hours pass, the pain is surreal
and then it's time: the words are barely hear from the mouth
too disfigured to recognize  as the cry of agony pierces the air
the cry of the forsaken, the abandoned, the cursed
dies away as the sky falls black and the final words fall
as the spirit is yielded up and the work is finished

the last drops of crimson fall to the earth while the body droops
and the red stains seem to whisper from the parched dirt below
soaking in the love that grew where the blood fell
while the earth shakes and trembles and the dead are revived
and the last barrier is ripped away, torn from top to bottom

the mangled body is taken down, wrapped in linen strips
soaked with tears and spices, the very scent of hopelessness
carried away and laid in the rocky crevice of the earth
and sealed with a stone of finality's weight

but something changes in the morn, as the light overcomes and
with the dawn arrives the joy of the morning while the
mourning of night fades away into shock and hope
when, amid the tears, she hears the voice and looks up to see
the face of love looking back, the scars and marks erased 
by hope and the miracle of the beginning of the rest of time

tears flow out of the eyes that had seen death and given up
and the eyes that crushed death and rose up victorious
but they are tears of joy, and don't sting at all while 
bare feet pound on the dirt as they run to tell the miracle of life

when the scars and wounds are visible again, doubt dissolves
and faith is born to just one of many to come, but the scars
that were bore out of pure love, the only thing strong enough
to break the self inflicted bond of death and seperation
and while countless numbers will see the scars and believe
the biggest mystery is yet to be said, and that is the fact that

He did it for me

and consummatum est 


no place for fear


it is reaching out
it wraps around our hearts
its dark, cold fingers
searching, grasping
r e a c h i n g
for the inside
for that precious space
where there's only room
for one thing
it wants to inhabit
the deepest parts
but that's not all
when it comes
it comes to kill
to twist and break
to snuff out the light
to  d e s t r o y 

but there is yet hope

we are also reaching,
reaching out
we reach for the light
we reach for the truth
we are searching, grasping,
r e a c h i n g 
for the truth
which overcomes
and overwhelmes
and drives out the lies
that want to take over
that precious space
sacred for one thing
but no, we will fight back
the death and the dark
are slipping away
in  d e f e a t 

there is no place for worldly fear
in a soul redeemed


there is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. // 1 John 4:18