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


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