it's a hard time of year, barbed in cold, the sky ashen with winter's grief, and we indoors conserving warmth and hope.
and sometimes the lack of light makes my insides molder, but i can hear a small voice from the kitchen table as my boy draws and sings and makes himself a little bit at home.
and the mister wears tenderness like skin, and our church-family-soul-friends, we ache and yearn and revel together
and this God, this giant, rattling God, he loves, loves, loves me. fiercely. inexplicably.
and so even three-quarters frozen we flame with the wonder of Him.
loving this quote today:
'one who is truly an instrument of God's peace offers, in return for the injury, only one thing: pardon, remembering the millions of pounds he himself owed to the King, and how utterly he was pardoned.' (elisabeth elliot)
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please come to emily's for more imperfect prose.