"What we once enjoyed and deeply loved we can never lose, for all that we love deeply becomes part of us." - Helen Keller

If you’ve ever had a grief anniversary, you know they can bring bundles of emotions as they creep up on the calendar. On these days, one is not simply living with everyday grief, but rather one is being reacquainted with minute details and memories of the day on which their cosmos shattered into a thousand pieces. Personally, the end of August has a handful of dates that I wish God could wipe away with some divine eraser.

Or rather, there are dates full of knots and tangles that I wish he would make straight with his divine comb.

Stains that I wish he would wash white.

Buried things that I wish he would resurrect. Somehow. Someway. Though I don’t really know how to imagine that.

Yes, there are some types of sorrow and trauma that we want completely out of our minds and lives. And there are some in which we crave to see redemption. Maybe at times it’s even a mix of both. There is ample room for nuance while grieving.

Grief is not a straight line. It’s more like a map with no lines at all. Just phases, places, names, dates, and times that are significant to our stories.

Grief shows honor. It shows that there is love that has nowhere to go. It is a tribute to the stories and people who have shaped you who are no longer here. It shows that you haven’t numbed yourself to the sufferings around you and within you.

You have permission to honor even the darker shades of your story, no matter how long it has been or how long it takes. There are no “shoulds” in grief. Grace is extended to you most especially in the dark.

Stay as long as you need to honor your story. It’s ok to be here - you’re in good company.

May this very raw prayer-poem of mine give you the courage to bring all of your emotions to the Uncontainable One, who will never run out of room for your emotions or bottles for your tears.

-Gracie

God of the end of August and of backsliding children,
God of the month of May and of reconciliation;
God of all comfort and God of all discomfort,
You are intimately acquainted with the angst
in my chest on these late summer days, yet it remains. 
You are a God who keeps no record of wrongs,
yet you record my tears resulting from them. 

Oh God of the end of August,
the days are being shortened once again
when all that I loved was buried, silent, still. 
God of Eden and Gethsemane,
God who gives and takes away, 
I am tired of your taking.
Though I suppose you are weary of my grasping 
for blessings that can only be given.

God of the end of August, 
Will my days always be marred by this
Grief that lingers through my body
as humidity permeates the air?
stubbornly staring,
silently sneaking,
slowly slaying
me on the front porch, tears blurring the black-eyed susans. 

There are no funerals for this type of grief,
only mascara-stained sheets, bloody fingernails,
and long voice messages, heavy as iron. 
There are no gravestones that mark this loss,
only a rewiring of the blood through my body
and bottles of tearful vintage in heavenly places,
labeled with names and dates that you remember with me. 

You are the God of the end of August,
and I want to run away from you,
but where else could I go?
You are in the wispy willows watching over me
and in the song of every sparrow, singing your delight.
In the wind, you whisper gentle words,
and through the roses, you invite me to dine with you daily. 
In the rays of the moon, you leave a light on 
for those who come home to you late.  

God of the end of August, 
Who doesn't leave regrets
untouched by grace,
You are the God of second chances
and hope upon hope upon hope.
No, you are not theologically convenient, 
though at times I've tried to make you so.
You do not operate in formulas and equations - 
you inhabit question marks 
and scandalous interpretations.
You are a revolutionary
Who works in reversals
and says the way to save your life
is to lose it in awe of something bigger than yourself.
And this is where we are.
God of the upside down and inside out,
you have broken the ropes in which I had bound you,
and I am left undone. 

God of the end of August,
and of days that I've attempted to pray away.
God of the 24th and of every day after.
God who is present when the people I love most are not,
You speak when you know I'm ready to listen,
and you listen when you know I'm ready to speak.
But I think I'm somewhere in between -
stunned and still struggling to sleep. 
My body recognizes the black-eyed susans, 
sitting with me in the silence of grief,
And the kisses of Autumn alluring the world into a balmy rest.
My body says I need to escape - 
Except there is no escaping grief.
It follows me like a cancerous tumor,
Gradually feasting away at mind and body,
"Never" being its favorite disconsolation. 

God of the end of August,
I know Aslan is on the move, but are you? 
Will grief ever turn to love again as the nightfall turns to dawn?
And is waiting like a deathly spell, lasting forever?
Will it always be winter and never Christmas? 

God of the 24th,
This day, which I've attempted to pray away, is here again.
God of the end of August,
Only the black-eyed susans remain to offer their condolences.

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Recently, I've been astonished by the multitude of colors that adorn the world. Color walks have been a source of inspiration to me as I've chosen one color a day to notice while basking in the beauty of the outdoors. It has allured me back into a place of childlike delight. Colors bring me to a place of nostalgia, where I recall thoughts and feelings associated with certain shades. It has prompted me to take my pen to paper and not just see the glories of the color itself but to see through it and beyond it. I hope this poem takes you a little deeper into the delight that comes with noticing the world around you (and my favorite color).

"green"

If you seek the color of the life in your lungs
Look to the poplars in the English countryside
And let their hue infuse you with the grace of life
As you become mutually astonished at each other's majesty.
And may it remind you of your earliest memory -
Being formed from the dust, perhaps under a willow tree,
Peering into Eternity's iridescent eyes.

