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

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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.

A Bloom Amputated, Askew. And Alive. (#smallwonder)

Crape-Myrtle-close-upIt’s been almost a decade in this place where the crepe myrtles bloom long and heavy in the summer days that are long and heavy, too.

And still it shocks me to see them on the opposite side of the calendar.

What once was lush, fresh, and full of color stands more than just barren, but limbless.

Life. Amputated.

Cut. Deeply. crape-myrtle-photo

It seems harsh. A long road to rebuild what it already once possessed. To regain the bloom already held tenderly. It must be such an ache. To start again.

But the new growth comes.

Always.

Awkward at first. Tentative. Askew. Fragile.

crepemyrtlemidNot at all beautiful. Not yet.

But alive despite the look of it.

Then stronger bit by bit.

Until the bloom returns to the heat again.

Always.

crepe

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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.

Always a Full Moon

image courtesy of fortcollins.shambhala.org
image courtesy of fortcollins.shambhala.org

The moon hangs stubbornly in its space several hours after the dawn. It is nearly full, I notice.

It gets me thinking — during my morning drive — about the waxing and waning. And the way the moon looks different depending on the day.

And then I remember. The moon is always full. Only my view of it changes.

As I begin my days of Dwelling in His presence, I pray I will keep Him always in full view. And know when I am seeing anything less, that I need to adjust my sight.

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TWWbutton200x200_zps62610d74Linking with Kristin Hill Taylor and #threewordwednesday (Click the logo to the left for insights from more wonderful writers and friends.)

Youer Than You

youer than youGrowing up is hard.

Even when you’re almost 41.

Even when it’s not the first time you’ve had your feelings hurt or your pride bruised or your confidence shaken.

Even when every rational bone in your body knows the stinky breath of the enemy is the one whispering about your lack of worthiness. Even when you know he’s a lying snake.

Even when you know Jesus and talk to Him often and have seen Him faithful over and over and over again. Even when you know His love is wide and deep and high and long.

Even then there are moments of shock of how much this life can be unsettling. Like the first moment as a child you realize not everyone will like you. Because, up to that point, you never considered that not everyone spoke nicely and could be your friend.

And you start to think it has something to do with you and hardly anything to do with the fact that people who walk around broken can’t help but cut each other with their rough edges.

Maybe all there is to do in that moment is stop. And listen to some wisdom from the great Dr. Seuss.

Today you are you; that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you.

I’ll Just Be Beth. You Just Be You, friend.

Because no matter what else happens today, you are still the best and youest you that I know.

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TWWbutton200x200_zps62610d74Linking with Kristin Hill Taylor and #threewordwednesday (Click the logo to the left for insights from more wonderful writers and friends.)

Why a Manger? (the part of the Christmas story I missed for 40 years)

Sugar-free for 63 days, and I have reached the bargaining stage of my grieving its loss. Creeping as close as I can to its boundary. Nibbling the edges of sobriety by wondering if allowing myself the crumbs of something sweet would send me back to Day 1.

Wanting my cake. And eating it, too.

Looking to for the literal “sweet spot” where I can enjoy both satisfaction and sobriety.

Which really isn’t the point at all.

I have long known that true freedom from food addiction — a complete recovery — would have to be radically different from any diet or food plan or eating habits or exercise program I have used before.

Because while some of them were helpful, even momentarily healing, none were a cure.

Had they been, I would not be here now.

Which my mind understood to mean that returning to my previous medications for my food wounds would not be enough. For a final clearing of the dis-ease between me and food, a complete heart transplant would be necessary.

I have spent the last 63 days using various spirit-filled resources to aid in this transaction. The trading of pounds for peace. Choosing to overflow my soul instead of my stomach. Moving from death to life.

I am slowly learning to distinguish between physical hunger and soul hunger and feed each appropriately. Food as fuel for an empty stomach. Jesus himself as sustenance for a growling spirit of stress, loneliness, boredom, or feeling out of control.

I am eating my Daily Bread of His Word and lapping up the Living Water.

I am tasting and seeing that HE is good.

And still the struggle to surrender my whole body and its feeding habits is very, very real.

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For more than 40 Christmases, I have heard its story.

A very pregnant Mary. A donkey ride to Bethlehem. A star-filled night. An over-booked hotel. A birth in a barn. A bed of straw.

Animals and Angels. Shepherds and a Star.

But I have always missed this part.

“You know that at Jesus’ birth He was immediately placed into a manger, right? But do you know what a manger is? It’s where the food is placed for animals — Jesus Christ was placed into a feeding trough! His birth makes a statement that He came to be fed upon.” (Feasting at the Lord’s Table, Mike Cleveland)

From His first minutes of life as a human, Jesus made a way for us to be filled. Sustained. Satisfied. In every way.

He would later testify that He came to bring us life. Abundant life.

Not life full of tiptoeing around a buffet or beating our bodies into submission. But a life satisfied first and FULLY in Him.

I admit I am still learning this process — discovering what feasting on the Lord and His Word and His Spirit means as it pertains to when to lift my fork and when to lay it down.

But I can tell you this. My hunger is building. It has never rumbled in me more than it does today.

Not for food. Not even for sugar.

But for a moment with the King. The one in the manger.

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TWWbutton200x200_zps62610d74Linking with Kristin Hill Taylor and #threewordwednesday (Click the logo to the left for insights from more wonderful writers and friends.)

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