For When You Are Called Out of Comfort.

I woke up at 3am to the familiar sound of my alarm, telling me it was time to get up.

I opened my eyes and laid in the darkness of my room, clutching the white comforter that gently wrapped me in its warm grasp. I shut my eyes, made the sign of the Cross, and prayed. The first prayer I prayed was not, “Let’s do this, Lord.” Rather, it was a raw and honest, “Please don’t make me do this” with an added, “but if it is Your Will, let it be done.” I waited there, soaking in this moment of sweet and temporary comfort before I was cast into the depths of newness, uncertainty, the unknown and the uncomfortable. I laid there hoping for a way out—but there was none to be found.

There was a restlessness in my heart as I got out of bed and switched on the light. The Lord had really let me feel the comfort of being home, and yet it was all being taken away as He called me to a new state, a new mission, with few clothes, limited toiletries, and perpetually curly hair since my blow-dryer did not fit (though believe me, I tried). I did not want to leave—I wanted to stay here, in sunny California in the comfort of my home with the people I love most. I was finally just settling in after a long semester in the Ohio Valley, and yet, after a mere 3 weeks home, He was calling me onward once more.

I think for the first time, it hit me: we are not made for comfort. I’ve heard people say those words thousands of times, and I’ve nodded my head in objective agreement. I had never felt them for myself. But right here, right now, in the tension between comfort and mission, He was calling me to choose Him—and that meant rejecting comfort.

I could have let the suitcase that would not zip stop me. I could have let the freeway traffic bring me to turn back home. I could have let the anxiety within my heart be an unmovable obstacle. But for some reason, He was making it very clear to me that I was going to Wisconsin, to serve in the Diocese of Superior, and there was nothing that was going to prevent that from happening. His will was going to be done and I was not going to stop it.

He reminded me, Let not your heart be troubled or afraid. I am sending the Comforter of all comfort. I am filling you with power from on high—with power that is your inheritance. (John 14-16).

And with this, I crawled out of bed, made my way to the shower and let the warm water wash over me as I prayed over and over, “Come Holy Spirit—make me brave.” I got dressed, laid myself on top of my suitcase to zip it, grabbed my backpack, kissed my Dad and brother goodbye, got in the car with my Mom and sister, and took the 405 all the way to LAX at 4am. A tear rolled down my cheek, as my frustrated little heart begged Him to be my Comfort.

As a sign of His fidelity, He put the only 2 open seats on the whole plane right next to me. He gave me an opportunity to rest and pray and lean into Him in this time of discomfort. Over and over He repeated, “Baby, I got you.”

Finally, as the engine roared and the little white airplane carried me into the atmosphere, I was able to breathe in and say, “Jesus, I am trusting in You.”

I’m not sure why He calls us to things so out of our comfort zones, but I think that in the midst of all this, He takes us back to Gethsemane where He too prayed, “Father, if it be Your Will, let this cup pass from Me, yet not My Will but Yours be done.” Jesus was never comfortable—the Son of Man had nowhere to rest His Head. The apostles were never comfortable—they fought for the One they Loved until being put to a painful death. Our Mother was never comfortable—she watched her only begotten Son be treated with utmost cruelty only to watch Him struggle to breathe upon the Cross.

If then, we desire to serve Him boldly as these once did, why should we be comfortable?

I think great growth happens in the most uncomfortable situations when the only option is to stop resisting and to trust in the Maker of the Heavens. So when He calls you to this type of discomfort, my advice to you is to cling to Him with all that is within you, to crawl out of the comfortable bed that holds you, and to serve Him joyfully because that is exactly what you were made to do. It is what He needs most from you.

It is time to spread the Gospel. Remember that it is He who will provide you the grace and strength to do so. Be not troubled nor afraid—surrender your heart to His gentle and convicting Hands, and open your soul to receive the Comforter. He will not leave you orphan.

Faithful and true, steadfast and merciful, Comforter, Consoler, is the God whom we serve.

