You find me

In broken hearts and deep empty places.
In long nights in a bed meant for one, wishing there were two.
In rainbows on days that feel like thunder.
When the lightning frightens with
Each.
And.
Every.
Strike.
I find You.
No.
No.
You find me.
On days I cannot find myself.
On days I cannot see hope.
On days I cannot do anything but wish for eternity now because isn't that better than now.
You find me.

it is about us

So often I think it is about me. About us. About women.

Probably because I am one.

I think of our broken hearts, shredded and lonely, waiting and wondering if anything but Christ and loneliness will ever live here.

I think of tears cried in the darkness and at empty kitchen tables, and smiles forced over cups of coffee pretending stories of others’ togetherness are simply a source of joy.

I think of how it feels to wonder who and to wonder why and to wonder why no one ever just asks, because you never know unless you ask.

But I rarely consider the responsibility you bear, brother.

I rarely think of what it must be like to be the one to ask the question, to make the first move, as your broken, lonely, shredded heart beats a bit faster as you wonder what she will say.

I rarely think of what it must like to face the choice of relationship instead of independence, to choose to love another as Christ loves the Church. For the rest of your collective time on this earth.

Brother, that must be so daunting.

I do not know if I could handle that responsibility.

Of course I have my own responsibility to bear in that same agreement, for the rest of our collective time on this earth.

But, brother, I rarely consider your side.

I rarely wonder what you think or feel late at night in the darkness or at empty kitchen tables or over cups of coffee, or perhaps for you it is pints of beer and cigars.

Brother, I am sorry for thinking it is just me, it is just us, just women.

It is about us, men and women, with hearts on the mend, waiting and wondering if anything but Christ and loneliness will ever live here.

This post is also featured today on Good Women Project. Please take a second to check out their site.

more faithful than the morning

The sky burned red and gold, clear and fuzzy all at once. Maybe it was my early morning eyes. Maybe it was Him whispering, “Good morning, beloved.”

It’s been so cold here this summer. Empty hands and quiet houses full of only the noises I make.

I’ve spent the summer missing other noises and familiar hands.

I’ve spent the summer longing for different noises and new hands.

But this morning, when the sky was on fire and it seemed like He and I were the only two awake, I felt His faithfulness wrap me up, pull me closer.

This morning when the sun shone bright, shades of spun honey and molten lava all at once, I remembered that I am the one who changes, that I am the one who is inconsistent.

He stands steadfast, ever faithful.

More faithful than the morning.