Put on a pot of coffee.

Grab a mug. Take a seat. Settle in.

“But semantics might be all there is to talk about. The question of what our words mean, what we didn’t mean, or what we didn’t mean to mean, as tiresome as it all feels, is really all we’ve got. It’s often our only hope of reconciliation.

It’s our only hope of ever really appearing before one another, of having a go at loving one another. If we’re unwilling to reexamine or revisit the meaning of our words, if it wounds our pride to receive a talking-to concerning our ill-suited talk, what’s left?”

Dark, David. The Sacredness of Questioning Everything (pp. 130-131). Zondervan. Kindle Edition. ”

“In the sweet light of uncertainty, we renounce striving for possession by way of the biblical illiteracy that only listens to its own voice; we reject the need to shrink-wrap revelation to fit a target market or a voting bloc; we repudiate the nonprofit that presumes to speak exclusively for the moral values of the Creator of the cosmos, as if one tradition or interest group could say and therefore police for all time what the Bible means.”

Dark, David. The Sacredness of Questioning Everything (p. 157). Zondervan. Kindle Edition.





All of it was going to ache and throb and pulse. The floorboards screamed under the weight of my cold-presesd toes as I scrambled to and from the bedroom to the bathroom. I knew the cost of healing was a myriad of things; a process; a phase; a walk in the dark with your hands stretched out in front of you; reaching for anything to grab hold of.

The world wakes and sleeps. Utterances go unnoticed. My voice cracks and mumbles. My words fall short. Power. Impact. Sincerity. Swirling remnants of who was, what was, what is, what lasts, what we hold, who we keep.

Playing lost and found with my life.

Staying here. In this space. Listening to my own voice. Remembering what I sound like. Remembering who I left behind.

Falling in and out of love.



I wanted to know what I was feeling while I was feeling it. The type of human who was stronger, bolder, wiser, more able. I didn’t want to feel weighed down by my heart or my head. I would’ve liked for my head to be a pleasant place to reside. A lighter place. I would enjoy letting things go every once in a while. I’d like to make leaps. To move forward. To look at life straight. To see things clearly and in their simplest terms. To not take things above or below face value. To look at life as it presents itself to me. To have that be enough.

To be liberated from the hurt. To be healed. To ever be healed. To not feel this anxiousness. This anticipation. This desire to hold on and let go. To be two things. To be one girl on Tuesday and another girl on Wednesday. To be the same. To think differently as I waken. To forgive myself. To have my heart forgive me. To be deeply apologetic to myself and let it be. Let it be. Let it be.




November 16, 2017

“It seems like something else has to take place in the heart for somebody to become a believer, for somebody to understand the gospel of Jesus. It began to seem like more than just a cerebral exercise. What if the gospel of Jesus was an invitation to know God?

Now I have to tell you, all of this frightened me a bit because I had always assumed a kind of anonymity with God. When I saw myself in heaven, I didn’t imagine sitting at the right hand of God, as the Scripture says, but I pictured myself off behind some mountain range doing some fishing and writing a good detective novel. But if the gospel of Jesus is relational; that is, id our brokenness will be fixed, not by our understanding of theology, but by God telling us who we are, then this would require a kind of intimacy of which heaven only knows. Imagine, a Begin with a mind as great as God’s, with feet like trees and a voice like rushing wind, telling you that you are His cherished creation. It’s kind of exciting if you think about it. Earthly love, I mean the study I was trying to get by sounding smart, is temporal and slight so that it has to be given again and again in order for us to feel any sense of security; but God’s love, God’s voice and presence, would instill our souls with such affirmation we would need nothing more and would cause us to love other people so much we would be willing to die for them. Perhaps this is what the apostles stumbled upon.” -Donald Miller


September 29, 2017

The beauty of not wanting to necessarily be in the midst of the struggle was that I didn’t have to make a choice; I didn’t have to indefinitely take up space in one room for any specific amount of time; I no longer felt an obligation to commit or decide. There was enough me in the world that knew beyond a doubt that I inherently belonged to myself more than any other person or thing or place.

This sort of safety net was a welcoming. A return. A revival of sorts. A place of rest and solitude and freedom. It was similar to cheating the system. Playing against the rules. Not following or abiding by or answering to. Trusting my intuition was challenging, and that in and of itself should’ve been enough of a clue to sway me away from anyone and everyone who wanted something from me that I wasn’t able to give. I found myself sitting across the table, looking at nothing and everything and feeling nothing and everything and my belly was full and my heart wasn’t tense or stretched or being wrung dry. It was what it was.

It was beautiful. It is beautiful. It’s everything and nothing because it’s my reflection and it’s clear and unapologetic. It’s pure and full of morning drowsiness and unkept hair. It plays out like words splattered across the page; peace dripping from my fingertips.

There’s no more pressure or influence or expectations or hesitation. In those hollow spaces, where there used to be anxiousness, there’s everything and nothing. There’s me.