Claim Him who is your Eternal Comfort and cast your cares on Him, for He cares for you (1 Peter 5:7).

To the baby in the womb and the Mommy carrying her,

For as long as I can remember, a part of me has always felt a need to fight for you—both of you. I know a lot of people are fighting against you, and I wish that I could make that change right now at this moment.

Sweet Baby, I know that there’s a lot of different reasons that your mommy might be scared to bring you into this world.

Maybe you weren’t planned—the unknown is undoubtedly terrifying.

Maybe you were conceived in an act of violence or aggression—your mommy is grieving, violated, and suffering from psychological trauma.

Maybe your mommy is too young—she doesn’t know how she will be able to care for you or support you. It seems like her whole life has been turned upside down as her plans for college and her dream job come crumbling to the ground.

Maybe your daddy abandoned your mommy—she is feeling the depths of heartbreak and her fears seem to be coming true.

Maybe your mommy doesn’t have enough money—she wants to give you a better life but knows she simply cannot.

Maybe your mommy’s family and friends are not supporting her, maybe they’re telling her lies, maybe this is the only way she thinks she can maintain their love—she doesn’t know what to do and she feels forced by the only ones who have ever loved and supported her. She thinks that this must be the right solution.

Can you hear the sounds of their arguing? Do you hear the train of her thought going around and around in her mind? Can you feel the fast beat of her heart and the fear coursing through her veins? Do you hear the sound of her tears in the middle of the night?

Mommy’s been told to think she can’t raise you on her own. She’s been told that the only way to avoid the trauma is to get rid of you. She’s been lied to and told that this will solve the problems, that aborting you will allow her to have the life she has always dreamed of. She’s been told this is what real strength is, this is what real womanhood is.

But Mommy, let me tell you something.

I know there are a lot of voices building loudly around you.

Everyone has an opinion and everyone wants to share it.

Fear is gripping you right now as the world seems to come to a screeching halt before your eyes.

But did you know that this little life already loves you? She wants to fight this battle with you.

She hears your loud heartbeat and the sound of your breathing—she falls asleep to it every night.

She wants you to teach her to grow up strong and not to listen to those who tell her she’ll never be anything great.

She wants to teach you how strong you are.

She wants to remind you that you are capable of giving love and worthy of receiving it.

She wants to show you how beautiful things can be born out of darkness.

She wants to redeem your dignity and untangle the grief and lies.

She wants to hold your hand and tell you how much she loves you, to make up for the times that he never did.

She promises never to leave you.

She doesn’t care if you can only afford spaghetti-O’s for dinner, as long as she gets to eat them with you.

She doesn’t care how young you are—you’ll be her best friend regardless.

She wants to help you learn to love surprises.

She’ll be your cheerleader during all of those late nights studying and working.

She’ll give you hugs when you don’t think you’ll make it another day.

She’ll love you better than anyone else has, because if you choose her, she will always choose you.

You don’t need to be perfect because she won’t be either—you’re both human and bound to make mistakes.

I know there are a lot of uncertainties and what-ifs growing bigger and getting louder.

But if you sit for just one minute, silence the swirling thoughts, put one hand on your belly and another over your heart, you’ll hear the synchronized beating of your heart with hers.

And maybe, just maybe, that can be enough to remind you that in the midst of all this messy darkness, she is fighting for you.

And if she can fight for you, then maybe, just maybe, you’ll want to fight for her too.

Humble Lover.

The one phrase I haven’t been able to get out of my head is this: Christ is a humble lover. He is a Risen Lord who comes to us in ways that are hidden and humble—he doesn’t want to overwhelm us with his power or scare us away with his otherness. He contains His glory so that we are unafraid to approach him.

Jesus Christ rises from the dead, and yet his most beloved do not recognize him—how can this be?

I think Peter is the place to start.

A reflection on John 21:

Christ has been crucified. Peter has just denied him three times, and the last interaction he had with Him was a gaze—a gaze intercepted as He was chained up and led away to be scourged, a gaze blurred with tears while he wept for the way he had just rejected the only One who really knows and loves him.

