When I spent eleven summers ago in Winnipeg, I used to rest at St. Boniface Hospital. I didn’t drink coffee back then, so it must have been tea . . . tea and Timbits. Not too long ago, I found myself having Caribou at a hospital out near my new found happy place, observing. Voluntarily there, and with – perhaps – a lighter load than some where carrying.

Hospitals are a lot like airports . . . departures and arrivals; green vests and sterile protocols. The ordinary grandeurs and brevities of life.

Sometimes I remember that my mom died and my adrenal glands exist. Probably not as often as you may think if you frequent this space . . . it’s just that the memories usually lead me to my finger tips, typing. Because death is such a big, defeated deal. And because God’s mercy quenches the languishing.

Isaiah 58 was bigger than I could digest 19 hours ago. ‘This’ morning . . . it feels like I have been burning the candle at both ends, as they say. Stirred with so Much in the evenings, and up before the sun without the slowness of a previous season to greet it.

I must become far less distract-able.


I am an artist, still. And learning new strides. New rhythms and new ways of life. Enduring the messy transitions for the sake of planted seeds that need to be watered.

My soul feels stretched across decades and time zones and my heart is understanding more of who I’ve actually been as I’ve been becoming.

And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water whose waters do not fail.

Isaiah 58:11

. . . so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.

I would rather be healed, is what I have been thinking lately . . . rather be healed than reach for corrective lenses every. single. day. Rather be healed supernaturally – in an instant or even over time – than continue to just manage myopia; Rather than reconsider for the first time in 15 years if I actually think Lasik is a thing to do, I would rather be healed. It could be both-and, I know that. But I would rather just be healed. Without lasers or bills or waived liabilities.

if you take away the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness.

Just when I think I have nestled into a simplicity, here comes Ecclesiastes {so-to-speak} to wake me back up to the world.

God is inviting us all higher. God. The Creator. Our Creator. Our Benevolent Source of Light. In the recent months I’ve been training myself to reconsider the metaphor of ‘going deeper’. We’ve had all these thoughts and songs about deeper waters and deeper relationship, but what God calls us to so often is higher elevation. Up where He is. Up where Christ is seated, and we are seated with Him.

. . . we are seated with Him. Selah.

Think about how different a metaphor it is. Depth can be so heavy. The deeper you dive the more weight of air and water and world there is above you. And – in my mind – less light. God calls us upward into brightness and ever-increasing glory. Higher, and higher still. Never to peak. He does not plateau. Who is He, never to peak or plateau?

The Word has been revealed and made flesh to us . . . the mystery hidden for ages, the gasp of the angels. And yet, there is so little of Him that I know. So small a circle of time that I have lived through on this planet . . . the circumference of a wrist watch. Merely three decades plus a bit.

I am seeing now – seemingly suddenly – how little I have known all along.

What I appreciate about this song is the humble maturity that it captures; the achieved clarity of a thirty-something heart with still so much of God to glory in; still so much to see and to surrender. I like that it is fresh and springy like the light roast coffees I usually choose dark over, ha. I enjoy the playfulness that too often hibernates through winters, and that the need and angst have somehow been wafted away with with the pollenating wind.

younger than i knew

i can see those eyes i used to know
i can visualize the profile of your nose
i can trace the beard that didn’t used to be there

i was 18 and younger than i knew . . . and so were you

all these years between were drills and practice
learning to identify the cactus
hacking at the brush that overgrew when i met but couldn’t see you

we were 18 and younger than we knew
18 and younger than we knew

gold refined from no two fires the same
dazzling and emblazoned by the flame
now here we are – not a spring too soon

and if we marry in june, will you always be my groom?

. . . a recording of me recording the emergence of a song . . . what about we can record things like images and music ? ?

~ me, being dropped off at college by my momma . . . 18 & younger than I knew ~


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