Focus

I could feel myself loosing it. I was tensing, preparing, focusing on those poles dead ahead. Canyon did too, his stride quickening and head bobbing up high. Nervous. 
My instructor - she's so wise. How an person can know just exactly what I'm doing wrong is beyond me. It's like she's the one riding, not me. Just in time she spoke:
"Don't even think about the poles. Just focus on your canter,"
My mind twitched, rerouted. The poles were there, approaching fast. But they were of no consequence. For three crucial seconds I focused on Canyon's canter, not the poles. 
I relaxed, gathered my reins, pulled Canyon up under me. 
Then they were behind me; not perfectly done, but done well. 

Get a horse in frame, collected, listening to his rider.... and the obstacles, the jumps, and staying calm around spooky raincoats... they just happen. And they happen so much better, so much simpler, than when the rider sees the jump, the jump, and only that jump. 

My God - He's so wise. How He can know just exactly what I'm doing wrong is very much beyond me. It's like He's the one living, not me. And just in time, He speaks.
Child, don't even think about your mountain-struggles. Just focus on your walk, your ride, your relationship with me.

Because when we focus on Him - loving Him, obeying Him, adoring Him.... everything else fades and it just happens. Those impossible problems, that unraveling to-do list, that dying relationship... God will take us over. 

So trust Him, my friend. Trust Him and take your eyes off that mountain. Focus. Focus on Him. And you're gonna fly.

The Broken Beautiful

Don't give up on the ugly parts of your life: the things that make you cry at night or make you go numb on the inside. The broken bits of our lives may seem jagged and useless, but know that God is a stained-glass maker. He crafts masterpieces out of our shattered messes. And He is the sunshine streaming through the glass, bringing to life what once was dead and dark. He's got your pain, your life, your family, your future... it's all in His hands, being painstakingly fit together - the broken beautiful.

I am a mess. But my God crafts masterpieces from messes. Therefore I have hope. 

On Posting, Shards, and an Artist

What do I really have to share with you guys?

Just fragments of a stumbling story, sanctification slowly breaking through the cracks of me.

Sometimes I wonder if my words really make a difference. I mean, I know God is working everything out for a glorious purpose. But what if He wants me to close this chapter and get on with life? Because I really don't write much on this blog.

I have this notion that it takes too much time.

That I need some lightbulb-revelation flecked with gorgeous word pictures if I'm going to ask you to read my posts.

But now that I think on that a bit, I don't think that's the truth. God was pleased with the poor widow's offering of two small coins and not with the rich people's heaps of money. Because she gave all that she had.

Yeah. I don't have much - sometimes my spring of words is all dried up. But God hasn't closed this blog's door yet so He must still be crafting a masterpiece. And these words are still paint on His brush.

So I'll keep writing. But instead of hoarding my coins until I've got a decent offering to bring, I'm going to start giving all that I have. Like the poor widow.

Just the little lessons. Short, honest, messy things. I'll be offering up the bits of this sanctification story as they emerge, smudged and worn like my journal that time I cried as I wrote.

So I'm going to stop trying to bring great offerings for God, trying to help Him out by teaching you some important lessons. I'll leave that to the rich people. This is now God's studio and you'll be seeing the chipped and broken things - all I really have to give.

Because God? He's fantastic at making stained glass. You know - that gorgeous art made of fractured misfit shards. 

Yes. A stained glass studio. My life is the broken being made beautiful. And God? He's awesome so He's both the artist and the very light that will make me shine.

What Shall I Do With My Life?

That is a big question.
It has a big answer, but not the detailed ten-page-thesis answer some might expect. The answer comes in minuscule instalments.

I answer it every day, in every moment.

What shall I do with my life?

My life is not something that exists in the past, nor does it exist in the future.
It's happening right now.

And how I choose to fill
each
little
moment
defines what I desire to do with my life.
See, having a purpose for your life is not something you stumble upon the day you finally grow up.
I'm defining my life's mission right now.  

Each choice, each word, reflects on the object of my passion and projects my life forward
in obedience to God
or in defiance of Him.
In grace
or in pain.

What shall I do with my life?

I'm going to finish cleaning out that cupboard under the sink. And maybe I'll do some dishes.

See, the right answer to that question is not very glamorous. 
In fact, it's downright dirty sometimes.
And hard.

But matter is made of atoms
and mosaics are made of fragments
and cars are made of parts
and cloth is made of thread
and life is made of moments.