If you dream of the color of your favorite memories,
Behold the blades of grass, sacred, yet often forgotten,
and recall the picnics with your lover
And how the meadow held you as you held each other.
Remember the walks with your lab through emerald
field and forest
And how it blankets them now
As they rest for a time under the earth. 

And if you wonder, as you wait, what is the color of patience,
Survey the sapling of an oak
And notice the xylem and phloem streaming through its
small but potent veins.
And recall how a seed must be swallowed in dirt
Before it resurrects from the earth. 
May it give you courage to know 
That what has been buried may still yet grow,
And hope as you wait for a forest of rebirth. 

And if you search for the color of healing,
Observe the leaves of the eucalyptus and common sage 
And let the muted tones embrace your soul 
And let the scent remind you time and time again,
That while grief can't be erased, 
Second chances may yet await as it does
For the oak, the grass, and the poplars every spring 
While the world once again is redeemed in the color green. 

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Be glad, people of Zion, rejoice in the Lord your God, for he has given you the autumn rains because he is faithful. He sends you abundant showers, both autumn and spring rains, as before. The threshing floors will be filled with grain; the vats will overflow with new wine and oil. “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten— the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm, my great army that I sent among you. You will have plenty to eat, until you are full, and you will praise the name of the Lord your God, who has worked wonders for you; never again will my people be shamed. - Joel 2:23-26

If I’m being honest, this birthday has felt more solemn than happy. While birthdays are meant to be special and celebratory, they can also carry weighty emotions.

Year 22 has been the toughest and most perplexing yet, marked by significant disappointments and heavy heartbreak. That’s not to say that there weren’t moments of bliss and happy memories that I deeply cherish, but overall, it’s not a year I will look back on fondly. I’ve written much about grief in the past year because I’ve felt it on a more intimate level than I ever have before.

This past year seems to have been devoured by swarming locusts, and I’m not seeing how God is going to restore it any time soon. It was not a wasted year by any means. It was a year in which I grew to know the love of God more, mostly through wrestling with him.

But I’m still wrestling, and to put it quite frankly, I’m tired.

Just because this season of life has been difficult doesn’t mean it hasn’t been beautiful. Perhaps even because of grief, I have learned to appreciate the beauty and love around me all the more.

Grief has forced me to slow down and notice the comfort of God in a full teacup. Grief has helped me recognize his mercy in the shade of the trees, his radiance in the noonday sun, his tenderness in woodland creatures, and his beckoning whispers in the rustling of the leaves. Grief has taught me to call my grandparents more, to put my phone away when friends are around the table, and to hug just a little bit longer and tighter.

But just as all roses have thorns, love can be a close companion to loss.

Maybe, like me, if you find your birthday to be gracefully played in a minor key this year, this poem is for you.

Must birthdays still arrive for the grown and weathered?
For those who have lived a weary year?
For those who have cursed the day of their birth 
And who live their days in tears?

Are they not for the children of innocence,
Who are not yet ensnared by grief?
I suppose as I blow out my candles
I'll wish to recapture naivety. 

If it were a friend to be celebrated 
I'd let the wine and oil overflow.
I'd spare no expense and give myself no rest
For them to feel valued and known. 

Maybe I'm just a bit cynical. 
I'm feeling nostalgic again.
How could all that I've loved and lost
Be restored in the years ahead?

But I've heard a seed must die
Before it begins to sprout.
I guess that explains
What the 23 flowers are all about. 

Maybe God was on to something 
When he formed me from the dirt.
Maybe he wanted to plant a garden on May 21st. 

Gracie xx

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When you feel lost and disoriented, far away from home and unable to come back, I pray you’d feel shamelessly secure as you are lifted and carried through the darkest valleys by the breath of the Lion of Judah, which you will find to be resilient as iron nails and tender as a mother’s embrace.

In the midst of confusion and uncertainty, I pray you’d see the Good Shepherd one step ahead of you, clearing your path of all hindrances and debris with one hand and ever cleaving to yours with the other. He will lead you to green pastures and still waters and show you what truly matters. His eyes are locked on you even when yours are not locked on him.

In the midst of thunderstorms within your soul, I pray that heaven’s breeze would lift you above the clouds and teach you to dance in fields of flowers about the skies. And that in time, you may find the rain to be a companion that enriches the soil of your soul, from which will sprout endless bouquets of wild lavender for others to glean from.

In the midst of change and disappointment, I pray you’d have the courage to let your paintbrush and pen assist you in expressing your pain to the Man of Sorrows grieving beside you. And that one day, even if not today, you’d realize that he truly is good and is good to you, and that nothing is wasted when given to his redeeming hands.

Cheers,

Gracie xx

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In a season where so much is coming to life, there are times when I feel like I’m dying inside.

Springtime is my favorite season, perhaps because it feels like a resurrection of sorts. However, I must admit that there have been moments when the glaring sun and warbling birds seem to mock me.

“Get up and out of your grief,” they say as a little child who wants me to come out and play with them. “The earth is warm, and the grass is green once again. Your rose bush is pregnant with buds. Come forget your troubles and frolic about with us.”

I hold back tears and wince in pain.

Grief is like a cloud that can cast a shadow on even the most beloved aspects of life.

But I suppose it doesn’t have to.

The rebel in me is learning to defy this inclination to view the world alone through grief-stained lenses. To quote Dietrich Bonhoeffer, “We need not despise happiness simply because there is so much unhappiness.”

