one speck in an organized world
one dot in a blank page
one note in a symphony
one pulse in a living being

your mind stirs like a galaxy in a bowl
ceramic, clattering, the war of two worlds
you are inside one, slipping out the other
inside you go after a ticket into your mind

brighter, brighter you will gather and
harness the energy built inside you
becoming a magnet of beauty and hope
until the strings of space pull taut

there are crashes, are there not?
failed explorations and uncharted destinations
the debris of doubt floats idle in your head
but they are always cleared in the end

footsteps land on foreign planets
flags break its stiff desolate ground
radios program crackling laughter
hearts are raised, millions of lightyears away

the cosmos is indefinitely infinite
but you will make your mark
in between gaps of clouds and dust and rocks
floating in a celestial oasis

here and there


her heart in your hands

her heart in your hands

Oh look there's another one. 

A female.

Immediately my mind seeks out every single thing wrong with her.
Her face is too round. Her eyes are... what is wrong with them? Ah yes, they're too large for her face. Her nose is squat. Her hair looks terrible like that. 

And that dress?? As if I would EVER wear anything that short. And to church?
Gosh is she terrible. 

And her legs don't even look that good. 
She's really kind of fat.
I bet she's really a terrible person and she's only coming to Mass because she has to. 
Wow good thing I'm not like her. 

three seconds
that's all it took

to dissect a person
lay them bare

three words
that's all it took

to pass it on
look at her

three seconds

that's all you need

to decide who's worthy
who is dirt

three words
that's all it takes

to stop the murder
you look pretty

three seconds

is all she needs

to see the
in your eyes

this has to stop.
I have to stop.

we have to stop.

she is our sister.

and we are slowly killing her.

every female we see from newborn to dying is our sister and we are digging a knife into her heart

we are forcing her hand to the knife that will pierce her own skin
we are handing the gun to her trembling hand,
we are tying the noose.

for God's sake stop this madness before it's too late.

dear friend,
what you just read is not pretty. it isn't funny, it isn't a joke, and you probably know it.
what you read is my own thoughts.
and i'm not condemning anyone, i'm admonishing myself.
i'm sharing this because this mutual disgust and critical eye women seem have for each other needs to stop.  

we are women. we are beautiful and we are bold and we are fearless. we are protective and gentle and loving.
but we are powerless when it comes to another person dissecting us and uncovering us and ridiculing us. 
so why be the hand that gives the weapon when you can be the one to throw it away and save the heart that's dying.


Just Think About It

Just Think About It

    You are a writer.

     No, I'm not.

     Yes, you are. If not with pen and paper, keys and computer, then with your words and actions, heart and soul.

     I can't tell a story.

     Yes, you can. You are an infinitely complex person with something wonderful to explore within yourself every day. God knows every tiny piece of you and your story. Even better, He understands it.

     My story won't make any sense.

     It doesn't have to make sense. Trust God to work in those details and decisions. He is behind every chapter, turning heartbreak into holiness.

     My story won't be any good.

     "God created mankind in his own image...God blessed them...and it was very good" (Genesis 1:27-28, 31 [emphasis added]).

     My story may be good, but it isn't worth telling.

     When you have something wonderful, it's not normal to keep it to yourself. You share it. You spread it. You want others to know about this news that has changed you. Let your heart be open to the beauty that can come from telling others. It may just

     You're embarking on the greatest today you have ever known.

     Just think about it.




Have you ever finished a book and simply sighed in a moment of reverence because the story you had just read took your breath away? It was so wonderful and enchanting and deep and real that you would much rather be immersed in the world it presented than in the world you find yourself in.

The truth is that you are immersed in a story just like that.

Your own.

Your story, regardless of the amount of conflict, the antagonists and protagonists, the plot twists, and the resolutions, is worthy to be called a classic, an epic in the library of the world.

Because of that, today is a day for celebration.
You are unique, and your uniqueness is one the greatest reasons for joy there is.
The way you sing, your eye color, your Africa-shaped birthmark, your accent, your ideals, the jokes you laugh at and tell, your values, your tastes—the list continues for miles. You are a beautiful combination that no other person can claim.
As an avid book-lover, I find my heart melting at the mention of my favorite books, characters, and authors. Finding someone else who celebrates the same things makes enjoying them even more fulfilling.
Today, let me be your companion as we fan-girl (or fan-boy) over your story. The book is your amazing, intricate, beautiful life--the heroine is you, surrounded by your supporting characters, or possibly in your case, victorious over many villains--and the author is God, the lover of your soul. I once read this quote, and it struck me so deeply with its simple and yet profound message: "The Bible is the only book where the author is in love with the reader." Your story is the same way.
I encourage you, my dear friend, to love your story. I promise I know how hard that is, but in turning your love toward your own story and not just the enticing stories of others, you begin to learn how truly breathtaking your own story really is.


