Oh wow He’s faithful.
There’s something so ethereal about knowing when God is speaking.
Oftentimes, before I leave my house to go be with other Christians, I pray a few things. One, that I’d have some sort of meaningful conversation, two, that God would speak, and if I remember, then three, that I’d be filled with the Spirit and used by Him.
And the funny thing is, once I arrive, when I kick off my shoes and put down my phone and start hugging people, I completely forget that I ever even prayed it. And every single time that I come home so filled, I’m overcome with awe at how He worked.
I’m stunned by the conversations that left me glowing with joy, how I heard God in worship songs and in listening to my friends preach, tangibly experiencing God’s love and presence in everyday interactions.
I heard His voice again this weekend, and it left me breathless.
For three days, I’d been praying hard that God would lead me to trust Him. And He has. Oh, how He has.
In the midst of your pain, in the midst of your darkness, in the midst of the terrifying paths in front of us that we call the future – you’re so radically and beautifully loved. May we never lose sight of that.
I sit peacefully on the porch, one leg curled under me, guitar resting on the other. I feel the cool breeze of the evening in my hair, the summer mosquitoes swarming around my feet, and I unwind as my fingers dance up and down the familiar strings.
And in the stillness, the quiet, the only solitude I’ve had all day, one thing comes to my mind – Worship Him. The Savior. Continue reading
Holiness is not and can never be ankle-length skirts, purity rings, or immersion in Christian media to try to fight against the world. Holiness is so much more than that, and we’ve taught ourselves to settle for the symbols instead of the real thing.
I think it’s time we change that.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.
As the school year draws to a close, and my final year of high school at that, there have been a lot of frantic nights, staying up late to get all the preparations in order, waking up early to the thoughts of, “What am I doing all of this for?”
I hit an almost-crisis point a few months back, struggling with the idea of staying in the English field forever, in favor of something exciting, something lifesaving, something so much more fulfilling than tapping away at a keyboard for hours on end, day after day.
But in all the busyness, the planning, the last-minute studying, I stopped writing.
And my soul felt drier than it had in a long, long time.
It’s Easter weekend – but you already knew that.
In past years blogging, I’ve made a big deal about this holiday – my favorite holiday, that is – and written posts, and tweets, and I’ve jumped up and down over what Easter means to me.
This year’s a little different.
Not because I’m not excited, no. I’m thrilled. But Easter means something a little different to me this year, something a little deeper, something I hold a little tighter to my heart than in years past.
This day means everything to me, and it’s difficult to find the words to describe it well. Continue reading
I turned seventeen this past Sunday – on April second, two-thousand seventeen.
If you don’t know me personally, you may not have known my age until now.
And it’s not as if it’s a secret – I simply decided a while ago that I didn’t want people to judge me or my writing on my age alone, or have to try and explain when I mention school that I’m a college student, even though I’m supposed to be a high school student, and kind of still am for a few more months.
But something hit me really hard last week. I was talking to some college friends, and coming to the realization that the average age of the majority of my friends is around twenty years old.
And it’s funny – because I joke about it all the time, the fact that I forget that I’m not twenty, myself.
But it’s more than just a joke.
After spending almost an entire week discussing everything under the sun with a dear friend, a friend that’s my own age, I realized how important it was that I don’t forget that I’m only seventeen.
I’ll only ever be seventeen once.
My story isn’t over yet.
I gently ink these words onto my left forearm, pen gliding along my skin, the letters coming out with lines and loops.
The words echo in my head, bringing me peace and hope that wasn’t there before.
It isn’t over for me –
I mark a semicolon on the edge of my wrist.
I know the One who holds the pen to my story.
** Continue reading
This year so far has been one of conversations, of thinking, of beginning to define myself.
Something that often crosses my mind is this thought: Who am I?
And I can go through the surface things. I can say I’m a college student, a sister and daughter, a musician, a writer. But are those things enough?
I’ve been playing with this idea, of being rather than doing. Focusing on who I am, not just what I do as the definition of me.
On my own, I can do a lot of things. I can write articles and play music and be kind and use my mind. I can. But if I am to place my entire value, the sum total of my worth into these things – where will I be when these things fall away?