05.12.2017, 21:18:45

thoughts on “control”:

i hold it tightly, i do. i repeat a rhetoric of “i’m not enough, i’m not doing enough, i’m not smart or productive enough; i can’t handle enough…”

sunday brought me to my knees in holy anger and disappointment (and a not-so-holy stubbornness that roared its teeth too, at Leo of all people. what a man.) a conflict of emotions, where civilians would’ve gotten hurt had not the only tangible civil thing been my heart being sown out of its old pieces.

sometimes, i learn that we, in our most gentlest concern, lightly take parts of our hearts with the heaviest weight– we think them whole, redeemed. and we stitch them into the fabric of our messy heart, but the attack was waiting to happen; the arteries were clogged with sorrow weren’t they? God saw the ragged pores, how badly we needed the oxygen to bring a pumping heart to life, to not take away parts that he breathed in us eons ago– and what does he do? he keeps loving us back together again.

if we let him.

so why and where does “control” come in? I’m very good at giving God juuuust enough that it looks like my whole heart, but he and i both know it isn’t. i could fool anyone, even Leo maybe (at this point, maybe not – he knows me better than I do sometimes. relationships are magic, healing + terrifying). but i position myself with just enough surrender and mix in the honest humility and neediness– but i hold back. on what?

on fully trusting. or even trusting at all– that God doesn’t need my hands to do his brilliant work in my life. that he’s bigger and more capable than I am. that my striving, my abilities and my talents– as good as they are– they close the space for Love to thread its needle.

so i start small, over again:

i whispered up to heaven as i spoke with someone who needed my voice to say, “it’s all grace, remember that. it’s not just for those who don’t know grace, but it’s for you too.” funny, isn’t it? how we often speak truth to ourselves inadvertently.

i lose myself and find myself in writing. i go months, years even, without finding treasures buried deep. how eccentric and odd it is to find yourself in a moment, in a ripple that once held a hurricane.

i whisper, lord, i’ve done my part. i choose to be here, now; to be present and be a strong post– i know you come through, so do only what you do.

an hour or two later, while i swam to awaken these bones and muscles to fresh resurrecting, that which i couldn’t do– was done.

yes, smile.
the grace is for you too.
-cv.

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11.24.2017, 23:37:01

I saw her, hands lifted high, mother by her side. for a split second, I saw the girl, who led crowds of people without doubt in her mind. her fingertips reached the heavens, and her heart opened wide. the girl who once wore blanket scarves on pink pulpits, left-handed mics and wings on either side; who encouraged us to continue to sing, who would openly cry and speak with a voice that heard directly from God’s line

I saw her, today, I did.
just a glimpse– it was when I closed my eyes.
the world melted away, and I knew she will one day be back soon.
I’ll recognize her face, it’ll look almost the same.
maybe a few extra wrinkles and some laugh lines,
but there will be something new– something like never before.

-cv.

24.11.2017, 23:30:40

it is a cancer of sorts,
ravaging the soul quick,
paralyzed and
shape-shifting.

fast-spreading and unwelcome,
foreign,
catch that? —
foreign:

not a part of you,
your identity,
who you were and are
created to be.

the only way to fill these holes,
is a holy radiation of sorts,
seen right through,
x-ray visioned.

the price for this heart surgery has been paid in full–
anxiety, you are not welcome here.
and you are not my leader.
-cv.

06.11.2017, 12:24:01

I have this vision for my life: to love and be loved. to create and be created anew. every day, every morning and moment I have air in my lungs. breathe flowing through my trachea and into my bronchi. air pockets of life, that’s what it is- and I dream to live each breathe with the grace that I am redeemed ash. I am made anew. my lungs have stardust in them, the Handmaker’s wheel is spinning fast, and I run at the tempo of His slow dance.

every day is a day to run, to dance.
to love and be loved.
-cv.

11.10.2017, 11:17:54

instead,
sing.
you are not invisible,
just because you engage Me
alone, at home, among mundane tasks
like clinking utensils, cleaned and stacked.
you sing with
a raspy voice, matted hair, sleepy eyes and
you worry I don’t see you…
no– you worry nobody sees you.

that’s where you’re wrong:
your kitchen table is My centre stage,
and it is glorious.
-cv.

09.10.2017, 12:48:09

The A-word.

You’ve wiggled your fingers in my direction, a sly grin on your face. You’ve changed shape and form over the last few years, but you’ve always looked exactly like me.

Somewhere along the way, I believed I was no better than you, not worthy of being understood and even asking for help. Unseen, I internalized you as my identity for far too many moments than I’d like to admit.

But I see you for what you are. You aren’t my friend, my comfort or a source of safety. You’re a liar. You are paralyzing fear dripping with disappointment at every corner — lurking around, trying to rob me from what was originally and has always been meant for me.

I was made for community, for love and grace.
I was made for leadership, for creative expression and peace.
I was made for God’s heart, and His home is found in mine.

If naming your demons exposes the darkness to light and invites love back in, I’ll set my mind ablaze, transparent, illuminating the truth of how desperately I need a Saviour to heal the battle wounds I’ve tried so hard to hide. I’ll stand among fluorescent lights, telling the story of how fashioning an image of perfection was a complete waste of my life’s calling to creativity and redemption. If living gloriously small, humbly and always looking for my soul-Lover’s beauty will radically reform a hardened, scar-tissued heart, I will gladly jump in and douse myself in gratitude and grace.

This isn’t a freedom merchandise stand,
here one day, gone the next: this is real life.
This is a war, a constant tug of war– of whose side I choose to believe.

This isn’t an attention-seeking cry or protest.
This is a rally, a yell to echo into the wilderness:
that the captives are not alone– they are warriors, strong and powerful.

I will march around your city walls seven billion times if I need to.
I will be a ragamuffin, claiming victory before your gates even fall,
I will shout joy, dance without restrain and bang the beat of Heaven’s drum.

This soul is God-country,
and you have no place here.

go back where you came from, hell.
anxiety, you have no dominion here.
-cv.