Lilley of the field

We crawl into our bed together after a long, yet fulfilling day. We turn to each other and quietly and tenderly read the vows we wrote and recited this day 3 years ago on a bright May day. This night, 3 years later, we are tired, achy, and in love. I marvel at this extraordinary love- this extra ordinary love. It's the real thing. Our anniversary was not filled with candles, wine, and fancy food as we smiled longly at each other over dinner. There were no goggly eyes and butterflies. There was real life- the one we've carved together. There was grit and laughter and joy. We spent our evening supporting children in our community, in my school, standing bravely in the spotlight while their little knees shook and the innocent hearts beat fast and they sang and danced their hearts out at our Talent Show. We looked at each other in the dim lights of an old gym and I thought- there's no better way to spend our anniversary . Sometimes I want the candles and the wine, but mo

I miss writing more often here. But there are those times, those seasons when words just don't come. I wish they would- but they're not. Instead, the few I have are etched into the pages of my personal prayer journal lifted up to a God who hears every word spoken and not spoken. When words just don't come it gives space. Wide-open-green-pasture-wildflower-growin' kinda space- the kind of space I could probably use more of. Words don't change lives, the God of the universe changes lives. The Word who became flesh changes lives. My emptiness gives him space to fill with His glory and praise. My emptiness and lack of words gives him space to speak tenderly and softly to me and for my ears to actually hear Him. My emptiness hums quietly with a tune only the Spirit knows. I guess I'll just have to embrace it when words just don't come. When words just don't come, it gives time. Watchin'-the-sun-set-while-sittin'-on-the-front-porch-sippin'-