Tuesday, December 11, 2012


You catch my face between your palms like a whirlwind of forceful spray. There is no javelin sharper than the way you see through me.
I am not bruised or cut.

I heard you whispering my name, while I played in the weeds and blew dandelion dust. Your hands spilled over with decadent blooms of Grace. I could have buried my face in those blooms. 

So sweet.

I made choices and wondered if my questions merited favor; if I should have asked at all.
Are they too big,
or petty,
or pretend?

While I played in the dandelions, was I still your little girl?

 The pulse of the One holding my face proclaims,

"But the Lord God helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; therefore I have set my face like a flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame." Isaiah 50:7

Until next time,
The Carpenter's Daughter

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Steadfast Love

Steadfast love and faithfulness meet; 

righteousness and peace kiss each other.

Faithfulness springs up from the ground,

and righteousness looks down from the sky.

Yes, the Lord will give what is good,

and our land will yield its increase.

Righteousness will go before him

and make his footsteps a way.

Psalm 85:10-13

Until next time,
The Carpenter's Daughter

Friday, March 9, 2012

Finding the Hallowed in the Hollow

There is a hollowness in chronic illness.
 This place where I have fallen. There are seemingly no ladders to the top.

On occasion, unknowing eyes dare to peek in, often mistaking this girl for a stowaway...

one who runs from life.
From friends.

It's entirely possible that I am solely tormented by my own guilt of neglect towards friends and family. Maybe they truly feel it. Maybe I imagine they do.
 Either way, it haunts, and it hurts.
I love them so.

Do they truly know it?

This is not the shivery hideout of uncaring solitude.
 It's where ones, like myself, feebly gather their wits about them, sitting hard on the cold cavern floor...
toes curled; back against the wall.

Just breathing...

...face bowed to knees sodden with prayers.

It's hard to get up. There are moments when lying down is my strongest point. Stretched out thin, worn, and weak.

When dreams come, they beckon light, warmth, and strength to fill the cavern's mouth. A yawn of dawning freedom. One pledge of youthful swaying upon the grass tops...

...flowers entwined in ringlets. Freckles on a sun kissed nose.

I wake to find my finger tracing the damp veins of the cavern floor.
So many valleys and turns.

I don't know how to get out of this place.
I just know that when I unclench my fists, palms open...


He holds my hands in the shadows, 
hallowing the hollow places...

and that is enough.

 "Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance. Selah."
(Psalm 32:7) 

This post is in honor of my friend, Craig, who reminded me that I am not alone. 

Saturday, December 31, 2011

Night Light

I have stood in Despair's closet, staring into the precipice of Doubt. I have cried for His affection. Before I could measure the affliction of my own heart, He swooped me up, placing kisses on my cheek.

My King, my Maker, my Daddy. 

He hears the pad-pad of my foot steps, crossing Night's cold floor.  In the darkness of my own delusions, I trace my hand on the curve of the wall, each step careful. I don't want to trip, or stumble in blindness. I have to make it to my Father's room in time...

...before the nightmares catch up.

He is the Night Light ever burning. 

The One Quietude that envelopes me like a soft blanket, lulling me back to sleep.

Yawning hushful praises, I remember that I was never alone in the first place.

(Lamentations 2:19a).
“Arise, cry out in the night, as the watches of the night begin; pour out your heart like water in the presence of the Lord”

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Catching Breaths

Can our breath be caught? 

Surely, there are moments that interrupt the hectic, bringing hurried breaths to the submission of surrender.

A letting go of control. 

Breath on frosty glass captures warmth, and for a moment cold gives in to heat.

A baby's cry stops a mother's sigh of sleep, catching instinct in her throat.

We blow out birthday candles, entwining breathy prayers of hope into smoky swirls.

What happens in these moments of caught breath?

We listen more,

see more,

touch more,

feel, smell, savor, learn, dream, wonder, hope,

and live

with heightened reflection on what is essential and precious.

Like one in love, we pluck the petals of  
loves me & loves-me-nots.

If in our final moment,

God has caught our breath:

"He loves me,"

comes with the plucking of that last petal.

"Let everything that has breath praise the LORD! 
Praise the LORD!"
(Psalm 150:6)

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Unveiled Face

Only in Heaven's breath...

...are there wings for the soul to take flight...

...in the freedom of His grace.

"And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit."
(2 Corinthians 3:18)

Saturday, October 8, 2011

The Work of His Hands

I wonder why He keeps handing me tools?
I am in no way equipped for this.

I just stand here, dazed,
wondering if my smaller hands are even capable of holding onto the curved handle.

His hands are so much bigger...


I have absolutely no experience, aside from making messes.

As the wood curls and twists...

...I feel His heart embrace mine...

...blowing away the splintered fragments.

He inlays His fibers within my soul.

He invites me to work by His side, so
 I accept the tools, clumsy and cold in my hands.
I wait for His gentle direction.

He shows me the art of smoothing out roughness, forming something uniquely me...

...and all Him.

Somethings must be curled up and blown away.
It is how the Carpenter carves Himself into His Creation.

To be workable, I must be willing to pick up the tools,
despite uncertainty, clumsiness,
or risk.

The work handle only grows warm when the hand is on it, and the job is being done.

He blows dust from the table.

I trace the faded colors left behind from lessons past.
The stains of what was.
The promise of what is to come.

Someday, my feeble attempts will be smoothed out, and the work will be finished.

I wait with quiet wonder at what lies ahead.

The projects will not cease until He puts the tools away.
He works on me.
I work with Him.

What joy it is
to be fashioned by the Master! May all the world know they have been crafted by those hands.
There is not one breathing who isn't seen, or heard, or known.
 Or precious in His eyes.

 While we (His children) are being sanded and smoothed,
He is inviting us to help Him mend the broken woodwork of humanity.

We are called to love Him first.
Then we are compelled to love in return.

There are plenty of tools.
Will you join us in the workshop?