I’m learning to sit on my front porch and have a good cry, in the sunshine, right in front of the flower bed.

And I realize, it’s not my lavender’s fault that I feel this way.

I’ll talk with God for a while or simply sit there with him in silence. People often struggle with the silence of God, yet sometimes I only need to know he’s sitting beside me, weeping tears of his own. I’ve had much to say to him recently, and I’ve found him to be a fabulous listener, only communicating back when he knows I’m ready for him to speak and bottling my tears in between.

Then I’ll write him a poem, or I’ll thank him for making the grass my favorite color, and I still may be weeping, but I’ll feel a little lighter. Our grief demands to be heard (or read), and I’ve found no better person to talk to about grief than the Man of Sorrows himself, whether that be by my mouth or my pen.

“The Grace of Grief”

Grief is such a fickle thing.
One day, it seems you're well and fine
And the next, you're raising your fists to the skies. 
Or maybe, like me, you put your pen to a page
To express to God your confusion and rage. 
How could this happen?
Do you hear a reply?
I haven't yet, 
So I guess I'll go write. 
I don't have the courage to admit I'm not content,
But hallelujah, there's a God to be wrestled with. 
So pick up your weapon, 
Whether paintbrush or pen, 
Camera, clay, or violin.
Shout to the heavens your questions, your pain - 
I promise you won't be met with disdain. 
In our own suffering, we are given this grace -
That he shares with us the tears on our face. 
But, for now, we offer our portrait and poetry,
Knowing this isn't how it will always be.
He accepts our offering as a Creator
Who knows that when we create, we run 
From chaos to order. 
It seems he designed our drooping hearts
To be mended and healed through the making of art. 
So, if we are going to experience the soul's darkest night, 
We might as well pick up a pen and make it rhyme. 

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Navigating the underground system came back to me like muscle memory. In many ways, it seemed as though I had never left.

It felt like coming back to Narnia again.

A place filled with wonder, beauty, and, dare I say, magic.

My first day was filled with seeing all my favorite places again. Cafe Nero, Big Ben, the lions of Trafalgar Square, pictures with one of my best London mates at Tower Bridge and reading the Psalms in St. James Park.

I felt joie de vivre infusing my veins anew.

May had dawned on the city. Color invaded the atmosphere once more. Wisteria adorned the gates of Kensington, and the sun emblazoned the palace of Westminster. The laughter of lovers filled the grounds of Regent’s Park, and the breeze kissed my skin as I walked about beholding the effervescent tulips in the gardens of Embankment. Sparkles filled my eyes as I saw delicate first editions of Paradise Lost in a bookstore on Cecil Court and the intricate mosaics in Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The sunset on Westminster Bridge across from Big Ben made me feel satisfied enough to never travel anywhere else again.

The world seems more radiant in London.

I seem more radiant in London.

Even more so, I enjoyed reuniting with friends I haven’t seen in far too long. People who have invested in me from a continent away and blocked out time to share a meal with me, even though we haven’t physically seen each other in over a year and a half. People who I know care even through the distance and who have poured love, wisdom, and an overabundance of grace into my soul. People who help me see for myself what I’m capable of and who are confident in me when I am not. I have fallen in love with London, but it’s the people within that make it magical.

Though I got to see some of my old friends and experience beauty in ways that I haven’t in many months, it was quite bittersweet. After living in London for three months in 2024, coming back for two weeks felt like returning to a house that you used to call home and not being able to claim it as your own. It felt wrong being a tourist. Seeing the people I love dearly was heartwarming and joyful but also bereaving. I felt deeply content, yet I longed intensely for this contentment to continue. After planting such deep roots and relationships in this city, my heart has never felt completely whole. I’ve felt quite divided in my soul, in my longings, in my purpose. Half of me is in the UK, the other half in America.

But in the past two weeks, it felt like all of me was in London.

My whole heart in one place.

My roots deep in the ground where I was planted.

Fully present and blooming.

I suppose I’m living in this tension of being content with not being content. This feeling of having two feet in two countries. This tightrope of being fully present where I am in time and space while also considering where God might be directing my heart in love and longing.

Reflecting on this trip has been a waltz between grief and hope. I’ve been tossed between feeling grateful and wistful.

I must admit, the desire in me to return is louder than the Northern Line.

The experiences I have had and don’t want to forget about this trip are also experiences with which I want my life to be filled.

I don’t want to forget listening to a friend play the Interstellar theme song on the piano in a small flat in East London, nor do I want to forget hearing Big Ben chime every fifteen minutes from a friend’s flat in Central London.

I don’t want to forget strangers calling me “love” and the friendly baristas at Blank Street who made my lemon matcha and complimented me on my American accent.

I don’t want to forget the walk around Finchley with a new friend late at night, admiring the Edwardian homes while discussing books that have changed our lives and how art has been a companion to us in the healing of grief.

I don’t want to forget the vibrant, youthful roses, the talented street musicians, and the view from Primrose Hill that made me feel as though I could grasp the city in my two small hands.

I never want to forget the little details that make London feel like home, such as the tiny teaspoons, Weetabix, corner pubs, clotted cream, Waterstones, “mind the gap,” and a properly made flat white.

I don’t want to forget it, and I don’t want it to end.

There is wonder and beauty to be uncovered, noticed, and absorbed wherever I am on God’s green earth, whether in England or the US. Everywhere, there are people to be loved and people to be loved by.

