Friday, December 13, 2013


I am told my words are needed.

I started this blog because my words need a place to live that looks pretty and clean and welcoming, because I need to document in more than just a journal.  I started it because I think much better through the tips of my fingers than through my mouth, and because I live and breathe images and need them to accompany me on this word-journey.

So.  In November I breathed deeply and skipped out across the white expanse of this space, sure that the words would just come like they had before.  "What can I share?" I thought.  "How can I express all of this newness so that someone will share with me, travel with me?"  The freshness of another beginning sat on my tongue, sweet and promising and my first steps were sure.

But across the white I suddenly realized that there were no other footsteps to follow.  That behind me were my own, and before me was nothing, and this recovering rule-follower didn't know what to do without someone to set the course.

I felt the shoulds creeping back in.

Your spiritual gifts are teaching and pastoring, but you have nothing to teach.  You should be teaching something.

You should have a formula for what you write here, and when.

You should post something pinnable, some "Ten Easy Steps" so that what you have to say is of value.

There's nothing you have to say that hasn't been said before.  You should just scrap this whole thing.

But I know.  I know.  That this life place, this wide open expanse of grace, pristine and untouched, is where I am meant to be.  It is where the Holy Spirit has led me, blindfolded and tripping over stones, because He knows I couldn't have lived much longer in the place I left behind.  And He knows that there are others out there who have been, or maybe are still, in that dark, lonely place- the intersection of rigid faith and doubt-laden depression.

I am encouraged by kindred spirits who see me and nudge me and ask the quiet question, "Where are your words?"  They know that the bubbling out of overflowing grace takes on strings of letters for clothing, and becomes an offering of the truest kind.

As I look out in front of me, the path is still obscured by a blinding white winter blanket.  My steps are still the only ones I see.  But I am coming to realize that those steps, tenuous and fully me, do not actually have to have a destination quite yet.  It is OK to simply dance through the snow and make art with my steps instead of making tracks.  The creating itself is enough.

I purpose to post here {comment free} two times a week.  I'm not really sure who will show up; art, friendship, grace, faith, rebirth, depression may all come to play.  I do know that I can only share from the places that I have been, and the experiences I have lived.

We are in the season of Mystery, of Emmanuel, of the birth of all Grace.  I am stepping out, feeling the crunch under my feet as I break new ground with words, with a new year, with color and purpose.  It is where I am meant to be.