He wanders far from the scene, back to the place where He first met the Humble Lover—the sea of Tiberias. It was here that Christ first called him to leave his nets and follow him. Peter sits on the shores, as the moonlight shadows across the rippling sea, drawing him back into the memories of His Sweet Lord. He remembers when He calmed the storm, when He called him out upon the waves and saved him as he nearly drowned. Tears rush to his eyes as he remembers Christ—his Savior, the One who loved Him, so gently, so sweetly, so fiercely. Regret and pain fill his every bone, coursing through his very veins.

He is jolted out of his memories as the others come and sit beside him. They remember the calling they first received here too. Peter, filled with sadness, gets up to go and do the one thing that he knows how to do—fish. The others follow.

The sea is silent, the wind is calm. They cast their nets time and time again, letting themselves be wholly taken by the mundane task that used to occupy their time. This was life before Christ, and this, they suppose, will be life after Christ. Yet they all wonder—could this really be the end?

Peter remembers when the empty nets were full, when the two fish and five loaves were multiplied to feed thousands. He sinks into deep grief—he doesn’t want his old life back. He wants His Lord. And yet, in this darkness, He cannot be found.

After hours of fishing, the dawn begins to break. Fruitless hours of labor have left the apostles tired and drained. Peter continues to think about these intimate moments He had with the Lord. This water had meant so much to him—Christ had meant so much to him.

He hears something in the distance that gently calls him back to reality—someone asks if they have caught any fish. The disciples mutter back, “No.” Peter expects the man to walk away, but instead, the man gives them direction to cast their nets on the right side of the boat.

His heart begins to burn. There is only one other person who has said this to him. Could it be…? But he is dead—he watched him bleed out upon the Cross. It’s impossible.

John watches Peter stare intently into the distance at the man who had spoken. John knows who it is. He walks over to Peter and touches his shoulder. Peter is jolted out of his trance; a single tear rolls down his cheek—he asks John what he wants.

“Peter,” John says gently, “it is Him. It is the Lord—the one we love.”

Peter stares into the eyes of young John, so full of faith. This is the confirmation he needed. Everything within him trembles at the words “it is Him” and he instantly throws himself into the very waters that first brought His Lord to him. He swims desperately, crying out, “Lord! It is You!! I am coming!” Peter reaches the shore and trembles as he runs out of the sea. He throws himself at the wounded feet of His Lord and cries out, “My Lord! My God! My Love! It is You! Forgive me! It is You whom I love!”

He weeps again, this time because He knows the Merciful Heart of the One who stands before him. He feels a gentle touch upon his cheek, a touch that lifts his downward face to enter into a gaze. The two look into each other’s eyes and understand. Mercy enters the soul of Peter, and the risen Lord is filled with joy at the returning of His Beloved. Peter and Christ weep and embrace.

The other disciples come to the shore bringing the fish. Christ, with his arm around Peter, smiles and embraces the others. He beckons them toward a fire with fish and bread and tells them to come and have breakfast. The apostles are shaken to their core—it is the Lord—and yet there is something different here.

The apostles gather around the fire, trembling and burning within, amazed that their Lord sits in their midst. They pray and He breaks the bread, and suddenly the newness they have felt is brought to Light as they recall the words, “Unless you eat my flesh and drink my blood, you do not have life within you.” The Glorious God draws his Most Beloved into the very moment in which He gave Himself to them in bread and wine—a humble Lover indeed.

His Risen Gaze touches their hearts—he does not walk in an aura of light, nor does he reveal Himself in a glorious way. He simply sits and breaks a piece of bread with the same Hands that held onto the Cross just three days ago.

How is it that His Beloved did not fully recognize the Risen Lord until now? It is because of this: His flesh is now hidden in Bread and Wine.

The Lord is not here—He has risen, and you can find Him humbly loving you in the greatest of all Meals. The Meal in which the Soul is kissed by what appears to be bread and washed by what appears to be wine, but is really the flesh and blood of the Humblest Lover.