The whole earth is full of opportunities to show mercy, to create beauty, and to proclaim the good news that Love Himself has entered into the cosmos and dressed Himself in our skin. I pray I don’t lose sight of those things, no matter where I am on the planet.

I don’t know what the future holds, nor do I know sometimes what I want it to hold. I’ve learned to be surprised by God and not to prescribe him my own agenda, for his surprises mortify my greatest expectations.

Cheers,

Gracie xx

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On this side of the counter
I pull the shots and make your drink.
I smile when I take your order 
And try not to forget your name. 

And when I sweep the floors
I pretend I'm Cinderella.
In the best way possible, 
I glorify all my dilemmas. 

And on this side of the counter
Some days I try not to cry.
Gotta keep it all together
Even though I had a panic attack last night.

And I've met so very many people
Here to work, study, talk, or read.
I'm grateful to have a little window
Into their battles and their dreams. 

On this side of the counter,
You wouldn't see it, but I pray. 
There's a lot that's on my mind
And someone I miss every day. 

On this side of the counter, 
I clock in to the main event. 
I know I only make your matcha,
But I hope you see me as your friend. 

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My life is a poem
That I'm living line by line.
I don't always understand the metaphors
Or how they will make sense in time. 

My life is a poem
Written in pastels
On a coffee-stained page in a clothbound book-
Its words are my very cells.

My life is a poem
Which tells me there's a Poet.
I'm often angry at how he writes,
But I find more peace as I get to know him. 

My life is a poem
Some lines I wish I could repeat
Like the ones of you and me in 2023
Laughing under cherry blossoms in the spring.

My life is a poem, 
Much better than it should be,
Because the One who holds the pen
Has had great mercy on me. 

My life is a poem 
That intersects with others.
I hope one day we can fill in the blanks
And rhyme again with one another. 

My life is a poem,
And it has many readers.
I hope they keep me in their pocket.
And read me when they need comfort. 

My life is a poem
That I know one day will end.
Yet in fields of wild lavender
I know it will begin again. 

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I woke up in the middle of the night in a panic. In less than a split second, a tornado of anxious thoughts swirled through my brain. The faint streetlights out my window help me see the silhouette of houses down the street, but the darkness of the night seemed to exalt the fears that I carried with me during the day. I stared at my ceiling and determined whether or not I should distract myself with my phone or try to fall back asleep - I didn’t want to fight the what-ifs in my head.

What if I don’t find a secure job to support myself?

What if family and friends don’t agree with certain decisions I make?

What if people I love keep walking away from the Lord?

Our fears can be magnified in the physical darkness of the night, and it’s much harder to bring hope, truth, and light into these moments when our thoughts are dark. Even as adults, we can sometimes struggle with being afraid of the dark. It can be overwhelming to feel the weight of our worries and concerns when most of them are out of our control. Often, I’m up for hours during the night, trying to sort out the worries in my head, but for most of them, I can’t. There’s no way for me to know what will happen to the prodigals in my life, or how people will react to decisions I make, or what my next steps are. I wonder where hope is for these moments that seem so dark, cold, and uncertain.

I know I’m not the only one who struggles with the lack of sleep due to the spiral of anxious thoughts. During the night, there’s nothing we can see to distract us, so we revert to what we can’t see in our mind, which can sometimes be worst-case scenarios, concerns for the future, or fears of rejection and loneliness.

Maybe you’re an expecting, first-time parent, feeling ill-equipped for how you will provide for, protect, and train your child. Maybe you’re a graduating college student, clueless about what the future holds. Maybe you’re someone who keeps up with the news and is saddened by the injustices portrayed in the headlines. Maybe you’re the parent or friend of someone who is walking down the broad road of destruction, feeling unsure and out of control of whether or not they will turn back to Jesus.

During the night, there’s nothing we can see to distract us, so we revert to what we can’t see in our mind, which can sometimes be worst-case scenarios, concerns for the future, or fears of rejection and loneliness.

There are plenty of anxieties that we are struggling with in the late hours of the night, no matter what age or stage of life we may be in. Though the darkness and anxiety are plentiful, there is greater comfort, hope, and light that we can experience because of Christ.

One of the truths in Scripture that we can hold onto when we are up in the middle of the night is that Jesus is with us and promises to comfort us. During the dark of night, it is easy to feel alone in our thoughts and fears. We feel like nobody else is up at the time that we are, struggling with the fears that we have. Though we can certainly find comfort in knowing other people struggle with these fears, we can find better comfort knowing that Jesus is with us and knows what it’s like to struggle through anxious thoughts. Matthew 26:36-37 states, “Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, ‘Sit here, while I go over there and pray.’ And taking with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he began to be sorrowful and troubled.” The night before Jesus was crucified, he experienced fear about going to the cross. Knowing he would be forsaken by his Father, he felt the full weight of knowing he would ultimately be alone on the cross so that we never will ultimately be alone. Knowing that Judas would betray him, he felt the sorrow that comes with having someone you love reject the gospel. In the middle of the night, he felt alone, forsaken, and troubled.

Knowing that he would be forsaken by his Father, Jesus felt the full weight of knowing he would ultimately be alone on the cross so that we will never be alone.

