drop your pieces, darling.

everything seems to be a jumble tonight.

(i’m sure that’s a sentence i’ve typed before in this little space. bear with me, because this is a common occurrence in my life.)

the thoughts are brewing and shifting, and eventually will hopefully sort themselves out, and some idea will settle down deep into my soul to be lodged there. and some ideas will spill out into inked lines in a journal. and some, they do not get a chance to settle because i am all too willing to throw them onto my keyboard before they are fully grown.

hence, my jumbled thoughts.

perhaps i should learn to be patient with my words. to sort through them, let some slip through my fingers.

i don’t really edit.

perhaps i should.

but i’ve been learning, lately. learning that i am allowed to be messy. allowed to thrash about. allowed to wrestle. allowed to toss the words around, allowed to play like a child in a sandbox getting grains of sand into every. single. place.

my words are allowed to be messy.

and by words, i mean life. and faith. and all of it.

it’ll all come out in my words, anyway.

i’m learning to sit with the jumble. learning to call it beautiful. learning to speak even if i don’t have a complete sentence. learning my jagged phrases and half-formed thoughts can be shared. learning it’s okay to be in the process of still trying to grasp the truth.

i’m tired of trying to hold all the pieces together. let’s just sit in the jumble, instead, together? let’s sit in the mess. you can drop everything you’ve been trying to hold together, hold right, hold perfect. i’ll drop everything i’ve been carrying, too. we’ll sit in the midst of it, and we’ll sort through the pieces together.

you and me, together, maybe we can make some sense of it.

we can find the truth together.

come sit in the jumble with me.

eyes to see.

my natural inclination

is not to praise.

i do not see

glory

in all of creation.

come to think of it,

i do not think

i even see creation.

i see

but miss the wonder.

miss the glory.

miss the beauty.

 

i stood on a mountain

and peered

out at the valley below.

and you said,

He created this with one word.

and i thought…

i want to look at the world

and marvel like that.

 

one word

endless beauty

and i don’t want to miss it anymore.

i want to see glory

i want to stand in wonder

i want to be awe-struck

by the simple

(marvelously complex)

fact

that the sun continues

to peek over the horizon

every morning.

simple fact,

everyday miracle.

 

give me eyes to see

ears to hear

hands to hold

a heart to rejoice

in everyday miracles.

oh, i want to see the glory.

for the nights you’re feeling twenty-two.

say what you will about Taylor Swift, but she got a lot right about being 22.

cause there will come a night when you’re feeling happy free confused and lonely at the same time.

actually, there will come many of those nights.

don’t let them pass you by.

there will be a night when you’ve been out way past your self-enforced bedtime (which you set in an attempt to get a handle on this thing they call adulthood) and you’ll find yourself driving home at 2 a.m. and you’ll turn the heat on in your car for the first time this season, because there’s a september crispness to the air.

and you’ll be grateful for the friends you just left, the friends that will stay up till 2 to talk, the friends that will bring you anything you need when you get sick.

if you find those people – hold on to them.

and you’ll drive home and you’ll marvel at the lack of traffic on the streets, and it might hit you all of a sudden that you have no idea how you got here. how that many years slipped out from under your fingertips.

it might hit you that you have tonight. and maybe that’s it.

maybe you’ve never been good at that whole carpe-diem thing. that’s okay. but know this, darling, when you realize no one promised you another sunrise: you don’t want to wake up when you’re 70 and not have good stories.

no. you want stories.

you want stories of nights that lasted long past bedtime and best friends that stuck by your side and adventures down new roads. you want stories of mistakes made and lessons learned. you want stories that leave your listeners slack-jawed in awe and rolling on the floor in laughter.

if you want those stories, you’re gonna have to live them.

so if you find yourself in a car at 2 a.m. one september night, turn off the heat and roll down the window. let the chill hit your cheek, a gentle caress to remind you: you’re still alive.

you’re alive. and you’re collecting stories.

make sure they’re good ones.

you once told me.

you once told me

that i was created

fearfully

and

wonderfully.

but in this world

that surrounds me

and barely makes sense

it’s hard for me

to see the purpose

when i don’t even

understand

the inner workings

of my own

foolhardy heart

and tongue-twisted head.

this me –

this supposedly

fearfully and wonderfully me –

sometimes, this me does not

seem to fit

and i am left

with

half-completed phrases

tangled emotions

and hands

clutching at something

without knowing

exactly what they were reaching

for

or what they

want.

and so i

try to cling to the truth

that i am

fearfully and wonderfully made

but sometimes,

i must confess,

that truth rings false

to my ears.