baby belly. . . 18 weeks

Our baby's final nameless night. . . :)

riches in the wasteland. . .

Your weary eyes expose the piercing ache in your soul and the silent grappling beneath your skin. I see. I hear. . . though your struggle is too deep and obscure to articulate. His call reverberated within you and a tremor of hope surged through your being. You heeded his voice. You cried out in surrender and expectancy overtook your senses, yet in a moment and without warning the darkness of night was unleashed in your interior swallowing the light and paralyzing your pursuit. His voice continues to echo. You cannot escape it. You don’t want to escape it. You’ve been wide-eyed and expectant, but you can’t see. You can’t find him anymore. You ache to feel his breath on your neck. . . for the slightest reassurance that he is near and has not forgotten the whisper of yesterday. You crave his closeness, his activity. . . his revelatory wind.

My lover, my friend, I proclaim to you- peace lies in the heart of this darkness. Still your restless soul, settle into the silence of naked truth and breathe. Do not close your weary eyes in the midst of this perplexing night. . . The “will of God” surrounds you here, and soon, yes- very soon, his riches will surface in this wasteland. . .

Into the light. . .

The Holy Spirit continues to rouse my slumbering deep. He has become unavoidable, inescapable. . . relentless in his determination to draw me into deeper realms of God. My frantic agenda has often muffled his wooing, but I sense now, in this season, a stillness falling like rain- capturing my attention. Though the demands of life are ever-increasing, he is meeting me with a rapturous peace and silencing the madness in my soul. Steadily, I am becoming sensitized to the passion of the Divine pouring into every facet of my being, engulfing secret chambers of carnal longing. . . saturating the harbored darkness within. I am a fear-bound wanderer, full of shame, squatting in the shadows of the radiance and glory of God. . . I’ve squandered the riches imparted in our exchange, oh but his ruthless mercy and tender affection reaches me and coerces me into the light again. . .

baby belly. . . 17 weeks

Saturday Night with the Millards

Allen and I hung out with Ryan and Jen and their beautiful babies Makayla, Marissa, and Mason tonight. . . It was long overdue! Mason will celebrate his first birthday the week of our baby’s expected arrival. It's amazing to hold him and interact with him, realizing that this time next year we’ll have a baby boy or girl at precisely his developmental level. . . It’s quite surreal! :)

Lifted from the Ashes. . .

Language seems like an insufficient mode of transit for the deep stirring in my soul. The surges of revelation within are cryptic in nature and barred by the limitations of my carnal mind, yet I am provoked by desperation to attempt to draw these divine impartations to the surface and sift through them. . .

The madness and fury of a society plagued by perceived lack and futile striving quashes the summoning of an interminable world of abundance. . the radiance of heaven is submerged in a domain of darkness, and we with pale and insipid faith settle into this world of scarcity, continually neglecting our Master Deity and his power and yearning to lift us from the ashes of a fraudulent existence and sanction us to tap into the riches, authority and promise of his kingdom.

Oh, but there is a great rumbling of the Divine quaking in the core of humanity, awakening slumbering victors. I sense a holy insurgence . . . a fierce casting off of an iniquitous culture and a zealous adoption of the ethos of heaven. Light is emerging. . .

May his kingdom come here on earth as it is in heaven. . .

Swell Season

After dinner at Blackstone and dessert at JJ’s (accompanied by the best dry, soy, caramel macchiato in Music City), my brother-n-laws, Ethan and Eric, and Allen and I walked to the Ryman to see Swell Season, one of our favorite groups, comprised of Irish musician Glen Hansard and Czech singer and pianist Markéta Irglová. Their raw and humble display of musical genius was captivating to say the least. . .