When we struggle with feeling alone in our anxieties in the middle of the night, we can remember that Jesus too felt what it’s like to be up for hours in the darkness with some of the same feelings that we have. Because he felt the loneliness and darkness of this world in full on the cross, we can know that we will never have to experience loneliness and darkness to the extent that he did. We know that he understands our feelings of loneliness and darkness. Hebrews 4:15 states, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” When we know that he is with us and knows what it’s like to be in our shoes, we experience the comfort that he promises. Jesus felt the deepest darkness for us, and because of that, he is with us and can comfort us in our temporary darkness.

When we struggle with feeling alone in our anxieties in the middle of the night, we can remember that Jesus too felt what it’s like to be up for hours in the darkness with some of the same feelings that we have.

Another promise that we can claim during times of panic is that Jesus can work out the problems, fears, and tears we are processing in the middle of the night. Whether our fears surround our own lives or the lives of others, we can trust that Jesus is up in the middle of the night holding the whole world in his hands so that we can go to sleep. Psalm 3:5 states, “I lay down and slept; I woke again, for the LORD sustained me.” This verse shows that we can trust God to hold us and sustain us when we sleep. Not only can we trust him to sustain us while we sleep, but we can trust him to sustain the whole world while we sleep. He is in control of all things, and we are not, and that is a good and gracious truth. Because “He is before all things, and in him all things hold together,” we can trust him to hold together everything that we can’t (Colossians 1:17). Jesus can sustain the world much better than we can. He can love, judge, guide, provide, and protect us and others better than we can. Though often we think it is better to construct a plan of how we want things to work out, our best option is to trust our good God, who has an infinitely better plan than we ever could fathom, and go to sleep.

He is in control of all things, and we are not, and that is a good and gracious truth. Jesus can sustain the world much better than we can.

One of the most helpful promises in Scripture that has eased several of my fears during the night comes from Psalm 139:11-12. “If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.” What this verse conveys is that even in the middle of the night, when I’m panicking about the different anxieties that invade my head, I have a God who is not fazed by the darkness. Though the darkness is so dark to me, the darkness is not dark to him. Though my concerns are insurmountable to me, they are not insurmountable to him. Though I can’t see the path ahead, he can, and he is leading me. John 1:5 tells us, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” Yes, Jesus is with us in the darkness, and he knows what it’s like to struggle with fears alone in the darkness, but he is also the light that shines in the darkness, and he shines so bright that the darkest fears that we experience are no match for him. He sees through the darkness of wandering friends and family. He sees through the darkness of anxiety and depression. He sees through the darkness of uncertainty of the future. He sees through the darkness of sickness, pain, poverty, political upheaval, breakups, divorce, and death. Whatever darkness you are experiencing, Jesus is the light that overcomes that darkness that is so personal and seemingly isolating to you. Your darkness is not dark to him.

When we wake up in the middle of the night and struggle with bearing the burden of the cares of this life, we can know that Jesus is with us and understands us, that God is sovereignly working out our fears so that we can sleep, and that our darkest fears are not dark to God. We can trust that he shines brightest in the darkness and though we can’t see the road ahead, he will guide us with his light. Because of these truths, we can declare as David did in Psalm 4:8, “I will both lie down and sleep in peace; for you alone, Lord, make me live in safety.”

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No, I'm not where I want to be forever,
But that doesn't mean I shouldn't be here at all. 
Writing poetry while I'm supposed to be making lattes
And asking God that someday you would call.
Espresso shots are keeping me awake
On the days after the nights that you're in my mind
And sometimes all the longing I have in a given day
Can't be expressed on a guest check in a rhyme. 

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I try not to be too sentimental,
But I miss you, and it shows,
Sometimes loud, sometimes gentle. 
Today I woke up and saw snow out my window
And I remembered that day
Almost a year ago
When we took the dogs in the woods for a walk in the cold. 
It started snowing, and we got lost, and you told 
me that we were on a magical quest
To discover a fortress long forgotten in the past.
You created a story as miles we tread
Through mud and through ice - didn't know when it would end.
It was our own little Narnia, you dared to pretend-
I guess that's why I loved having you as a best friend.
You stopped halfway cause the yorkies were freezing,
So we zipped them in our coats and carried on with our journey.
And I know much has happened since that January day
When we got lost in the woods and eventually found our way.
But I miss you the most when it snows
And when I remember how we carried the puppies in our coats. 
I still have the picture we took in the woods 
And I look back on it and wonder how something so good
Could be taken away. 
So I miss you on this snowy day. 
And though this winter, my heart is broken and blue,
It brought me to Narnia, loving you. 

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I just need to sit with the baby boy in a manger.
I can't do all the pomp and circumstance;
If I'm honest, all the joy and happiness 
That accompanies the month of December
Is only something I remember 
Feeling in years gone by. 
Christmas carols make me want to cry,
But I know I'm not the only one with tears in my eyes 
Cause the baby boy in the manger too cried tears that Christmas night.
And I just want to sit with him and cry too
Over all the brokenness that I know he came to undo.
I don't feel all the tidings of comfort and joy,
But as I sit by the manger that holds the baby boy,
I can feel anguished, weary, and distressed.
I'd rather be there than at a party in a fancy dress
Surrounded by tinsel, sparkling lights, and impressive presents.
Maybe next year, the festivities will appeal to me.
But today, I want to feel the empathy of the stable
Cause this Christmas, I'm feeling quite unstable.

