sound so sad 

God, come here again. Give me a visit from a smiling friend. Wrap me up gently in your arms for I am tired. So tired. But i keep rising up to sit here and wait for you to come. To lift my eyes to your eyes, they are filled with so much compassion and mercy. I don’t care much why notes don’t sound the same – whybtheyball

Fmf: visit.

It’s so weird that five minute Friday will have it’s own space starting next week. It’s good. The change will take some getting used to though. 

I’m really trying to find the humor in my “whybtheyball” or what I’m even talking about in this letter except that I’m tired and want time with a friend in person or God or both. I was writing to music so I think I got lost in it for a minute. Shocker. 

Today in Whispers of Rest by Bonnie Gray, there’s a challenge for today’s devotional to do something that makes me smile. Typically music makes me feel happier, but today not so much. It just made me really focus on the suggested songs that played, both from psalm 130 about the depths of despair and waiting.
God, please help me to wait on You because I’m losing hope. And yet still holding on. You will restore all the locusts have eaten and are doing more than I ask or think even when I don’t acknowledge it or can’t see it. I know it’s okay to cry out because David did, but it’s hard for me right now because I’m tired of crying and waiting and confusion. Thank you the stuffed and candy my sister just brought me back from the zoo. Help me keep praising you. Thank you. Amen.

Yes, panda, we’re going to the watering Word. 


Is Talent your Excuse? — Meg Lynch

Back when I was in college, wasting time on Tumblr as you do, I saw a quote from an interview with singer Josh Groban. Josh was probed with a question about his God-given talent, and he got angry for a moment. He said something along the lines of: I hate it when people say things […]

via Is Talent your Excuse? — Meg Lynch


“There will always be someone better than you, but that doesn’t mean your own talents have any less value. And just because they’re better right now, that doesn’t mean you can’t be better in a few months.”

This really strikes a nerve and makes you think. 🙂 and now I kind of want to listen to Josh Groban..

how a liar dares that’s not enough

forgive how quick
i praise—thank you,
thank you! i said
hoarsely, fresh
out of slumber.
we both know
thomas & i unravel
the same thread.
you can’t give me
a nod, an open
handed: “yes,
my darling,
take this gift—
mercy & grace.
peace, i leave
with you, prospering
slow upon crooked
road.” needing press
against skin, tangible
proof accomplishment
has been, instead of
gaze across a screen.
silly, silly girl, always
believing this body
must be watered
with material
i can’t still
my brain
to read,

What happens when you get an email with good news & you thank God so immediate. then, you’re alone & the prowler comes: “you sure that’s enough? you won’t be able to hold this. Blah blah blah…

Dear Devil, today a promise came: Commit your work (poetry) to God & my plans will be established. Your voice has been consistent as the soreness in my feet from walking today. And guess what? You laughed over the rejections last month. You made me doubt, wonder, think giving up writing was the best option.

God sat & listened. He watched me swallow salty tears. Felt the break of my heart from believing this would make me happy.  Holding my own work in my hands. Watched me hang my head in belief this was it. Nothing would become of my work if I couldn’t hold a magazine in my hands. Any opportunity where God shows himself through my words, is a gift he graciously gives me. I don’t want to glorify myself, okay? I know how you think worldly riches will please me. I cried over my publications in one magazine. I don’t want to cry over this.

I don’t want to let you rattle me, make me think this is too small to amount. God wants to see how well I do with small and if I’ll accept this. I’m already shaky. So I’m going to sit here, listen to music that will make me praise Jesus, and remind myself he is the supplier of all needs through his riches, not you. Sp please, stick a cotton ball in al the lies already.


a girl who may need to borrow those cotton balls

Not Once A Year, Every Day


I think about this name.

Given to You, my Father,

My Friend, Healer.

I’m a mess today, no,

everyday I’ve been on this Earth.

I’m trying to breathe, but my breath

leaves my heart with ache.

An ache of deplorable worry.

This is not working out.

Time is running away, away

my mind spinning lying webs

all with one thread line:

You will be stuck here forever

and three days.

Three days.

The same number You stayed

beneath, Your body compositing,

decomposing the ground I can easily

let steal my peace.

I think too much at times, of the dark

that will meet my gaze when You

wish for me back by Your side.

I am terrified of the end.

Though I know You’ll be there,

swooping me up into Your lap,

reproach less smile upon pure beauty.

I’m still scared,

preconceived with the notion

You are Santa Claus.

For every open armed gesture.

Open ear accepting my silence.

Awe at how You laugh loud enough

my nerves edge.

Agape smile never hid out

from my frightened view.

Declaring the age I truly am.

Little girl.

Helplessly wanting her daddy,

with only tears as her speech.

I’ve approached You blurry

more than my fingers amount.

I fret, knowing I forgot to tell him

about the garbage needing emptied,

or the cans pulled back.

The yes or no answer for a move

ahead, or another try again.

I want to hurry everything.

My mouth scrambling together

words to phrases to sentences.

I’ll miss the blessing that comes in

the present package: patience

under circumstantial not knowing

when Your presence will surprise me.