Which is why you need to answer that question right now. Don't wait until tomorrow to live your life. Now do it again. And again.
And craft the gorgeous masterpiece your life is meant to be
by claiming life
in the moments
before they slip away.

What will you do with your life?

A Safe Place for My Love

I'm going to practice a little transparency here and say that fall is not my favorite season. 

I love the warm sunshine.

I love the trees that catch on fire with color.

I love the crunch of leaves under my feet.

I love the smell of the autumn air.

All this might render fall my favorite season if it wasn't for one thing. 

The transient nature of fall.

I'm a steady girl who doesn't like change or unexpected happenings. 

So the warmth of the sunshine is cooled by the knowledge that it will soon be gone.

The fire in the trees is tainted by a wish that they would stay just like that. But I know they won't.

Crunching leaves remind me that more leaves are falling and they'll soon be replaced with snow.

And the deep autumn smell hanging in the air is almost like the countryside's last sleepy breath before it buries itself in snow-white hibernation.

Autumn is beautiful. But I cannot love it as I long to because it leaves me holding my breath, straining to capture every glory before it drifts away. 

And I think every human being aches to find a beautiful thing to love without reservation. A beautiful thing that will not turn ugly in time. But we can't bring ourselves to love with a passion because we know that this glorious beauty will disapear and we'll be left cradling a disintegrating brown shell of a leaf. 

Is there anything I am safe to love?

Only God.

That God who breathed life into Adam? 

He who picked the lowly Abraham, Gideon, and David and changed the world through them?

The God who healed the sick

Who made the blind see

Who loved the little children

Who died without fighting back

And who rose up alive, brilliant hope fulfilled.

And God? He doesn't change like the shifting shadows.

He doesn't cycle like the seasons.

That life he breathed into Adam is still filling my lungs. 

This lowly girl is being used by God in mighty ways.

God heals my sickness

Opens my eyes

And loves this child of His 

To the grave 

And back again.

He's not transient. He will stay. And stay. And stay with me.

Yeah, I think I could love someone like that. 

Because He won't disappear like the glories of autumn. 

He is a safe place for my love.

This Thing Called Grace

"Are you sure you don't want me to press that piece?" 

She asked it like she was desperate to iron out the wrinkles in this life. To smooth the valleys and mountains and make time run silky-straight. 

Grandma has had lots of hills in her lifetime, I think. 

I handed her the fabric with a smile and a shake of my head. 

I guess we young ones don't understand what it's like to have a mess of wrinkles behind us. 

I don't feel the pain of each jarring bump like my grandma does.

She sure could use a good blanket of grace to wrap herself close in.

Because where she comes from, God lives at church and a Bible is a book and grace might be a dancer as easily as forgiveness. 

That life has been awful bumpy. 

And it makes my heart hurt when she frets about being a pain to us and she wishes she didn't cause so much trouble.

So I stretch out my grace blanket, try to pad some of her pain.

"Grandma, we love you. We want to do things for you because we love you." 

And she feels this grace touching soft and her face goes happy sweet.

She brings back the fabric, crisp smooth and warm, and I'm thinking about how a wrinkle doesn't make a dress bad.

But maybe she doesn't see that a dress is a dress no matter how creased. That this dress will get folded and wrinkled and dirty and worn but will remain whole and loved in the eyes of it's owner. 

Life can be like that sometimes. 

No matter how hilly or wrinkled it is, life is still life. 

And we can choose to see it with the padding of grace as a beautiful masterpiece to be loved and worn out. 

Or we can see it as something that needs to be fixed - this life that keeps growing mountains and folds no matter how hard we press our troubles away. 

For some people, each bump just hurts to much to see the beauty of this thing called a life. 

But there is hope. It's called grace. 

And it doesn't numb the pain but it gives a new perspective and a new heart to this life. 

Today I'm choosing grace. You too? I'm glad. This journey is a whole lot sweeter wrapped in His arms.

(tutorial coming soon on little dresses for Africa - my new favorite project with a purpose!) 

This Living Land

Picture an epic battle: good fighting evil. The noble king of light owns the turf, but the lord of the night has a heart blacker than death itself. He covets the beautiful and fruitful plot of land. The attack has been long, for the lord of the night is cunning and persistent, constantly bringing new strategies and weapons into play. His spies circle overhead, searching out weak spots in the defensive line. The battle, however, is not going as he hoped. Just like every other gorgeous pot of land owned by the king of light, this land is living. 