At the manger, I feel safe and seen
Regardless of how disenchanting it seems.
I need to sit and stare, for a while, at Hope
Wrapped in the swaddling clothes that shows
Hope may not come in the form you would expect.
It's not something that you would recognize.
You might even feel paralyzed 
For a while of the method by which God intends 
To make amends
For the wounds of despair.
Nobody would expect to find Hope there. 
So, when I look at the places in my life that resemble
Somewhere that I wouldn't expect God to be,
I remember he came to a stable.
Unfit for a king,
With no one but shepherds to sing his praises.
A place of discomfort and darkness,
The bleak midwinter spotlighting their loneliness.
Yet, that's where he loves to abide - 
In the places you wouldn't expect, He delights
To give us hope that he will mend the bruised reeds,
And he does exceedingly and abundantly above all we could conceive,
And he does this through the baby in the swaddling clothes.
We need only look at the baby boy in the manger to see there is Hope. 

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The narrow way is often lonely. 
It's a way so narrow that there's often only room for one. 
It's a way of loss and grief.
One must often be prepared and even expect 
For others to fall off the path, 
Even their dearest beloved ones. 
Sometimes the narrow way turns into a tightrope,
Where it feels as though death is within an inch on either side. 
Rarely do you see others on the same path,
And when you do, you often see them walking ahead or behind,
At a different speed, resting at different intervals -
Even more scarce is there anyone to walk beside. 
How many are your foes
And how few are your friends. 
How loud is the voice of discouragement 
And how faint the voice of hope. 
The narrow way looks like a man, bloodied and beaten, 
Heaving a wooden cross up the hill of the skull. 
Forsaken by all, mourned by few. 
So that even when the narrow way feels lonely 
And the comforts of being known and loved feel lost,
We won't ultimately be left on our own. 
For there is One who can fit within us along the path, 
That can never leave nor forsake us. 

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He will reach you before you reach him, and he will unashamedly call you his child once again and adorn you with a ring and a robe. Today is a great day for a homecoming.

“All My Mistakes”

Do all my mistakes that keep me up in the middle of the night
Keep you up too?
You're a God who never sleeps-
Are you up thinking about all my mistakes?
Or is that just me?
"I'm sorry," confessionally flows from my lips 
As I'm trying to get a better grip on repentance.
I don't like coming to you unclean,
And I'd almost rather you be mean 
Because that is what's familiar.

But what is this grace?
It's foreign. It's free. Is it safe?
You don't reimburse me for my wrongdoing.
You give me your righteousness in this great undoing 
Of taking off my flesh and dressing me again
With a robe that signifies sonship without end.
All my mistakes cannot stop your work of redemption.
I cannot erase your blueprints of restoration
Even if I tried. Your work continues despite
All the ways on myself I've relied.
I keep wondering if I messed up the plan,
Yet you knew all my mistakes before time began.
Yours is a never-ending ocean of mercy 
That I'll never sail to the end of even in eternity.

You're not surprised by all my mistakes,
And you always come running to give me an embrace 
That melts away all fear and shame. 
You never let my failures go to waste. 
Before I even thought about coming home,
You decided to, with yourself, atone
By offering your blood on my behalf 
So that I could look at you as my dad
And come crying for assurance in the night-
That I'm yours, that I'm forgiven, that you'll make my faults right.
There's freedom in resting in your grace
Because you're bigger than all my mistakes. 

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I love the feeling of sudden inspiration
in a coffee shop or when I notice the raindrops 
on a brisk and brilliant October day. 

I love the smell of chocolate chip cookies,
freshly baked from my grandma's oven,
beckoning loved ones in to sit and stay awhile. 

And I love the animation of the city life-
everyone on a mission, 
everyone from somewhere different.
The street musicians, the painters, the writers,
all glorious strangers yet to be discovered. 

I love learning to play my favorite songs on the piano.
from the La La Land soundtrack to worship songs, it brings me joy to imitate, 
to the best of my ability, the artistic endeavors of those who create.

I love, love, LOVE lavender.
And how it reminds me of tranquility, gentleness, and authenticity-
all things we need more of in this world of hostility. 

I love how the mountains remind me of how small I am and how big God is. 

I love how a disposable film camera adds a retro-romantic caliber to each snapshot.
A combination of nostalgic imperfections and endearing grain that highlight the
aesthetics of the people I love most in the world. 

I love watching cream elegantly spiral into a jar of cold brew, taking away some of the 
bitterness, adding a touch of sweetness, making it not so dark, kind of like love when
it infuses us. 

I loved my dog, and still do, and always will. I loved walking him around the neighborhood, feeling his golden fur, and knowing he was always there at home.
It's ok to love things, animals, and people that you no longer have with you. 

I love walks, through parks, through cities, through my former college campus. Recollecting memories and people I used to walk with through those places and praying I'd see them again soon.

I love books and stories. Specifically, those that have quite a hopeless plot to begin with. The kind that makes you think "there's no way out of this mess."
Yet at the end, there's some sort of loophole.
Some sort of unexpected redemption and reconciliation that makes it the best story you've ever read.
And you find, in some way, you can relate to it.

I love piggyback rides. 

I love kisses on the cheek and long embraces that get tighter towards the end. 
I love being pulled in for a second one again 
and hearing your heartbeat while resting on your chest. 

