broken-old-key
To love is to be vulnerable: to hand over your weapons to another, remove your armour. Crazy. Who does that? Love. He gave us the keys, the will not to choose him, the knife to wound him. He did not defend himself. And where did that get him? In the garden he made for us, alone. While we hid. And we went into the wilderness to build machines, to survive without him. We fortified our weakness with iron and steel, shined to a holy gleam. Our machines are mistake-proof: effective, professional, strong. Clanging, powerful gongs. We give our mechanical monsters many lovely names: church, revival, community. Words, stripped of the power of a vulnerable God. We surrender our childlikeness to become little pegs in the machine—trading authenticity for professionalism. Some pegs don’t make it. Too tragically fractured to fake it, not useful or strong enough. The broken ones are tossed…Continue Reading
Dear Diary
This originally was not written for a blog post. It’s from my own personal journal. I felt to share with you my journal entry, a little piece of my heart and struggles written on May 17th. This is raw with nothing edited, just as I wrote it over a month ago. I think I have never had such deep revelation of my life really not being my own until having Maddox. I miss free time! They say life gets easier but I don’t see it. Time is fleeting and sometimes I feel in a panic. Am I doing anything? What do I want to do with my life? Do I want more kids? Do I want to be a full time mom? Do I want to live overseas forever? Do I want to work? Life…What does it hold? It seems when I finally ‘arrive’ to something I’ve dreamt of for years…Continue Reading