Thursday, February 22, 2018


I've been working on a project that the Lord put on my heart. It is a devotional of poetry and prayers, but I feel led to share some of them here.
I believe, in this hour, Jesus is asking His friends and lovers to rise up and teach people the way to the secret place.
Jesus preached the sermon on the mount, which is undeniably one of the most powerful sermons ever preached. But people did not say "Teach me how to preach." However, they did see the way He interacted with His Father and they said "Teach us how to pray." So He did. By praying and allowing them to hear so they could learn. If we go after the preaching, and the miracles and the works before we go after the relationship, they will be empty things. If we become familiar with the way the the secret place, though, all of these things will flow in power. 
I've shared before how I learned to pray by praying the Psalms. When my soul was tired, I borrowed David's words and became familiar with the nature of God through them.
When I first felt the Holy Spirit urging me to make parts of my prayer journals public, I wrestled. I couldn't imagine cheapening those precious conversations by allowing anyone else in, lest they bruise my heart with their opinions and point out my flaws as they saw me in the vulnerable place of being before God. But then that still small voice came and asked, "Aren't you glad David shared his psalms with you?"
So I'm going to share. Small snippets, poems and prayers. And I'm encouraging you to do the same. Those of you who know Him well, share that place of intimacy. Lead the way that those who are unfamiliar can follow you onto waters they have not charted.
Today is grey and I’m longing for you. 
Sometimes this world feels so completely separate from who I know you to be.
You, with your thundering and lightning.
You, with your emerald rainbow and your woolen hair.
You, with your eyes ablaze with passion. 
You are seated on a throne in a realm I can’t even fathom, surrounded by creatures declaring your holiness.
And I’m seated in a rickety coffee shop chair, surrounded by your beloved. Largely, they don’t even know your name. 
When the sky is grey, as it is today, and winter has stripped the world of her green, I feel like a foreigner more than ever. 
In the Summer, when I can plunge my hands into the earth of the garden and breathe in the thick, hot air that teems with life, I can feel you close.
Then, you cling to me like the sweat on my skin.
Then, the screaming cicadas and the call of tree frogs could be the distant echo of a throne room.
Then, the trees and the grass and the moss on the chicken coop all grow vivid green. So much so, that even a green tint hangs in the air and I think maybe I can understand how a rainbow could be called emerald.
But it is not summer.
It is not green.
I cannot feel the warmth of your breath of the weight of your right arm embracing me.
I cannot hear the echo of your throne room.
I cannot see you in heavy fruit-laden vines.
I cannot feel your eyes burning in the kiss of the sun.
All I see is barrenness.
All I feel is cold.
I miss the green so badly it hurts.
And right now, I am sustained by the fact that Truth does not wither as a summer garden does wither. 
Your kiss is more consistent than the sun.
Your touch far surpasses my capacity to perceive it.
Your goodness is everlasting. Never fading. 
You are good, God of everything.
You are sovereign, imaginer of the seasons.
You sustain. On grey days and green.
You sustain me.

1 comment:

  1. Wow! I love this. I love this idea and I love your psalm. ❤

    The timing is so interesting because I just shared today on fb this thing that I wrote yesterday and it also has a winter theme (And I appreciate the encouragement to share like David. Such a good point!):

    I came to my spot by the lake today. My place of rest and solitude, longing for the soothing rhythm of the waves, the waves that speak to me of His Spirit and of a prophetic word that someone spoke over me about the waves and treasures on the shore while walking with Him.

    But my lake is frozen today and it feels sad. As though my word is waiting for the physical waves. I had wanted to hear them as a reminder, a symbol, a reassurance of what was spoken.

    Instead it's silent except for the quiet crackling of ice. Everything is muted. The treasures on the shore are buried under the ice and snow piled high like small mountains.

    It's winter. That's my season, too. Cold. Hard. Dark. Waiting in frozen slumber. I groan with the earth for the thaw, for the melting away of all that's cold and hard. Yearning for new growth, for the revealing of the shore's treasures, for the return of the waves. Imagining when their soothing and beautiful and familiar sound will be here with me again, surrounding like a comforter, wrapping me in a warm embrace.

    It's winter for now. It will pass. Spring is coming. All things made new. Here I wait in eager expectation. I will endure. This season of frozenness will soon pass.