If Only We Were Squirrels, & Could Sleep These Months Away.

Mid-October in Southern Georgia, a chill has finally taken to the air. I pull my jacket tighter, and welcome it. I welcome the season of thick socks and sweaters, of ear-warming beanies and noose-tight scarves. I welcome the change.

Which is a rarity, for me--I, who, most days, am such a resistor of change in any form. I , who, at the first sign of the season's turning, would often much rather stock up my goods, bury myself in a cave's warm belly, and drift into the sweet bliss of hibernation, than wait out the months among a world made bitter and barren with cold.

But there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven*, and hibernation has never been an option. When our time to be born is exchanged for our time to die, when our time to plant is exchanged for our time to uproot, when our time to search is exchanged for our time to give up, when our time to keep is exchanged for our time to throw away--these are the seasons our eyes strain for color, but are filled instead with only winter's gray.

What we are always forgetting is--how quickly the seasons shift. How soon the pain will pass--how inevitably the frost will melt--how marvelously those colors will be born again--and how deeply we will breathe in, that new and infinite expanse.

*Ecclesiastes 3:1.

(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.

Dear God,

Less of me, more of You.

Release me from the selfishness that paints me at the center of a broken and lonely universe. I must have more than these petty dreams of self-contentment, self-assurance, self-control, these insubstantial cardboard cut-outs blown over by the wind's softest sigh.

Pull my self out of the realm of my consciousness; fade me into insignificance. Remove my shifting eyes, my stuttering tongue, my trembling hands, my fickle heart, and fill those hollows up with You. Fill to the brim, fill to overflowing. Drench every part, sweet Holy Spirit, the deepest recesses of my being. Wash me, mold me, make me new.

This is not about me. Your plans are so much bigger than that. So much more grand, and beautiful. It is only Your grace, Your marvelous, marvelous grace, that has chosen me to be a thread in this tapestry. And what a masterpiece it is! I look outward, I look upward, into the swirl of color, into the way every strand works together, these atoms of the universe sewn seamlessly as one. When my eyes behold such glory, my self is forgotten, and I have never felt so well.

Keep my eyes fixed, Daddy. Keep my heart enraptured. Only You can save me. Only You can satisfy.