The Sadness That Didn't Belong to Me.

Alone in the kitchen at half-past ten, I was crying out my eyes, the tears long past control, when the thought came piercing through--

I wish I could take all their pain. Bear it myself so they wouldn't have to. So they wouldn't have to.

And then His voice, so quickly after--the clear, deep stroke of thunder following lightning's flash--

I already did.

My heart that night was the heart of the Father. The anguish I felt for the ones I loved, His anguish. And how much more He must feel--to have borne the pain of our sins on His body on the tree, so we wouldn't have to--and then to watch as we reject that gift daily, to walk in the curse instead of freedom, to walk in death instead of victory. I believe He watches, and weeps, with a heart infinitely more broken than mine as He calls--

I took all your pain. Bore it Myself so you wouldn't have to. So you wouldn't have to.

Abba,

This prayer is for them.

They're after Your heart, oh God. Seeking, chasing, longing (after). Hearts after Yours, oh God. Fashioned, modeled, mirrored (after).

Caught up in the tangle of dark before dawn, they do not see what we see. Unaware, quite completely, of their fragrance of beauty. I watch them slip down the mud-heap of lies, and I break as the spark dims to ash in their eyes.

If they could but glimpse: the way their voice sounds just like You, the way through their gaze You come bleeding through.

Call my brothers, call them by name. Consume them forever in Your jealous flame.

Blessed sons of the Most High--the world is waiting for you to rise.

Dwelling Place.

Consider now, for the LORD has chosen you to build a temple as a sanctuary. Be strong and do the work, (1 Chronicles 28:10).

And he did. Overlaid with pure gold. Covered with fine gold. Adorned with precious stones. Carved cherubim on the walls. Blue, purple and crimson yarn and fine linen, (2 Chronicles 3:4-7, 14). He made the golden altar; the tables on which was the bread of the Presence; the lampstands of pure gold with their lamps; the gold floral work and lamps and tongs; the pure gold wick trimmers, sprinkling bowls, dishes and censers; and the gold doors of the temple, (2 Chronicles 4:19-22).

With precise measurements and only the most valuable of materials, Solomon built a place on Earth for the God of Heaven to dwell.

Yet the wise king himself admitted, "The temple I am going to build will be great, because our God is greater than all other gods. But who is able to build a temple for Him, since the heavens, even the highest heavens, cannot contain Him?" (2 Chronicles 2:5-6). For the Most High does not live in houses made by men, (Acts 7:48).

But we have an even higher calling. God has chosen us, not to build a temple for Himself, but to be a temple for Himself. What could not be contained by a man-made building of pure gold and precious stones now dwells in our God-formed bodies of weak flesh and brittle bone. Jesus, our cornerstone--Emmanuel, God with us. In Him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple to the Lord. And in Him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by His Spirit (Ephesians 2:21-22).

This is the most beautiful mystery. That our fickle and wayward hearts are more desirable to God than forty-six thousand pounds of pure gold. That the spark of color in our wandering eyes is worth more to the Father than the rarest of gemstones. That when we were powerless to enter the Most Holy Place, He brought the holiness to us. Almighty God, who alone is worthy of offerings, made the offering for us; the sovereign Creator, who alone is worthy of sacrifice, bound the sacrifice upon the altar for us.

This is our price. Our value. Our worth. This is who we are--for God has deemed it so. The very breath of His Spirit in our lungs--the very blood of His Son in our veins. There is no higher calling--there is no greater gift.

We are His Temple. We are the collision of Heaven and Earth. We are the place where He dwells.

Dear,

I crafted - the curve of your cheekbones from riverbed clay - smeared my thumb along the lines that formed your forehead. I blended - the paint I dipped your skin in - spun the colors threading the numbered strands of hair - I stitched to your scalp. I polished - your irises' deep-sparkling gemstones that burst - into bloom - at the center of your eyes. I loved - I loved - I loved.

You run - your fine-tuned fingers along the cracks - in the clay. You search - for imperfections - in the flawless form I made ( - and remade). You believe - the reflection rendered in your shadowed mirror - you are caught - in distortion, caught - in the absence of light. You despise - the fragility I cherish. You cry - weakness. You turn - that face, still marked - by the pattern of My fingerprints - and ask - why. And I answer - because, I love. I love - I love - I love.

I love the way you need Me - the way your weakness makes you desperate - the way your poverty drives you into My arms. I love that I alone can restore you - that I alone can make you whole. I love that your heart is tied forever to Mine - I love that in once-dirt, I unveil now-divine. I love that this is who I've designed you to be - a beautiful, inseparable, part of Me.

(The Rib Wasn't Enough to Save) Our Hearts.

My dear, dear sisters, I know the curse. I know your desire will be for him and he will rule over you, I know. I watch it, I live it, I get it. I too, am a woman. I too, have measured my value by the light of approval (more often, the lack) that sparks (or fails to) in a man's eyes. I have tailored my beauty to the rhythm of their compliments, I have weighed the words (or silence)--I have found, always found, myself wanting.

But, when. I stop looking at me, stop looking at them, and start looking at you, I see something else. The grace in your step, the strength in your eyes. It causes me to wonder. To catch my breath, to pause and stare. I see you, and I say: My God! Your daughters are lovely.

I once burned with jealousy, to see your beauty. You were filled to the brim with beautiful things--I found each and every one. And I hated every wonderful piece of your heart, every flawless line that shaped your face. I despised you, because I saw the way you drew their eyes away from me.

But, then. I met the Lover who broke the curse. He stripped away my shame and clothed me in (such perfect!) light. He whispered, My darling, there is no flaw, and I saw myself (reborn). I saw who I was, who I am and will be.

What I saw was all-beautiful, and I knew I would never need their eyes again.

And now I see you. I see your loveliness, and I do not fear it, anymore. We are more lovely together; we are symphonies and tapestries, we are bright-burning souls that shine like stars.

But it breaks my heart, beautiful ones, to see the way you tear your (beautiful, beautiful) selves apart, tugging your heartstrings from the seams of every doubt and insecurity that haunts the stitches of your scars--the remnant of the wounds their arms (or absence) burst open. It breaks my heart, beautiful ones, that you do not see your self, but only the distorted reflection in the darkened mirrors of their eyes.

Sisters, I beg you: See what I see. Look into the Lover's eyes, and believe the words He promised me: You are altogether lovely; you are altogether free.