The lord of the night's eyes narrow and he grinds his teeth, staring at his minion Vaain tumble into a gaping crevice in the earth that had cracked open with a brilliant flash of light. Yet another, taken captive. He spins on his heel, cloak brushing a standard-bearer with flames a color deeper than black. The creature yelps and glowers, slinking away from his lord. 

"Send Leyzi to that weak spot on the north end," the lord of the night barks.

"You can count on me to keep things from getting done, my liege," purrs a creature nearby. He hoists two sets of shackles over his shoulder and slips metal pebbles labeled "x-cusiz" into his pockets. 

"Just don't get taken, you hear?" 

Leyzi bows and slinks away. 

Meanwhile on the side of light, the living land is busy pushing waves of the living water from its source - the words pouring from the king of light's mouth - to every drying acre of ground. The water heals, satisfies, and energizes everything it washes against, creating a mosaic of vibrant green flowing from the source - the king. Every time the ground pulses or shifts, guiding the living water to thirsty corners, it knocks dark agents of the lord of the night off their feet. The very force giving life to the land sends waves of confusion through the ranks of snarling black minions. 

If you were watching this battle from afar, your eyes would be drawn to two things. One is a glowing cloud hovering over the whole battle. This cloud is the very spirit of the king of light, and it sends messages enclosed in glistening raindrops to the ground, pointing out areas the enemy has broken through and encouraging the land to take as many captives as possible. This leads to the second noticeable thing - flashes of light that dance over the battlefield. Every time the cloud pricks the land with a prompting to fight or to take a minion captive, the land responds, splitting open to capture the enemy. And inside, underneath the land, there is light.

The land is very busy, you see. Very busy fighting and growing and listening and being... And have you figured it out yet my friends? That living land is very real, that king and dark lord and battle are closer than the air we breathe. The living land is my mind. (And yours if you are a child of God) The battle is raging inside of me, and I've heard the very words of the king of light: For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments and every prevention that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ. (2 Cor. 10:5)

It's the reality, folks. This living land. 

White Flag

I started a post on surrender, trying to force the words. How silly of me. And when they didn't come I laid my head down, dejected. Useless. Then in the quiet I heard a voice.

True surrender is not doing what you think I want you to do.

An authentic white flag is the exposing of yourself. Surrender is the abandonment of all self-preservation in the presence of one more powerful than you. Surrender is, in essence, turning over your own life and will to someone else's hands. 

Because when I surge ahead, living my life like I think God wants me to, I'm still living my own life.

When I obey His leading only when it is comfy or cool, I'm just fitting obedience into my life whenever I want to. 

No. Surrender doesn't look like that. Surrender looks like turning in my old life in exchange for the new. Surrender means dying to what I was so that Christ's resurrection power can come to life in me. 

Surrender is most definitely a kind of death. But what kind of a God would call His followers to present each moment as a waving white flag? A good God, that's who. Because my God - the God who calls me to daily surrender - has a better life to give me. I've learned that when I give up my life to Christ, He gives me His life in return. 

When I surrender, it is no longer I who lives, but Christ in me. 

And that's what a white flag is. 

A humbling, 

uncovering, 

dying of myself 

so that one more powerful than I can live.

The God In the Thunderstorm

I love thunder. It reminds me of power - God's power, on display for all to hear.

When lightning cracks the sky, I think of how small I am compared to a God like that.

But still He sends rain to quench our thirsty ground.

And did you know that thunder is only the sound of lightning? Yeah, that big scary boom is just the power-noise of lightning. And did you know that lightning is the spark kindled by masses of electrons and protons surging towards each other? Lightning is just a mega-version of those shocks you feel going down a slide at the park. And it is the rain droplets in the clouds that rub together to created the static electricity for the lightning. So instead of your body rubbing the slide to create a shock, it's like the clouds are holding a big dance party for baby raindrops. And somehow they rub enough to create a lightning-shock.

So thunder is the loud, awesome announcement of the brilliant power created by the rain before it falls. 

That's the science behind the thunderstorm.

But I think there is more than just science behind it. 

I think there is a God smack in the middle. 

Am I crazy to think that thunderstorms illustrate the Trinity?

I imagine that lightning is like God the Father, 

sheer power and glory, 

blinding 

unfathomable 

light.

I imagine that Jesus is the shock wave 

born of the Father,

rumbling power sent forth 

to shake the very foundations of this earth.

I imagine that the rain is the Holy Spririt, a very part of the other two 

sent down to quench thirsty ground

to bring vibrant life

Like Pentecost could have been a torrent of Spirit falling that 

hasn't 

let up 

since.