I love it when you call me. Whether you're laughing or struggling.
Whether I'm crying or you're crying. 
I love reminding you of how loved you are, and when you do the same for me. 

I love poetry and how it can change you in a way that words simply said cannot. 

I love morning light, and navy blue, and binding my own books, and the number 22.

I love sticky toffee pudding, Big Ben, and oh, how I'd love to go to London again!

I love the smile of a kind, homeless man, who is grateful for a cup of hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin, though he has nothing else.

I love songs that you have to listen to eleven times to find the meaning of. And I love listening to them with you. Come to think of it, I love doing anything with you. 

And I love the feeling of accomplishment and gratitude after writing a poem about things that I love. 

Thank you to Tanner Olsen for inspiring me to write a poem about the things I love. It was such a joy to write this poem, and I know it would be for you, even to just list out things that you love and are thankful for!

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It’s not something that any of us wants to take the time to do.

It’s messy. It’s gutsy. It’s honest. It’s full of weeping and recognizing the reality of hard things in our lives. It takes energy and time. It takes humility and a willingness to confront our idea that we are “too much.”

Recently, I was in a zoom meeting with some other writers in which we talked about the process of writing out prayers of lament. It was encouraging for me to be reminded that God wants to hear from us in “our actual voice about our actual lives.” He doesn’t want us to hide our tears from him.

Lament is a messy, weird, unparalleled process of bringing our sorrows to the one who himself endured the worst possible suffering to eventually turn our bottled tears into wine.

Almost every morning, I’ve been starting my day journaling with the words “How long, O God?” Sometimes these words lead to a poem about ways that I’m waiting for God to act. Some mornings I write more specifically than others, but this poem below speaks of the general theme of lament and waiting. We all have specific and personal ways that we are waiting for God to show up in our lives. Maybe it’s a hand that you’re waiting to hold again, a womb that you’re waiting to be filled with life, an ailment of which you’re waiting to be healed, a hope that you’re waiting to be fulfilled, a joy that you’re waiting to be restored.

This poem is honest, raw, and gutsy. It’s for those who know that lament is a messy, weird, unparalleled process of bringing our sorrows to the one who himself endured the worst possible suffering to eventually turn our bottled tears into wine.

How long, O God,
Will I wake up to the same reality,
The shattered pieces on the floor glaring up at me?
Every day, every morning, nothing's changed.
All my great expectations have been rearranged.
I know your mercies are new every morning,
But so, every morning, I awake to new suffering. 
Louder than my cries rings your silence 
Heralding what feels like your haunting absence.
Even in rest, there is no reprieve,
For I'm reminded of my agony even in my dreams. 
Prayer feels like a waste of my time - 
How long, my Father, till you turn my bottled tears into wine?
My fears are ever attached to me, 
Eating away at my flesh like a malignant accessory. 
My love swells within me with nowhere to vent.
It ferments into grief poured out in the ink of my pen. 
How long, O God, it feels you've been gone. 
How long till the dark night fades into a merciful dawn?

-gs

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I have such a little life.
I often wonder where God is
In the coffee shops
And when the floors need mopped-
Is the mundane where he lives?

I have such a little life
And sorrows only known to me.
When my world unravels
The earth still revolves
And I wonder if I'm seen. 

I have such a little life
Full of little blissful moments.
I wonder if He smiles at me
When I bring him my jubilee
Over lavender flowers and poems.

I have such a little life,
And I wonder where it's going.
I question my impact 
When I don't see any aftermath
Of all my little doings.

I have such a little life,
And I'm such a little lady.
Yet I've made big mistakes
That I wish I could erase
But maybe they serve a bigger story.

I have such a little life,
And it could be all I'll ever have. 
But maybe the little moments 
Will really be the big moments 
One day when I look back. 

-gs

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Interceding. Submitting. Surrendering. Interceding. Waiting. Worshiping. Interceding.

This is the bulk of what my prayer life has looked like recently. Yes, lots of interceding, I know. You may think that there are some missing elements of prayer in this list, and I agree that there are. I’ve been wrestling with the Lord daily and bringing my requests to him, but I’ve struggled to come boldly to the throne of grace. I’ve been hesitant to fully cast my cares on him. And likely because of this, I’ve struggled to experience hope and thanksgiving while praying.

I know the truth of God is greater than what I feel in my heart, and I’m thankful for that. I need that. But often it can feel daunting to wait for God’s response while my requests feel urgent. If he doesn’t answer today, it feels as though he never will. Sometimes, while praying, it can feel as though God wants me to ask him for things that he never intends to give me, like it’s some kind of mind game. Yet I know God doesn’t play games - though Satan does. God wants me to come to him with my deepest desires. His heart is to give me good things, truly good things. He doesn’t withhold any ultimately good thing from me. Yet I still battle my false feelings and spiritual warfare while praying.

I know the truth of God is greater than what I feel in my heart, and I’m thankful for that. I need that.

Maybe it’s because I want to hold on to my requests that I can’t experience the hope of surrendering them to Christ. Surely, when I take my desires and put them into the hands of the Creator, he can create better out of them than I ever could. Yet I struggle with the concept of surrendering and praying with hope and confidence. I’ve always seen the two to be at odds. I’ve seen people pray boldly without surrendering the outcome to the Lord, and I’ve also seen people pray with such submission that they don’t even seem to have any assurance that God will answer and come through for them (I typically lean towards the latter).