Come—eat and drink, He desires full communion with you.

Who but Him?

Whose gaze other than His can make my body erupt in a symphony of chills, fill me with wonder and awe, and flood my heart with the iridescent light of His love?

Whose words other than His can speak life into the dead places of my heart, proclaim truth where lies have been planted, and call the dead to rise?

Whose friendship other than His can leave a restless heart satisfied, fulfill awaited promises with a steadfast hope, and shatter the veil which guards against intimacy?

Whose heart other than His can be broken for my sufferings, provide a space for me to rest, and burn with infinite love for my lowly soul?

Whose feet other than His can pursue with reckless abandon, provide a vessel for His Saving Blood to anoint us, and traverse a rocky soul to bring mercy and light into darkness and despair?

Whose body other than His is willingly nailed for my broken soul, lays in the arms of death so I might one day rise, and becomes sweet bread and glorious wine so as to gently place His covenantal love within me?

None but He, my soul cries.

Oh, dear heart—there is none but He; and He wants none but thee.

Shadows.

Shadows.

What is this dark shape I see?
It is kind of, somewhat shaped like me.
It goes in front of me,
Though sometimes it moves behind or beside me.
It moves when I move,
O Lord I cannot escape it!

I hear this still whisper
Fear not—what can this mean?
Suddenly and all at once
It occurs to me—
A shadow!
Deep within, my soul exclaims:
O how beautiful!
For if I can see a shadow,
It must mean that I—
O I am surrounded by Light!
For it is only in Light
That shadows can appear.

Of this sweet shadow,
I shall not fear.

-s.n.h.

 

Whether our shadows are here to stay, or whether they are soon to go; whether they are of you past, or whether they are of you to come—we must not fear or cower in their sight, for His Blood has been outpoured from His bleeding side.  All is redeemed.  Not a thing, not a speck of any matter, has gone untouched by His Blood outpoured.  Our shadows proclaim one thing, and one thing only: Light has come to redeem the dark.  They are a semblance of darkness waiting to be touched by the Light—for once the sun touches the outline, they disappear and give way to a new patch of light.

O how glorious is the power of His Light, child!

It’s just a shadow on the wall—please do not forget that You know the One who makes them small.

Just as we are dust, so too shall we become light (a summary of 1 Cor 15:49).

 

 

[a poem] dear Mother, what was it like?

what was it like:
to hold the Savior of the world in your arms?
to listen to the steady inhale and exhale of a breath infused with divine life?
to feel the beat of His Heart inside the tabernacle of your womb?
to gaze into the eyes of Him who has beheld the Father?
to quell the cry that would one day pierce your heart?

what was it like:
to wake up each morning to the pitter patter of His tiny footsteps?
to laugh and play with the infant Savior?
to tuck in the One who was Promised for your salvation?
to eat breakfast with the Bread of Life Himself?
to watch Him build tables and chairs with the same wood and nails that killed Him?

what was it like:
to hear the vicious screams of betrayal as He stood before the same people who heard Him teach?
to watch the flesh you bore be ripped apart by the scourge of the Roman soldiers?
to be beside Him on the endless road to His saving death?
to hear Him cry out to the One who placed His Life in your care?
to be handed over to a new son, as the One who came forth from your own flesh labored to breathe?

what was it like:
to hear the terrifying echo of total surrender to death in His final three words?
to feel the rocky earth quake beneath your bloody knees?
to be immersed in the blood and water that shared your same DNA?
to hold His cold, dead body that had once lived inside of you?
to place Him in the dark tomb, and roll a mighty stone in front of it?

but oh my dear Mother!
tell me, what is it like:
to be with Him, body and soul, and behold the face of Him whom you loved so perfectly?
to sit beside Him on your throne of His grace?
to behold the Risen Jesus clothed in glorious light?
to be a vessel of grace and salvation to the ones He saved on the day He died?
to be endlessly possessed by Love Himself?

hail, dear Mother.
for you are full of grace.
blessed are you, dear Mother,
for you hold the secrets of His Humanity.
and pray for me, dearest Mother,
that I may know what it was like.

