*****

"He is Beauty. We are Beauty in the making."

i have so much to learn.

my life is marked by potential.

sadly, potential is greatness in its formative, pre"great" stage...

it's the egg before the swan,

it's the promise before the fulfillment,

it's birthing the wind - over and over again

(as the prophet isaiah would say).

i'm sorta sick and tired of it.

ricky helps me focus it all in,

but i don't see much progress myself.

one day i want to spend hours sewing my future babies wadrobe,

then i want to make wedding invites and graphic design work,

then i want to read and read and read and study every commentary

on the major prophets,

then i want to make music,

and the list goes on (in all its phases and forms).

but reality is:

i wake up and drive an hour to work, usually listening to NPR,

and fill hours 8-4 with work and what not,

to again drive home to the sounds of san diego.

there we find a bed to be made, dishes to be done, and a meal to be cooked.

when it all settles, i just want to talk with ricky, who crawls into the door

2 hours after the sun has already hidden its face, and still has 4 papers to write.

i squeeze in reading the Word and scraping up signs of life within the jar of my soul.

sometimes we wonder about our dreams...

or the prophetic promises,

or that little seed within we've been watering for years.

but i remember, back in january, when i said goodbye

to the one place i ever felt at home,

and the one people i fully came alive within,

when i was running amuck 6 days a week within a small, windowless restaraunt,

there was this little tune i use to sing as ricky read page after page about

islam politics and foreign affairs.

"david, he hung out in caves,

and joseph was in dungeons,

but i will sing your praise."

so the walls are slimey rocks

and the chains are reasons to rejoice.

for He has not forgotten me.

typical tuesday.

today i started out super crabby,
but thankfully a couple phonecalls from ricky and
some random emails from friends cheered me up.
i love people.
the body always does heal the body.



in other news.



so i've really been into fashion lately.

maybe it's the blogs i'm reading

maybe it's because it's fashion week in newyork

whatever the reason, i'm finding cute stuff everywhere

i just love creativity!!!

in clothes, in writing, in music, in God.

and in decor! the new jerusalem will be such a beautiful place
 - full of colors and design and wonder.
 i imagine parts to be like willy wonka and parts to be like anthropologie
and parts to be like ancient rome and so forth and so on. God is so beautiful!

besides that, life is a lovely time.

i get to be with the man i love,

and while he is away thinking deep thoughts

and discussing world issues

and saving the universe with his intellect & charm,

i get to hide in books, and learn random recipes,

and write things, and dream about my life,

and go on contemplative adventures with the true Lover of my soul.

so all in all,

it is well with my soul.

thrilling thursday.

so we have a blog.

the mr. & the mrs.

i don't know how often anyone will read such a thing ....

but alas it is here, a little blanks slate,

for scrapings, and paintings, and etchings of words and thoughts

musings of allllllll sorts,

and such.

and such

and such.

enjoi.

may the Lord direct your hearts into the love of God…

so come into Your garden

come with me, in your imagination, to a secret place.
close your eyes, if you shall, and enter into the reality within -
ask the Spirit to arise, and take you into the mysteries of the kingdom.
follow me, into touch and feel.
into hear and beats of a rhythm not yet found by men
music and pictures, moving and swirling and spinning, from a different realm.

mysttterrrrrrry -

for here fascination and exhilaration originate.
dancers dance to a moving, whistling winds of love
& singers sing with melodies and harmonies of holy obsession.

let us peer through the window of our souls -
into the Spirit.
the Spirit.
the Spirit.

which is ours, and His, and mine, and His.
and together we fellowship. we commune.
we journey together into the endless, boundless, depths of God.
the unsearchable waters of this Being. this infinite Being.
this never-ending source of Power, and Wisdom, and Beauty, and Love,
and Passion.

join hands with me as we jump off the rugged cliff of the seen
&
let go and violently abandon all that we know...
free fall, with earth above, and heaven below.

