For Years I Held the Bottle Upside-Down, but Every Last Drop was Gone.

You cry to me to haul up your rope, but I'm at the end of mine.

My fingernails scrape the bottom of the barrel, searching for something more to give. But all I find are dirt-stained hands.

---

Put your trust in me, and watch how we destroy each other.

(I am drowning, trying to save you.)

Place your hope in me, and we will die together.

(I will hold you close, I will pull you under.)

---

I met a Man and fell in love; His name was Water-Walker.
He told me not to be afraid; He said my name was Daughter. 

He told me things I'd never known; I knew His words were true.
He said He's searching every ocean, dear; He promised me He'd rescue you.

I Ask the Stars.

I'm learning to take comfort in my backwards life.

I still struggle sometimes, with the desire for "normality". People with normal lives aren't questioned, cautioned, asked to justify themselves. Instead, they are applauded, praised, considered a success. Rather than having a panic attack when asked about their future, they can calmly give a response detailing their educational, financial, career, and marital goals. They know the kind of car they want to drive, the kind of house they want to live in, and have already begun a college fund for their 1.5 children.

And when my own response is an awkward shrug of the shoulders, I'm already inwardly cringing at the expressions of disbelief I know I'll receive in return (their thoughts, loud enough to hear, what is wrong with you, what are you thinking?), and a (large, loud) part of me wishes that I had my life together, neatly packaged and ready for send-off into a big, bright future I've sculpted with my bare hands.

But I'm learning to take comfort, in this rather unsettling brand of insanity that is my life. I'm learning to set up my sails and trust the wind that carries me. I'm learning that I love you, but I don't need you, to tell me I'm alright.

I've placed my compass in better Hands.

It's been a long time since I've seen it. And there are moments, stretching painfully long, when my faith wavers. On those dark and desperate nights, I look up with pleading glance, and ask, Where, oh where, am I?

And the stars reply, with their twinkling eyes: Little child, of little faith. Do not fear; you are on course. These waters are drawing you, ever North.

All In.

I was singing the words, out loud, but I knew they weren't mine. The words were God's, and He was singing them to me.

I'm all in--are you?

It's a common phrase. The meaning seemed self-evident, but I wanted a deeper understanding. So I looked up a few definitions, and found:

at the card table, to be broke (that is, out of money), because you already put all your money in the pot, so you can't play anymore;

having all of one's chips at risk in a single hand;

to be tired out, exhausted, as in I can't walk another step;

To be all in is to risk everything in a single, desperate act--after which, there is nothing left to give. It's what God did when He clothed Himself in flesh and poured out His blood on a nail-pierced cross, an act that spoke more loudly than words--

No more games. I don't want to play anymore. Win or lose, My cards are on the table. 

And here we sit, across from Him in the low light. Utterly broken. Battered, threadbare, weary. Clinging to our last, few, worthless cards. We hold them tightly, afraid of what it will mean to let go. Knowing we'll lose.

So, we prolong the game. Or, we walk away.

But, what if the risk is worth it? What if, in giving up everything, we gain more than we ever could have imagined?

What if we don't understand the rules of this game, after all? What if our defeat turns into the most beautiful of rescues? And in losing, we find our greatest victory?

God is all in, for you. He always has been, since the very beginning. It's your move--your final move--and only two options are left to you: all or nothing.

Diary of an Addict.

When I don't get my fix, the withdrawal symptoms come quick: irritability, depression, anxiety. Lashing out at the slightest provocation. Gobbling heads clean off. My body collapsing in on itself with weariness. The cells of my being screaming in frenzied chorus, Give it to me. Give it to me now.

My addiction began in middle school, out of a sense of duty more than anything else. A few minutes of "quiet time" with God in the morning (or whenever I got around to it). Being a Christian who opened her Bible more than once a week helped assuage the guilt brought on from the statistics spouted by pastors near and far of their negligent flocks.

At the time, I didn't realize how utterly it would hook me. Ruin me forever with this obsession--this hunger that could only be satisfied with heavenly bread, this thirst that could only be quenched with living water, this fire that would burn, burn, burn and crumble my heart to ash, spin my soul in gold.

But it's too late now. This craving will not be denied, and with every taste, I long for more. My moments in God's Presence are no longer an obligation; they are necessity. When I miss a day with Him, my whole world falls into shadow. There is no substitute--no patch I can slap on my arm, no placebo to trick the body into believing in a wellness apart from Him. I live in a constant state of dependency and desperation. And in all my life, I have never known anything more beautiful.

My name is Beloved, and this drug will run through my veins forever.

Awake, Oh Sleeper.

God has so much more to offer than what we have been satisfied with.

God is the same yesterday, today, and forever. So tell me, where is He? Where is the God of the Bible, the God I've read about all these years? The God who parts seas and rains bread from heaven and raises the dead back to life? The God who causes His people to speak in tongues they have never heard, who gives them visions of the throne room of Heaven? Where is the God whose mere Presence causes people to fall flat on their face and cry out, Woe is me, for I am a person of unclean lips!?

Jesus said, "If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!" (Luke 11:13).

That has been my prayer of late. God, show us how much more! Show us how much more you will give Your Spirit to those who ask!

The key being: we have to ask. We have to get hungry. We have to get thirsty. We have to get desperate. We have to start seeking with all we have.

If you want more of God: ask. If you want to want more of God: ask. And if you don't receive an answer?  Plead. Beg. Don't give up; press in. His promise was for those who seek Him with everything.

If you truly desire to find Him, He's your only option. Not books, not sermons, not songs. Not good deeds or spiritual words. Just God. He is the only one who can stir up a holy hunger in our hearts. He alone can save us from this sleep.

Desperate Times.

Lately, I feel as if I have been tiptoeing, arms outstretched, along the brink of overwhelming. It is beautiful, and it is terrifying. And it is teaching me:

God wants us to be in a constant state of desperation. Not in a panicky, fear-driven sense of the word. Rather, it is the desperation of Moses when he pleaded, If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here (Exodus 33:15). It is the desperation of David as he sang, My soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water, and begged, Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me (Psalm 63:1, 51:11). It is the desperation of Peter, who cried out Lord, save me!, and the desperation of a broken-hearted father who exclaimed, I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief! (Mark 9:24).

It is the desperation of those who are aware of their own weakness, their utter lack of control, their absolute need. But it is also a desperation that knows there is an answer, a solution, a victory, in the arms of One who is greater--and pursues that answer with everything.

Regardless of the depths of our passion or the height of our intellect, we cannot create a movement of God. In fact, on our own, we cannot even sustain a movement of God. If God's Spirit is absent, no amount of worship music, no amount of quotes from Scripture, no amount of acts of service, can open up the doorways for souls to hear from Him. When God's Spirit is absent, the best we can manage is a wave of emotion, followed by a burnout.

But. Jesus looks at us and says: With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible (Matthew 19:26).

It's time for us to get desperate. God is moving. He is calling us out, calling us up. He is leading us into the realm of the impossible. Only--don't run ahead of Him. Don't disconnect yourself from the vine. Don't fall into the delusion that you can do this on your own. Because you can't. None of us can. Stay desperate. Stay dependent. Stay focused on the light of His eyes, and the feel of His hand in yours. And in your time of weakness, He'll be all the strength you need.