A few days ago I sat in a chair and let the stylist wash my hair. The whole time, I stared out the window, straight into the blue forever, and these butterflies kept flying in twists and turns with the wind. There must have been five or six of them - diving and swooping and bumping into each other...and the whole time all I could hear was, see? I make all things new - even them. Why not you? Why not now?
And I believe it - I do. It's just at times it makes no sense. I thought back to the road trip with Prudy, how we drove through what had to be a butterfly farm of sorts. Thousands of butterflies around the car - flying and buzzing and making sense out of their new surroundings. It was only fate that we ran into a few of them, their new bodies stuck now to the metal of our own shelter.
Is that what it means to be made new? Made new only to be broken again?
This week revealed to me a lot about my own process of recovery - how there is still so much left to be done. I'm okay with this because I know how far I've come - but at times it seems as if I'll never make sense of this flesh and bone.
I'll keep resting, though - keep learning what it means to trust and wait and what it is He wants me to risk.
posts i loved ::
Bethany Suckrow's Etsy and the Problem With Pink -
When there is no charitable action behind the product – on the part of the seller or the buyer – it turns breast cancer awareness into a trendy parade of pink shit, making breast cancer awareness about the appearance of generosity, rather than actively making a difference in the lives of those in need.
Trish Palac's Dear Brokenhearted -
You don’t trust it, do you? Your heart. You don’t give it room to breathe and work out it’s still-healing scars. That place that your heart needs – to rest and hurt and bleed through to the healing – it scares you. Your mind screams that it’s not safe and you run the other way. It’s not worth the pain, you say. You don’t trust it and you don’t want to know it. It’s broken and damaged and worthless, your heart.
Sarah Bessey's In which I confront one of my great fears -
I used to think that conquering my Fears will be a lot more sexy than it really is. I thought I would be rewarded for my efforts by a good experience. I thought that if I said yes to writing a book, that the words will flow easily. I thought that if I got up my courage to try intentional community again, that I would be met with kindred spirits and casseroles and a welcoming committee. I thought that if I said yes to Haiti, that I would not be as wrecked and hurting and powerless, as I feel right now. I thought that if I say yes to speaking on camera or on a stage for a good reason, that I would not lose my crap and cry the entire way through.
But it doesn’t always work that way.
Sometimes the first step is just as awful as you imagined.
But you do it anyway.
and then, please, read this one by Jen Hatmaker :: Haiti, Personal Crisis, and a Manifesto -
While babies are born in tent camps and pastors are sleeping outdoors on mattresses next to the orphans they are raising, I will not defile my holy task by turning your Word into a metaphor, imagining that orphans doesn’t mean orphans and hungry doesn’t mean hungry. So help me, if I ever claim American Christians are "the oppressed" again, strike me dead. I mean it. Put me out of my misery, for I am on a fool’s errand at that point.
songs inspiring me ::
David Guetta and Sia's Titanium -
You shout it loud, but I can't hear a word you say I'm talking loud, not saying much I'm criticized, but all your bullets ricochet you shoot me down, but I get up
Daughter's Youth -
And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones. 'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs. Setting fire to our insides for fun
books i'm reading ::
"As it happens, the wall between us is very thin. Why couldn't a cry from one of us break it down? It would crumble easily,
it would barely make a sound." - Rilke's Book of Hours
“Jill felt an emptiness open inside of her as she lifted her arm, a sense that something vital was being subtracted from her life. It was always like that when somebody you cared about went away, even when you knew it was inevitable, and it probably wasn't your fault." - Tom Perrotta's The Leftovers
and as always, an older post from me :: a year ago, we were giants -
But we were not there for us. We were not there to play dodgeball or red rover or sing songs late at night by the light of a flashlight and the tune of the guitar.
Tell me, what posts struck you this week?