Real

The rain sprayed diagonally outside the thick windows, and flashes of yellows swirled in the wind, leaves falling. And I was sheltered by the thick arches of boards I didn't lay, held together by nails I didn't pound in. I stood under this and grace, among many different people with many different stories, and we sang. This:

"Your love is deeper than any ocean
Higher than the Heavens,
Reaches . . .
Beyond the stars in the sky.

Jesus, Your love has no bounds."

And I pictured Him. I pictured Him as a Jewish man in that typical Jesus garb . . . you know. The white robe. Blue sash. Dark, long hair. You know.

And I had to stop myself.

And then I pictured Him again. In jeans, a nice shirt, cut hair. And His smile . . . oh His sweet smile. And once again, I fell in love. His love breaks my heart and makes me want to dance and fly and cry. I don't understand this type of love.

And I imagined Him holding my hand. His love astounds me. It's realness astounds me.

You see, Father God has become so much more real to me lately. Being in Bible college, learning about Genesis, dissecting events and stories, God's Word and His truth and Himself are becoming wildly vivid to me. You see, I've grown up in a Christian home, in a Christian church where Bible characters lived in flannel graphs, and history was a stack of stories that happened miles and miles back in time. Yes, it happened, but they were stories recorded in old fashion children's books with drab colored pictures.

As I'm learning about Genesis, I'm finding out something interesting. I'm finding that my default vision views the Bible as a set of stories. Being at Multnomah has been so good because it's readjusting how I view the Bible, how I view God. It's beginning to really sink in that these stories are REAL, that these people were REAL (and many of them I can really relate to). That this Yahweh is my Daddy, that I'm His. And this excites me.

But as I said, sometimes the old way of viewing things comes back. Like when I want to picture Jesus as this old, storybook figure, walking into my life in a mystic sense of irrelevance. No. If Jesus would've come a second time and would decide to come to Portland, Oregon, God-in-flesh, I think He might just wear jeans. I think He'd look like us, you know?

I know this isn't new. In fact, some would thing this is a pretty pathetic, childish realization. But I'm glad I'm realizing it. I'm glad I'm realizing the effect of being raised through the Christian framework (something I'm very grateful for, but it has definitely impacted how I view things, and sometimes I need to step back and question why I see things the way I do?). And I'm so glad that Jesus can be real to us. That He IS SO REAL. This excites me.

And in case you've been questioning lately, I want to remind you of something Jesus reminded me of today . . . You are never alone, friend. Never ever unloved because He is Real. And He is here. Alleluia.

Anyway

I'm a dreamer. A visionary. There's this piece of me that wants to change my world, that wants to get involved with people's lives and love them to Jesus. Ann Kiemel gets credit for part of that . . . she inspires me. She's a lady who holds firmly to Jesus and tells people that her and Jesus are out to change the world. That love can do it. That wrapping arms around and hearts around can do it.

In the end, Jesus is the only One who can do it.

But I hope I can be so bold to believe that He wants to use us. As long as we know that it's not us doing the changing [sometimes, i forget this]. As long as we know that we're a vessel, that love should be that which compels us.

But sometimes I love for love. And then I fall. And often give up. And Jesus isn't glorified. Oh Jesus, teach me another way? Your way?

And then I hear songs like Anyway by Martina McBride, and this strengthens the dreams. You see, I want to truly love (for Jesus) anyway, even when I'm afraid. I want to truly give and dream and sing . . . even if all these things come crashing down or even just COULD come crashing down . . . I want to do it anyway. For Jesus. I am not of those that shrink back . . . as Paul would say. I am born of God, and He is strong, and He loves us anyway.

Make me like this, Jesus? Please? For Your sake alone.

Philippians 1:9-11 NIV

"And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ --- to the glory and praise of God."

May our love be His love, a love deeply knowledgeable and insightful that directs us in purity, a love that reaches out to touch this mangled world even when it could be rejected . . . to Love. Anyway.

Golden Sun

Sometimes, the words just come. Unorganized, unrefined, undirected currents. Sometimes, the release is good, and I am more free.

My life, a reckless stream,
Barreling down the boulders,
Shooting across the night,
A tiny star.

And sometimes it sits,
Wet pools in caverns,
Mirages and shadows.

Where is this life that dies?
The breaking point of me dying,
You living?
My losing all this shaggy selfishness?
Pride dumps? Clusters of dead laziness?

And where is this cleaning hope?
Of pure blood that makes me new?
The shedding of me?
It's only when this falls that
I can run by Your mountain stream,
And laugh as You twirl me around,
A little girl. In golden sunshine,
Deep blue of blue sky.

It begins now.
You, Jesus, . . . would You bathe me?
In Your cleansing Word that
Breaks, wounds, and heals?
Would You remind me of that
Blood red?
That I'm to forever to be named. His.

Theme

If you're looking at my blog, trying to evaluate my writing ability, please pass by this post specifically. It might not be pretty. But it's time, to pour out my heart like water . . .

Daddy? We've walked this road before, haven't we?
I recognize the mountain peaks,
Stretching, strong and cold,
The barb wired thorns,
Bruising,ripping heart flesh.
And Daddy? No. I don't want to.
I want to go Home, I want to RUN.
I don't want to do it again!
I'm scared, and I'm so tired of pain
And prison walls and a love that kills me.
Daddy? Can we just run away?
Please? Please?