I know God doesn’t play games - though Satan does.

But maybe surrendering is the greatest act of faith and hope within prayer. I guess they don’t have to be at odds against one another. Praying boldly and praying with surrender may just be the same thing. I want it to be done in my way, along my timeline (which is always sooner rather than later). But God often seems to take us on a journey along with our requests, and I’m never looking for a journey - I’m looking for an answered prayer. But maybe the journey is greater than the answered prayer, and maybe it doesn’t exclude it. I can trust him enough to surrender my plans with hope, knowing his will always exceeds mine.

There are also times when I’m plagued with guilt and shame of my sin before God when I begin praying. Satan accuses me often when I come to the throne of grace, reminding me of how I don’t deserve to come before God because of my sin, even after I’ve confessed and repented of it. And how he could never grant my requests because of my sin. It’s a battle not to listen to the accuser when he reminds me of past regrets and mistakes. “Remember that one time when you (fill in the blank)? Why would God answer or even hear any of your prayers after that?” During those moments, it’s toughest to remember that I’m coming to a throne of grace. Yet it’s oh so freeing when I’m able to grasp that.

If there is no condemnation for those in Christ, I think I ought to pray like it.

It may be because I remember my sin so vividly that I struggle to pray boldly, with faith and confidence. I forget and need to be reminded that God does not remember my sin, and he has set it as far as the east is from the west (Psalm 103:12). Matthew Henry, in his commentary, writes of Psalm 103:12, “The sins of believers shall be remembered no more, shall not be mentioned unto them; they shall be sought for and not found.” If there is no condemnation for those in Christ, I think I ought to pray like it.

I suppose underneath it all is the importance of understanding the character of God. Maybe it’s not so much dissecting how to pray but dissecting the character of the One I’m praying to. If I know I’m praying to a forgiving God who doesn’t remember my sin, I will come with confidence and thanksgiving to the throne of grace. If I know I’m praying to a God who wants good things for me, I’ll pray in submission, knowing he ultimately knows what is best for the outcome. If I know God loves me and hears me and wants me to come to him with all my thoughts and desires, I will pray knowing that my prayers are important to God. If I know that God can do exceedingly and abundantly above all that I can ask or think, I’ll pray big, hope-filled prayers, knowing that he can do the impossible.

Prayer helps us know what our deepest desires are, where our hope lies, where our help comes from, and what we were made for. We understand ourselves and our God more when we pray, and there’s a bit of Eden in that.

Joan Didion once said, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” And writing about prayer certainly helps me name my struggles with prayer and where they are coming from. But I also think similarly that prayer helps us know what our deepest desires are, where our hope lies, where our help comes from, and what we were made for. We were made to pray. We were made to be in communion with the God who deeply desires intimacy with us. We were made to walk with him just as Adam and Eve did in the garden, closely and frequently, throughout the heat of the day and in the cool of the night. And when we pray, we are getting closer to that sweetness that we were created for. We know ourselves better when we pray, and we are closer to what we as humans were created for. We understand ourselves and our God more when we pray, and there’s a bit of Eden in that.

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If only I could've changed the tides
Or known the helm was out of line-
No, no, it wouldn't help me sleep at night.

If I could find the one grain of sand
That would help me understand-
No, no, it wouldn't satisfy my mind.

If I could discover a ship lost at sea
Maybe I could better perceive-
No, no, it wouldn't help my sight.

If I could appease the hurricane,
I'd be thrown overboard to keep you safe-
No, no, I have to trust you'll be all right.

Maybe if I looked up beyond 
To find the rays of the setting sun,
I'd find myself already in the path of its light. 

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I wrote this poem as a result of studying the life of Jacob. I needed to remind myself that God uses imperfect people, weak people. He gives his grace to people who “don’t seek it, continually reject it, and often don’t appreciate it after they get it,” as Tim Keller says. I often need to remind myself that God can still use me even though I am far from perfect. He can redeem my mistakes, my imperfections, and my weaknesses, and even use them for good.

Mistakes are no match for his grace. He uses willing vessels, not perfect ones.

Hey Jacob, did you ever feel
That your father's love for you wasn't real?
Did you crave it so much
That you were willing to give up yourself
To dress up like someone he would love?

Hey Jacob, did you ever regret
Not being at your mother's deathbed?
Did you run away to find satisfaction
Only to find more manipulation
With Leah in Rachel's stead?

Hey Jacob, did you ever think 
You and your brother would ever meet again,
But this time around, as friends? 
Maybe relationships can be restored 
And hardened hearts be radically transformed. 

Hey Jacob, when you wrestled with the Lord 
How did you not give up the fight?
He stayed to help you trust him in the night.
It gives me hope that I can wrestle too
And he'll stay with me through the night,
Like he did with you. 

Hey Jacob, did you ever guess
You would have a favorite son too?
As much as you were a mama's boy
You followed in your father's choice,
But it didn't change God's patience toward you. 

Hey Jacob, your whole life was quite a mess (kinda like mine).
You'd do anything for love, even make mistakes. 
But I'd be lying if I said that I can't relate. 
Though we've both taken matters into our own hands,
He's never let us ruin his good and gracious plans. 

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