for the promise of sweet breezes

I fight the survivor instinct that tells me to revive.

There is a time to die.

My four decades of doing things my way have brought me no closer to the prize – to the wideness of grace, to the deep well of peace, to the loftiness of lightness in my being.

It’s time to stop doing. And start dying.

Some things are a swift and merciful kill. So many others linger right on the edge. My will. My way. It gasps for breath and begs for salvation.

Oh, how it wants more time with me. But as my Jesus himself modeled, the only path to salvation is through death.

Spring is not as sweet without the winter.
New is meaningless if there never has been an old.
Resurrection never comes without first the dying.

And so it turns. Each tick of the clock marching back around to itself.
Circle after circle after circle.

Daily. Moment by moment. My will; my way; my striving; my doing.

It dies.

And from its decay blooms a more glorious way. Higher. Deeper. Wider than my striving could ever have imagined.


Tightly still tucked upon itself.
The bud not ready to bloom.
I think for a moment I am her.
But, no, she is not yet me at all.

Go lower. Past the leaves. Down the stem. Under the surface.
Into the darkness.
I am not bloom, but seed.

Tightly still tucked upon itself.
Refusing to unfold.
Unwilling to die.

The breeze it carries a memory. Of sweet daisy blooms.
Into the soil it penetrates.
And the decaying seed – for the sake of a promise – releases just a bit of its skin.

The tiniest sip of living water expands me beyond today’s bindings.
There is no option but to crack.

To unfold.
For More.

To make room.
For Life.

Holding Space & Accepting Help (Brave Every Day)


Months ago I knew I needed to. Weeks ago I said I would. Yesterday I made the call. Today it was confirmed.

“I’m holding space for you, Beth,” the therapist said. “Starting right now, you’re sharing the load.”

And she was right. I instantly felt it lighten.

Admitting a need for help — and then actually asking for it — Good, gosh, that’s hard.

You might think I’d know better. My Dad is a professional counselor, after all. And I saw real benefit from time talking with a psychologist during my infertility struggle many years ago.

And still…

So to get such a confirmation, in a conversation of less than 5 minutes, that my heart was being heard. And held. Well, it started pulling together the brokenness. Helping me to gather the fragments into a manageable pile. A place to start from.

Holding space.

The promise of a soft place to land. An advance reservation to be accepted without pretense. A seat at the table with the other Ragamuffins feasting on grace.

“I go to prepare a place,” He says.

Heaven, yes. But here, too.

In Him. In nature. In silence. In each other.

To float. To dwell.



brave-squareIn response to the 31 Day blogging challenge, I will be publishing EVERY DAY in October — reporting on ways I reach out to bravery in my everyday life. (See all posts to date HERE.) To be alerted to new posts, please follow me on Facebook or Twitterusing the links on the right side of this page. Or Subscribe to get posts sent to your Email.

Inside Out Light (#smallwonder)

Psalm764 Cindee Photography
photo by Cindee Snider Re, originally designed for #sundaycirclegroup, used with permission

Not once in my entire life have I considered myself “resplendent.” I doubt, in fact, I have described anything in that manner.

Radiant. Glowing.

On my wedding day, perhaps. Maybe the junior prom — my first real dress-up event.

Even there I speak of looking radiant. Feeling a glow.

But BEING resplendent?

The Psalmist tells God He is. Resplendent that is. More majestic than the mountains. (Psalm 76:4)

So as I reflect that I dwell with God but that He also dwells in me, I must consider that His qualities, too, live beneath my skin.

I could get a spray tan. Add glitter to my eye shadow. Wear a sequined dress.

But that would only make me shiny.

Resplendence, instead, rises slowly to the surface. It’s an inside out light.

The fullness of all the beauty of God Himself, fanned forever by the Holy Spirit.

In. Me.

Can you imagine?

I hope you can. Because it’s in you, too.

So let us ready our vessels. Let us welcome the rising. Let us be polished. Let us be resplendent.

Indeed, we already are.


Linking this reflection of Small Wonder with my friend and fellow blogger, Kelly Chripczuk, who hosts a Community of blogging Beauty Hunters at her site. Because our Big God shows himself in the most amazing small ways. #smallwonder

Ice Symphony

2015-02-17 09.21.17

He runs his hands run across the icicles, and sounds like a xylophone ring out across the frozen landscape.

The ice chips on the trampoline join in as maracas with each bounce.

The conductor sun arises, awakening the drip, drip, drip — like plucks on violin strings — which are punctuated with the cymbal crash of falling limbs.

I dare not speak. Intent to listen. To listen well. To dwell in this ice symphony. And to add my Amen to the praise.

All the earth worships you and sings praises to you; they sing praises to your name. (Psalm 66:4)

PicMonkey Collage2


Linking this reflection of Small Wonder with my friend and fellow blogger, Kelly Chripczuk, who has recently launched a Community of blogging Beauty Hunters at her site. So grateful for the reminder that our Big God shows himself in the most amazing small ways. And also linking with #threewordwednesday at Kristin’s place.


close-up-flowers-nature-rocks-spring-17235-480x320With full apologies to all English teachers, I am coming to learn that “when” is a action word.

When requires my participation.

“God saved you by his grace when you believed.”  (Ephesians 2:8)

When you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.” (Jeremiah 29:13 NLT)

“When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” (1 Corinthians 13:11 NLT)

Like the Psalmist, I cry, “When, Lord?”

Perhaps He will when I do.

It’s not enough to “say when.”

I have to “do” when. When is a verb.

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.


Five-Minute-Friday-4-300x300Linking with the #fmfparty and Five-Minute Friday. Even though sometimes I write and post on the weekly prompt on other days, too.

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