Some broken red stumbles

    Why did I ever think I had it all figured out? Like I had some answers that would pour out like miracle salve on anyone who read my words? 

    I'm finding that it's not gonna happen. This blog might help someone, but it will more than likely be me - a place to bleed a bit on some pages and wipe away the splatters so it looks like perfect red lettering, marching politely across the screen - so I can smile incredulous at the beauty that doesn't look like me.

    I'm scared, I think. Scared that if I left my raw wounded letters stuttering through sentences... that it would turn you away. Because since when did raw bleeding stumbles heal the hearts of the wounded? 

    But wait a second. They did. 

    How could I forget that my heart was healed, my life made new, by Jesus' blood dripping red? What kind of irony is this? That the raw hurting of one would pour healing on another? 

    If someone figures this all out, just let me know. 

    In the meantime, I'm back to my own bleeding. I've got struggles, you know - lots of them. I have daily inward battles concerning my eating, for example. I'm not anorexic or overweight, but the inside of me is wearing away from the corrosive idol of food set up in my heart. 

    I just love it too much, plain and simple. I realize that I was crafted to be a worshiper - God made me to have a burning desire for Him and His kingdom - but somehow I keep pushing Him aside and putting pizza or ice cream in His place.

    So right now I'm begging God. Begging Him to knock over the idols in my life and set up camp Himself. 

    Because I know I'm a worshiper. 

    A passionate, emotional being that runs on a fuel of driving desire. 

    And if I'm not wildly desiring God? 

    I can't run on empty. So if He is not my driving force, something else will be. And this old insatiable desire for food - it doesn't fill me up, leaves me stranded, guilty, hungry, again and again. 

    So I'm begging, begging God. These idols are awfully heavy, and could you please knock them down? Cause I can't....

    And fill me up, Jesus, with your agenda. Give me a desire and a tangible goal - something to strive towards - to drive me to joy. Give me orphans to love, things to make, cards to write... anything, Lord. To keep me worshiping, worshiping You and not food.

    Because I know I'm a worshiper. A worshiper begging God. 

    And the words run red, struggling raw, and I realize it's not the broken itself that heals others. The spilling hurt is only the vessel through which God's resurrecting power flows. 

    Just like at the cross. 

    So I don't have it figured out, and if you want pretty words all in line, don't come here. I'm fixing to keep pouring raw and open, because I believe in a story about a God who used the red flowing pain of a man to heal the broken-hearted. (Luke 4:18, Isaiah 53:5) 

Whispers on Horseback

    My body stiffened, jaw tightening. A brown head flashed up then down in front of me. Just hold still, will you? My mind screamed, and my hands urged the same through the taught leather reins. Tenebrae's mane flashed again, and she vigorously chomped her bit and pranced sideways. I pressed my leg and heel into her side and hauled back on the reins. My efforts solicited a few stilted steps in the general backwards direction I desired, but as soon as I released the pressure from my hands, Tenebrae shifted her weight forward again. I tugged on the reins, and she pranced in place. Don't you see? It's for your own good if you stand still... just chill for a second, and you'll be better off when it's your turn! I watched the rider before me sail over a jump, then returned my attentions to Little Miss Impatient. Through my seat, hands, and legs, I could feel Tenebrae working herself into a frenzy as she fought my command to be still. It was a simple thing, to be still. And for her own good, besides. But still she fought her rider. Her master. 

BAM. 

    There, in the hazy arena, on the back of a thousand pound bay beauty, I understood. Myself. In an instant, thoughts and prayers from the weeks before flickered before my eyes, a mirror image of the horseflesh struggle beneath me. 

Tenebrae - I think she's sneezing in this picture :P

    Be still. Know my presence and let that be enough. My master had whispered through my devotions, day after day. In return I fought, tossing my head and craning my neck, searching for something to do, something to be. 

    Be faithful in the small things I am asking of you now. Obey me in the moment, God whispered. I was prancing in place and tugging at God's gentle guiding reins. I want to do something big! My mind screamed. I want to take off on a wild adventure with you, God. Why are you holding me in place? I was chomping at the bit, sidestepping God's guidance, and working myself into a frenzy trying to go somewhere my master did not want me to go. For the moment, that is.
    Tenebrae and I did go over the jumps. I did eventually ask her to move forward, to canter, to fly. But before that, I asked her to be still. Because if she had trotted full steam ahead with no restraint from her master, she would have messed up someone else's timing or run into another horse. There was a reason - multiple reasons - I asked her to be still. She just didn't - couldn't - understand. But because I loved her, because I wanted the best for her and everyone else, I persisted; tugging, nudging, pressing, restraining. And still she fought. 