"No."

Oh Daddy . . . I can't do this without You.
I worry I can't do it at all.
Oh me of little faith.
I'm not very strong.
{But I want to be}
And I hate this whole situation.
I'm kicking against You,
Screaming inside.
But No.
Be still, my soul.
Forgive me, Daddy.
You know why.
You are God.
Okay. Okay.
You can have me.
I'm sorry I'm such a mess.
A coward.
Please change this in me.
If You must, wound me.
So I can be healed.
"Heal me, and I will be healed."
Please, Jesus.
If You won't take this away,
Prepare me for war.
Or maybe just for letting You take over,
Me hiding myself, like a little child.
Free in Your walls.
Yes, Lord.

Compelling Love

It's 7:22 pm, and I'm surviving with between 5 - 6 hours of sleep plus a nap today. (I really shouldn't be blogging. Ha! I say this a lot, don't I?) I'm listening to Times by Tenth Avenue North. Mmm. Sweet, hard memories.

And I'm weighed down by this thing called tiredness and by this unnamed thing. I'm not sure what it is. I think it's maybe fear. It's funny how fear compels us, how the strongest desire to run from any pain compels us. Or maybe it's just me. :) And right near me is this plaque. "Don't worry about anything -- instead, pray about everything. Tell God your needs and don't forget to thank Him for His answers. Philippians 4:6." It's hard to pray when you're not for certain of your needs. Maybe this is one of those moments when I try to simply open myself and let Him come in, let Him fix the ruins that fear has made, the ruins my sin has made, the ruins past pain has made. Maybe my only answer is "yes" . . . oh how hard it can be to simply say "yes." Why? I don't know . . . I guess it's because I'm afraid of the answers. I'm afraid of the implications. Or maybe I'm not afraid. Maybe I'm just so selfishly stubborn.

But I really do want love. I want that compelling love that God is. The love that casts out my fear of pain. I want that love that is light and all good, the love that heals after wounding. You know this love? And it's easy to talk about it, to desire it, but how do I open my heart enough to catch it? Or is catching love something done with open hands? Something you can't hoard. Something you stand in as you'd stand in torrential droplets, pouring from dark skies? Is it something that seeps into us as we read the living Word? What do you think?

Waters Rise

There's this little boy I can see from my window. He's dressed in a sailor blue raincoat, and I'm sure some rubber boots. It's sprinkling and gray outside, and in his hands, he's holding and twirling this hose, washing down his swing set. He must be around four. I just had to share because it's one of the cutest things I've seen in awhile. :) Oh, wait! There's another tike, except this one is barefoot and walking around with probably just a shirt and a diaper . . . oh boy. OH! You should see him! He's so cute. He's probably 2 or 3, and I think his momma just called him. I truly believe children are God's gift to the world.

But that really wasn't what I was going to blog about. I got distracted.

I'm scared. I journeyed out not that long ago into a place where I maybe shouldn't have been, and now I'm facing the rivers, praying that I can somehow relax in His arms as the waters rise.

And those words. Those "Be Still and Know that I AM GOD" words. Echo.

But Jesus? I'm SCARED.

But danae, I'm with you.

But Jesus?

danae, who am I?

I don't know if I know!

Hush. Be still. Be quiet. Let go. Relax your hands.

Who am I, danae?

You are God.

What does that mean, danae? That I am God?

It means You're in control, Jesus. It means that You're my castle and my refuge. It means that You know all, that You only can protect me fully, that my heart is safe in Your hands. Daddy, it means I don't have to worry, that I can hide in You.

"Be still my soul, the Lord is on your side."

Be still and know that God is GOD.

Heal the Wound

Heal the Wound
Jaime Jamgochian


"I used to wish that I could rewrite history
I used to dream that each mistake could be erased
Then I could just pretend I never knew the me back then

I used to pray that You would take this shame away
Hide all the evidence of who I've been
But it's a memory of the place You brought me from
That keeps me on my knees...and even though I'm free

Heal the wound but leave the scar
A reminder of how merciful You are
I am broken, torn apart
Take the pieces of this heart and
Heal the wound but leave the scar

I have not lived that boasts of anything
And I don't take pride in what I bring
But I'll build an alter with the rubble that You found me in
And every stone will sing of what You can redeem

Heal the wound but leave the scar
A reminder of how merciful You are
I am broken, torn apart
Take the pieces of this heart and
Heal the wound but leave the scar

Don't let me forget everything You've done for me
Don't let me forget the beauty in the suffering

Heal the wound but leave the scar
A reminder of how merciful You are
I am broken, torn apart
Take the pieces of this heart and
Heal the wound but leave the scar"

I'm not sure I realized how much of the old I was holding onto. The old wounds were dying out, but they weren't correctly bandaged. I didn't realize how strongly I was trying to protect myself from pain and in so doing, how strongly I was saying "no" to Jesus, how I was withholding my trust and His full access into my whole life.

But You come like spring rains. "And I am unaware of the most extravagant of Your intentions."

And if you're reading this, and you don't understand, it's alright. But know this one thing . . . Father is so good. And His grace is astounding. He is Friend. He is Healer.