-s.h.

The Ache.

It is deep inside me.

It is all that I can think about most days.

Every morning I wake up to the beauty of a sunrise, and I think about the ache.

Each night I walk back to my apartment in the silence of the night beneath the starlit sky, and I think about the ache.

I sit with my friends and watch a movie, the ache.

I cook myself dinner, the ache.

I listen to music, the ache.

I go to pray before my King and then I experience the ache worst of all here, because of how I long to share the beauty of Him with another.

Day in, day out: it is the ache.  Big and little, complex and simple tasks, it never fails to tug at my heart, reminding me that it is still there.

And I hate that it owns this much of me.

How can its weight even fit inside my heart?

I have this infinite longing for Him.  Yet buried within this infinite longing for Him is an uncontainable, heart-shaking, mind-boggling, soul-trembling ache for a love that is here and now, tangible; a love that will imitate the love that my King has for me.  A love that will serve Him.

It is an ache to be captivating to another, to penetrate the walls of a man’s heart, to be the object of one’s affection, to know another intimately, to share in love, to let all of the walls and guards down.

It is an ache to collapse into a sturdy shelter, to experience falling in love, to partake in an adventure, to be part of someone else’s story.

It is an ache to be held, to be sought, to be pursued, to be romanced, to be known, to be seen.

And it is this ache that fills the very bones that hold my body together, that penetrates the beat of my heart and the pathways of my nerves.  It is this ache that vibrates in my soul.  It is this ache that I see when I look into my eyes, when I read something beautiful, when I sit in the silence of my thoughts.

This ache is written into me.

And I spend night after night kneeling before my King trying to understand what I am to do with this crippling ache, that I cannot seem to get rid of, that will not let go, that refuses to fade.

And the only answer that I receive is: I made these desires.  They are good.  You are good.  I will fulfill them.  Continue to share them with Me.

It doesn’t stop the ache.  It doesn’t fill it.  It continues to remain.  But I think the worst thing one can do is to hide this ache from the One who permits us to feel the strength of its grasp.

No, I must share this ache with Him.  I must praise Him for this ache, because at least I feel the hunger for love.

Let it grip your heart.  Let it tackle your thoughts.  Let its weight and its strength and its passion burn within you.  Let it be known unto you.

For in the knowing of the ache, we will come to know our hearts a little bit better.  And I think that in the knowing of the ache, we will come to understand our Creator’s heart a little more clearly.

Though it is painful, though it is all-consuming, this ache will, in the end, get us home.  And so, we must praise the King for the way we hunger for Love because He too hungers for Love.

In fact, I will be so bold as to say that this ache we feel?  It is only a tiny fraction of the ache Christ felt hanging on the Cross, thirsting for the souls He created to come back to Him.

Praise Him in the ache, sisters.  And let it move you into the depths of His Sacred Heart, so that you can ache there with Him and let Him prepare you to meet the one who will imperfectly quench this ache and lead you ever closer into the heart of Him who made you.

 

 

The Littlest Flower.

This is the story of a little seed who became a flower.

Years ago, my Father purchased a field, and He planted seeds in the soil.

He picked me up out of His pocket, and whispered: “It’s time, little seed.”

He tucked me carefully in the dirt, gave me plenty of water and sunlight, and breathed upon me that I might grow up strong and tall.

My roots began to grow at the touch of His breath, and I could feel my shell bursting as He filled me with life.

But then a thief came and spread weeds among us.

These weeds began choking the roots of my brothers and sisters, and then they began choking my own and I could grow no longer.

Suffocating from the choke of the weeds, I began to distrust my Father’s love for me, for how could He allow such horror to take place among His little seeds?

I began to fear the death that seemed to await me and lost my strength in fighting the grip of the ferocious weeds. I withered more and more each day and cried out for my Father only to hear no reply.

Then one day, what would have been my last, a new young man was sent out to walk among the seeds and the weeds. This was a dangerous walk, you see, because the weeds were sharp and thorny and no matter where He stepped, He would be cut and bruised.