    And still you fight, God whispered. Rest, He urged. I felt the reins tighten in my mouth. Be still, and He guided me with strong nudges of His leg. Do what I have asked of you, the little things, and wait for me to release you for the mountain ahead. Scrabbling at it's base, stretching and clawing at handholds will only tire you before I ask you to climb. Just... be still. 

Adoration and Two Brilliant Lights

"I was so excited when I saw the sun this morning that I dropped what I was holding and ran down the stairs," I declared to my sister as I encountered a pile I had abandoned on the floor. 

The sun - it gets me so excited in the winter... inwardly I call it my "pool of liquid gold" when I watch it spill over into the trees trying to hold it back and rises, molten, to the sky.  

See that speck of light down in the tree line? That's the sun. And it's a thousand times more beautiful in real life, I promise. 

But that sun? It shines through the darkness around it. No matter how dark those trees try to be, the sun still shines bright. 

Through the darkness the sun finds a peephole and lets loose a barrage of brilliant rainbow particles.

And the darkness? It only serves to make the light more bright. 

Instead of drowning out the light, the dark only makes it more beautiful, more precious. 

And it's just like God to christen our guiding light the sun. 

Because, said out loud, no one can tell the difference between the sun and the Son. 

Who also happens to be our guiding light. Coincidence? I think not. 

I get so excited when I see my pool of liquid gold...it's so beautiful, so exquisite, so alive. 

But the Son is alive. He's alive, people! Why doesn't anyone get excited about this anymore? I mean, if I can stampede down the stairs in the middle of my morning to gaze at and snap pictures of something I see every day... well, then I truly have no excuse for being ho-hum about the Son. I am capable of adoration. 

I adore the sunshine.

I adore my friends. 

I adore creating things.

I adore cheesecake.

I adore the Son.

Yeah, but how do I adore Him? I mean, if I grin ecstatically at the sun 

And spend hours talking to my friends

And work long head-aching hours crafting things from my fingers

And close my eyes in bliss at the first bite of a cheesecake

Then my adoration of the Son should be a million times more.

Really, Ariel. How much has the sun sacrificed for you?

When have your friends stepped down from a heavenly throne to die in your place?

Do the things you create ensure you'll go to heaven?

How many times has a cheesecake given you selfless, overflowing joy? 

Yup. I'm convinced. I don't adore the Son nearly enough. So, yeah... I've got my journey cut out for me, somewhere along the lines of learning to adore Him more.

But along the way, I know of someone who is always there. And He's given me an exquisite reminder of Himself in the glowing, spreading, darkness-hiding light of the sun. So much like the Son. 

One last thing. Remember how light always wins over darkness?

Well. The Son is light. So the victory's already won, my friends. But that doesn't mean I can go traipsing off into the enemy camp, now does it? I've got a journey to live, and battles to fight. Mission número uno: 

Adoration.

Gossamer Trails

    This is honestly the third blog post I've started today. Just not feeling the creative word juices flowing, but that's okay. I've done plenty of writing in this past week... like a seven page "personal plan for leadership" for a college class. Three thousand, four hundred and forty-one painstaking words. So glad it's over with, yet I loved writing it. One of those things that stretch a person in a good way, I guess. :P

    Now I'm studying for a College Composition CLEP test, and will be writing 2-4 essays each day for the next few weeks for practice... so, yeah. Pray for me!!!

Do you know what that is? 

Yup. Spiderwebs! Believe it or not, that was what out backyard looked like one morning a week or so ago. It was one of those "wow" mornings. 

Can you imagine? That was either a huge shindig of an Arachnid-party, or hours and hours and hours of crawling. 

    It's beautiful, but also a poignant image to roll around in our heads: what if all the words we spoke trailed out behind us as we lived our lives? Would the world behind us be beautiful or shamefully ugly, decked out in words never to be erased? In a way, we actually do leave a record - in the lives of those who hear us. The Bible commands followers of Jesus to not let any unwholesome talk come out of our mouths. We are to only speak words, to only leave trails to build up and benefit those who listen. (Ephesians 4:29) Were the the lives of the last five people you spoke to made more beautiful because of the web of words you wove around them? 

    I know I'm feeling convicted right now, as I write. I may never see spider webs the same way again! They are a fantastical reminder to only leave shimmering gorgeousness behind me as I speak my way through life. Because, truly, our words stick around. 

    Friends, make someone's life beautiful today because of the words you weave.