We are...

We are...

This post is a simple reminder of who we are as God's children.  

We are stunning beings modeled after the Creator of the Universe.

We are people who were thought of before the stars were placed in the sky.

We are perfectly whole through Him who loved us.

We are justified through the blood of our Saviour.

We are free to live without chains of bondage.

We are affirmed by God the Father.

We are safe in the knowledge of knowing that He is able to guard what we have entrusted to Him until that day.

We are each given a unique purpose.

We are called to be different.

We are forgiven; daily, freely, again and again, and again.

And we are loved. So, so loved; infinitely, boundlessly, freely and eternally.

We matter. We matter. We matter.


who we are

who we are

Who we are ≠ what we do. 


Who we are is very simple - what we do is complicated. (Don't misunderstand me ... what we do is beautiful, needed, unique, creative, passionate, important, life-giving ... but complicated.)

Who we are - our identity - is loved. Good. Made holy by the grace of God alone. Forgiven. Full of light. 

But it is not the same thing as what we do. Who we are does not change whether we scale creative highs or get stuck in the slumps. Who we are is not the author, the dreamer, the artist, the failure, the winner, the published novelist, the girl who can't get past the first chapter, the sick, the better-than, the healed, or the lost. 

This is something that is hard for me. I like to stack up my winnings and my failures in two neat lists, and if the first line is longer than the second, then I am good. I am doing things right. I am worth something. I am A Good Person. You might even feel a little intimidated by me, and you should, because I am awesome (just look at my list!)
But if the second line is longer than the first, instantly, I adopt those failings as my identity. Who I am is the girl who didn't get 100% on her assignment. Who I am becomes the number on the page, the 75% or the 57%, with wide-open gaps in all the places I failed to succeed. Who I am quickly becomes the girl who has a dusty Bible on her nightstand. I am the closed laptop and the list with all the boxes unchecked. I am the alarm that blares when you least want to hear it and I am the energy I don't have to make breakfast in the morning.

And so I live in this flip flop where what I do determines who I am, and I spend a lot of time seasick, stuck somewhere in the center of it all, riding the waves as I wait to see whether the odds will end up in my favour today.
I am only just starting to learn that this is not the way it is supposed to work. I am bad bad bad at taking gifts without giving something in return, but I'm just beginning to figure out that I don't have to do anything to change my identity. I don't have to do anything to be good. I don't have to earn the right to hold my head up high - that is a privilege that has been freely given to me. Who I am - my identity, my life, my story has value and worth because it is a story of holiness that has been dropped on me like a blanket by Jesus. 

My story matters not because I have done great things, or helped lots of people, or because I don't swear or do go to church or check off any other number of so-called "list items". My story matters because Jesus says I matter; not because of what I've done, but because of who I am. 

And I want you to know that no matter who you are, or what you have or haven't done, or what kind of marks you get back on your assignments ... your story matters too. Not because of what you do, but because of who you are. 

Your story matters ... and we can't wait to hear it.

What's your story? Do you ever feel tempted to equate what you do with who you are? What raps you on the head and reminds you that you are holy because God made you holy?

Olivia (s)

you are not a machine

you are not a machine

you, like me, are probably tired.

i see your darkened eyes, your brittling bones, your wry smile that
spreads thinner and thinner.

i see your hungry heart, your hollowed ribcage, and the deep puddle that
you're about to collapse into.

i know your skipping heartbeat, the pain that jolts up your arm as you pound it
against the wooden desk to try again and again and again

i know your adrenaline going to waste because you're sitting through lectures,
taking those exams, working behind the counter, to no avail

i recognize your soul bursting because you're locked inside and you are
overworking yourself

but you will deny it because you, like me, still feel the desire to get things done
because you, like me, will not be contented with enough
because you, like me, would rather go down because you're tired than rest and rise again

but you aren't a machine, and that is the problem.

you are here and you are with me
we are flesh and blood and bone and belief and we still have life
we still have it inside us, curled up like a ball, and it won't let go

we are not rust and steel and cement and rot and death
we are not programmed to work day and night
we are not built of never ending grit

we are more than clockwork, more than rigorous timetables and schedules
we are breathing and sad and happy and mad at all the wrong and right times but that's fine

you, like me, probably need a break

so go for it.

then get back up again.