all His own.

words dance across my mind when i least expect them. usually my heart turns before the words come - a welcoming of the deluge about to overcome every thought and emotion. and then, unbridled, the words fall - mostly raw, sometimes tender. always imperfect.

i spend my life reading. the words echoing off the page and storing themselves in a basin of prose. if only i could weave together sentences in that way, i sometimes think. those are the times my words come up empty. pretense never looks good on anyone.

i've learned to welcome my ebb and flow - both the hard and the good. i've learned to embrace the messiness of life. who wants a filter anyway? before, pouring my words through a sieve left the largest part of me hidden.

if you want to know me, know what hurts me, they say, and i believe they're spot on.

so i write both the mundane and the glorious. i pen thoughts and phrases inspired by quiet places of trust and surrender. i whisper prose of still black nights, lost in the arms of my home who loves me despite my brokenness. Β i scratch out struggles of pain and take a stab at the crushing - knowing only those who've experienced it will understand and hoping those who haven't will turn an ear.

because if i can move a heart - if i can bend a knee - then this is all i need. i am not a savior, but i can write about One who specializes in wounded hearts. i am not a healer, but i can pen a poem about One who seeks out the fatherless. and sometimes i'm messy and most times i'm stuttering my way through life, but give me paper and give me time and i'll fill lines with His goodness even in times of distress.

i'm not perfect. neither should my prose be - i just want it to point to Him. to me, this is what makes it beautiful - His radiance shining through my cracks and fissures, creating a color all His own.

we're writingΒ imperfect prose today. join us?

Posted on January 20, 2011 .