But nevertheless, the Son, with a look of great love in His eyes, continued through the field.

He bent down and plucked each weed out of the soil, spreading new soil and fresh water among the little seeds. He was careful not to wound the delicate roots of the seeds as He saved them from the choke of the weeds.

When He got to me, He was quite bruised and was bleeding from His face and His hands and His feet and His sides and I was quite in awe of Him. For we were just little seeds, what did He have to do with us?

He knelt down close to me and plucked the weeds from around me, and suddenly, I could breathe. And my, what a good breath it was. He whispered to me, “There, there, little seed. Now, you can become a flower.”

At this, my little roots, free of the choking grasp of the weeds, began to set themselves deep in the comfort of the new soil.

The next day, the Son came out with His Father, and the two marveled at the beauty of the field which had become full of blooming flowers. They admired the beauty of each flower and continued to walk towards me.

The Father said: “My, how this little flower has grown. She is most beautiful, my Son.”

The Son replied: “She is indeed, dear Father. She was one of the last ones to receive new soil, and quite a bit of my blood spilled out upon her soil, and because of this, she has grown up strong. I cleaned her dirty leaves and breathed life on her once again, and immediately she began to bloom.

Father and Son marveled at my beauty, and I, the littlest flower, basked in the loving embrace of their penetrating gaze.

No, I am not stifled by the weeds any longer, I am a blooming lily, pure and white like my Father, purchased by the blood of the Son.

And so, I have come to discover this simple truth: that my soul, a little seed planted by my Abba, blooms most fully in the light of His Perfect Love.

All Things Made New.

I remember stepping on the plane to Austria in the middle of January.

I remember distinctly the utter excitement and tangible fear that gripped me as I let myself be taken far into the unknown with only one thing certain in my mind—for some reason He wanted me here.

And so, at His command, I stepped into a new place with a very limited supply of clothes and a definite budget on my bank account, entirely uncertain of the road that would lay ahead these next three and a half months.

I remember the very beginning.  Fear and excitement, loneliness and acute homesickness, and so so so much newness.

Despite all of these things, I remember feeling one in particular—the sacredness of the Kartause.  Within her walls were the prayers of so many monks who had resided here before me.  She held the words of Fr. Michael Scanlan as he started this new vision for Franciscan University and declared her a “beachhead for evangelization”.  She held the hearts of so many students who had gone before me, her grounds watered with the blood of their hearts as they were ripped open, laid bare, healed, pursued, changed.

And now it was my turn.  My turn to let her walls, her mystery penetrate my own soul.

And I found this overwhelming at first.  But then, ever so gently, Jesus grabbed my hand and whispered, “We do this together, remember?”  And so began the journey.

Day after day, I set myself before Him to be pursued, to be taken in to rest in the heart of my Father.  I cut my heart out of my chest and laid it at the foot of my Eucharistic Lord, and trusted in the mantle of Our Lady to keep me safe as He made me knew.  I allowed Him to walk the corridors of my heart, with a trust that He is a Gentle Gardener, and does not pluck weeds that are not ready to come out.

Then it bloomed suddenly, like a planted flower: Resurrection.  It was a sweet melody that played at the strings of my heart, asking me to be made new, to rise with my Lord, to let the dryness within me melt away at the foot of the Cross, and to be filled with the glorious light of Him who indeed does make all things new.  But what did this mean?

No answer came, but I did not need one, because I knew it was happening.  It was like a slow possession of love, flowing from my desire to be with Him.  My soul began to thirst.  Uncontrollably, a desire that just could not be satisfied by anything other than Him.  My everything pined for Him; I could not be satisfied by anyone but Him.  Something within me began to change.  A joy began to form, a peace that was ever constant.  He was no longer a God out there, no.  He is becoming a God in here, dwelling in the inner sanctuary of my soul.

