love like fools.

what if we ruin it all, and love like fools, and all we have we lose?

Because I love like a fool. I love imperfect, messy and broken. I love by halves instead of wholes, I love hesitant and questioning.

I love failing. I love holding grudges and withholding forgiveness. I love in words but not actions.

I love full of doubts. I love only a little bit. I love protecting myself, I love without vulnerability.

I love impatient, I love unkind. I love selfishly and faithlessly.

I wish I could love better. I’m trying to learn. I’m trying to wrap my head around how perfectly God loves me. I’m trying to figure out how to accept that gift. Accept that love that I think I don’t deserve. Because that is the way I want to love others – the way He loves me.

Without measure. Without end. Without holding back.

I want to love with a wild love, a relentless love. I want to be loved with that love.

And it’s being offered to me. It’s been offered to me since I first heard “Jesus Loves Me”, since the day I was born, since the day a man hung on a cross that my heart might be His. Since before time and space even existed, I have been offered a perfect love.

So I’m saying yes. I’m chasing that love. I’m letting myself be loved. I am not going to run anymore, not going to hide. I’m going to seek it out and I’m going to soak it up, I’m going to breathe in that love and learn how to breathe it out.

Day by day I’ll try to love a little bit more wildly, a little bit more relentlessly. Because that’s how He loves me.


on words and this writing thing.

Words fail me often.

I try to write it down, try to explain the complicated mess of emotions I feel, but it rarely comes out right. How do I explain what’s truly in my heart? Are there even words to describe the depth of a human soul? We can hide behind words so easily. Telling you that I’m stressed doesn’t capture the tangle of fear, anxiety, and uncertainty that sits heavy in my stomach. Happy seems inadequate to declare the deep joy and peace within me in those moments when I am resting entirely on God. And love – oh, love gets thrown around like a bouncy ball from a 25-cent machine in the front of a grocery store. I’ll describe my feelings towards my Chacos with the same word as my feelings toward the Lord. While I am a huge fan of my Chacos, that word means so much more when I’m talking about God – and it comes nowhere near to the magnitude of how He feels about me.

I can write it all out. I can pull out a dictionary and a thesaurus and spend my days trying to put all the parts of me down on paper, and it will still fall short. but I’ll keep doing it.

Because sometimes, putting it down in black and white is the only way for me to make sense of it. Because sometimes, pain needs to be expressed. Because sometimes, I’ll write myself into a corner of my heart I’ve never seen before, and I am surprised by what I find there. Sometimes, the words are right. Sometimes it works, sometimes I can sift through subject and verb and adjective and come up with a sentence that sparks with a bit of my soul inside.

Those are my favorite writers. The books I turn back to, the blogs I keep reading – it’s the ones who weave themselves into their words. The ones who leave bits and pieces of their heart scattered around the screen or page. The ones who open up and let me see inside.

Because the words aren’t always perfect, but neither are we. And I think our broken hearts are always reaching out to one another – to be seen, to be known, to be understood. So I’ll keep trying to write my heart out for you, and I’ll keep reading after yours, and maybe it’ll work.

Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of who you are, and maybe you’ll accept me. Maybe we can share our stories and hopes and dreams. Maybe we can help each other heal. Maybe we can sort though all the mess together and come out a little bit stronger together. Maybe we can find the words to speak hope and faith and life into each. Maybe in all the wrong words, there will be a few that are right.

I’ll writing and I’ll keep reading. I’ll keep trying to see you and letting you see me, the good and the bad and the ugly and the awkward. And together we’ll find the words and we’ll talk through the hurting places, and we’ll start to see it all as beautiful.

just one of those days.

I wasn’t going to blog tonight. I don’t have words of wisdom, no nuggets of truth to dole out tonight. It’s been a long week, a hard week, a week full of ups and downs. A week full of early mornings, waking up stiff on a hard mattress and wishing I could sleep a little bit longer. A week of staring at my reflection in a leotard and wishing that reflection took up a little bit less space in the mirror. A week of standing freezing by the bus stop and missing the days when classes were a 5-minute walk from my dorm room. A week of sore muscles and hard work. A week of searching for joy in the little things and finding it in the steep streets of Valletta, in a hazelnut latte, in pink clouds, in fruit salad.  A week of my heart longing to be home with friends and family and familiarity, but also starting to put down little roots in Malta. A week of crying out to God for strength, peace, rest, courage. Sometimes just plain crying.

Most of today has been of the crying variety. I went to church for the first time I arrived here this morning, at St. Andrew’s Scots Church, a Church of Scotland and Methodist church in Valletta, and spent about half of the service blinking back tears. It’s a good thing it wasn’t a Communion Sunday, because I probably would have started sobbing over the wine chalice. Being there made me miss the traditions of the Anglican church that I’m so accustomed to. I missed The Falls Church and it’s familiar voices, the pastor I’ve heard preaching for years. I missed Church of the Redeemer, and the new family that I’ve found there in Greensboro. I missed being surrounded by friends during worship. But even sitting alone in that pew, singing hymns I didn’t know, surrounded by people with unfamiliar names and faces – it was so good to be in a church again. The Lord’s Prayer is the same, whether you say Your will or Thy will be done, and joyful noise includes both organ and djembe, and He is present no matter the building or country or denominational flavor.

So it’s been a day of tears, of homesickness and loneliness and worry and fear. It’s been a day of crying during church and in front of my laptop and onto my journal pages. It’s been a day of talking to friends, wishing I could hear their voices and see their faces in front of me, but grateful that I can at least have their words. It’s been a day of finding rest in good music and worship songs. A day of catching up on the blogs sitting in my reader, and finding quiet strength in the words of the other. A day of scribbling words into a notebook, crying out with pen and paper and soul for God to come near, now, please, because I have need of You. A day of clinging to His words and His goodness, wrapping my fingers around His promise to never forsake me and holding on so tight. A day of reminding myself that He sees me, that He knows where I am and where I’m going, that His plans for me are good.

A day of reminding myself that sorrow may last for a night, but trusting that joy comes with the morning.