And as my desire for Him planted its roots and began to grow, beauty captured my heart.  The mountains surrounding me began to whisper His Love to my heart, and the snow and rain washed me in His mercy.  The thunder shook me from the very core, connecting my inner being to the One who shakes the sky with His Hands.  The sunshine bathed me in the presence of my Father, and the clouds resting upon the mountain tops brought peace deep within my soul.

But I think what astounded me most is how the beauty that is out there, the beauty that reigns in the mountains and the clear waters of lakes resting in hidden valleys, still pales in comparison to the beauty of who He has made me to be.  And how is this so?  I could not tell you.  For it is something that He is beginning to reveal to me, as I was willingly taken captive and wounded by Him whom I love.

This is the beauty of the Austrian semester, my dear friends.

It really is unexpected, the way He desires to change you.  It looks different, and it hurts.  He pulls you into the silence and surrounds you with astounding beauty, only to open you up to the cries coming from within you.

Yet how beautiful it is to come to know the desire of the heart, to hear the cries from deep within us, and to finally listen.

I cannot understand how it is time to kiss these white walls goodbye, and time to walk amongst these mountains for the very last time.  I cannot understand how it is time to leave behind the place where the Gentle Gardener has tilled the soil of my heart.

All I can say is, may the glory be to Him forever, who has traversed the corridors of my little heart and still chosen to dwell in me, His silent sanctuary, my Constant One.

Dear, dear Austria—what a gift you have been to my little heart.

And oh, how true it is, that behold, He makes all things new.

 

 

 

The Great Pursual.

This is a poem I wrote, inspired by the Book of Hosea and my own journey seeking the Lord.

It captures the story of a woman learning how to be vulnerable with the Lord, learning how to let Him love her, as she wrestles with uncovering the mystery of who she is and who He is.  It magnifies the beauty of Christ’s pursual of our hearts and sheds light upon the beauty of the Lord’s desire to intimately know us.  It sheds light on the human search to find the Creator.

All glory and honor be to Him who gives us life.

The Great Pursual.

from the day i breathed my first
there has been another,
far greater than i,
seeking my heart.

He has seen and
known me from the first.

He has given me
body,
soul,
heart,
mind,
desiring my love and affection.

i have wandered from Him time and again,
looking for others.

the serpent’s lies
have held me captive.

yet He has sought,
and sought,
in His abundant faithfulness.
and i?
i have
ran,
and

ran.

to win me back,
He sent his own
to walk
among the gardens where He set my heart to dwell,
though i had wandered far
into the forest.

for a moment,
i was drawn back to the garden where He was.
He taught me,
i listened.
He taught flowers to bloom in mid-winter,
and i?
i was fascinated
by Him.

but then the day came
when i lost Him again.

out of fear,
i ran to the forest.

and i mocked,
and scorned Him.
i was afraid:
because
He knew me.

what if He wounds me:
like the thorns that had pierced this heart before?

what if He takes away:
the grain, the wine, and the oil?

what if He doesn’t

satisfy.

what if He isn’t faithful?

what if He lets me

down.

so i cast Him out;
far away from
me,
and i hid,
among the edges of the forest,
wandering the darkness,
naked in shame,
clothed in nakedness.

but then,
the One whom i had cast out
came looking,
seeking by name,
calling out in the wilderness.
i ran
but He ran
faster,

and He caught up to my heart.

i glanced in His eyes for the first time.
i saw the love that filled them.
He radiated light
and told me,

daughter, i have won.

my heart
burst within me,
because He had won
me.

He had won the garden that my heart dwelt in.
He had cast light upon the forest;
cleared out the thorns.
the shadows were no more;
and the serpent could not enter.

He captured my very own heart
and sang songs of freedom over me.

He wounded me with His Love,
He pierced my heart with His Own.

despite the cuts,
and bruises and blood,
He desired me.

and i?
i would not go to another,
for He desired my affection.
and i?
i desired His.

and so the garden
became our home,
where i dwelt with Him,
and He built a home in me.

i received His love
as He
healed my scars
and made me new:

a little girl,
free and unbound,
yet ravished by Him who restores.
-S