fallllllling. the dark storms brewing above, and the memory of His presence
pushing us down, down, down.
the tune that continues to play over and over and over.
the taste that was left upon our tongue.
pushing us further.
further.
forcing us
down
&
down
&
down
&

here we are: falllllling.

listen to the breakers and the waves and breakers of
the depths. the endlessness of the raging waters of GOD.

the souls of seeking ask the terrifying questions:
Who is this One that causes creation to groan?
Who is this One who holds the world together by the sound of His voice?
Who is this One pulling us dowwwwwn....?

and here we are hitting this
water - being swallowed into the sinking of seeking.
Overtaken
by
mystery
by
mystery
by
mystery
by
the Hidden
by
the cloudy, raging, roaring waters of the deeeeep deeeeep wonders of
Him who came booming over Mount Sinai.
who struck down thousands by the waters of the seas
who burned down fire and sulphur onto wickedness
who threw His wrath, intended for men, upon His very own Son.

yet the only option is to
crash into the horizon of water and sky

the waters of this limitless Being:
the whisperings asking, who is this?
who offered His Spirit.
WHO IS THIS vast being - whose waters we have begun to swim...
yet this is only
the beginning...
this is only the beginning...


this is the refusal to be satisfied with words. words. words.
this is the rejection of only peering from afar.

this is beginning the pursuit that eternity won't even exhaust.

cutting the rope.
holding nothing back.
giving up
everything
and falling.
falling,
falllllling
into the neverending Sea.


and we shall swim straight into Him.
and the screams of the skies will be silenced
and the emancipation of the soul will be found.



LET GO.

yet again, there He is.

like a small child on the lap of her father
she rereads the book for the 133rd time
traces her delicate hands over the ragged page
humming the sound she feels would come from the sky
swaying to the beat of the rhyming words

this is her comfort.

growing in an age of the drunken old man
asleep on his pillow of gold.
the earth is his overcoat, and the spirit of the age is
his sleeping pill - drifting him away.

cracked skin and rubbed down knuckles,
he snores to the sound of "comfort, and safety, and pleasure"
and his droning is the fire behind every word being brought forth.
"drink and be merry - for we rule the world"

she didn't choose to be born in this hour.

and she barely understands.

at night, when the wind rattles the window,
we hide in the closets and talk to Jesus.
the earth rumbles, and when the TV's finally turned down,
and the silence is visited,
we know something is about to happen.

and even so,

she didn't choose to be born in this hour.

and she barely understands.


rocks cradled in the arms of the earth,
dirt covered and telling stories,
sing His praises.

deep in the oceans, where men know not of,
they groan for His return,
because even they - lacking spirit and soul -
know something is terribly wrong.

like a little girl, dancing to acoustic strumming and
piano banging, asking to know the God who created her...

believing there's a world to explore in the recesses of
her being.
laying down she sees inside, doors upon doors upon doors
where light creeps from gap between floor and frame.

it's the rooms of the stories of the prophets.
it's the halls of the tears of the martyrs.
it's the longing of all those who have came before her.

an ushering.

she didn't ask to be born in this hour.

and she barely understands.

it's the culmination of the ages.
and the bowls of the cries of the chosen ones burns forth,
and there is such thing as the wrath of the Lamb.

but amidst a scarlet woman on a scarlet beast.
the room where she reads,
the walls to which she sings,
and even the father who raised her up,
flee away.

and
she
hears.

the pages come to life, and the musics volumes shake the floorboards.
she whispers, "HE IS REAL."

this is the
swimming in the dwelling place of God.
He who is a Priest and a Lamb.
He who is slain and rose again.
He who is a servant and a King.

the desire of the nations.

the man of war, drenched in the blood of the wicked.

the Lion of the Tribe of Judah
is roaring.

and the noise rattles her frame,
and she falls to her face - a picture and a sign.
the Bride, so unaware.
the Bride, being called forth.

Oh so distant are the wildernesses in which prophets are born.
Oh so terrible is the sun.
Oh so troubling is the loneliness.
Oh so terrifying is the hour.
Oh so great is our God.

all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Fountain.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Light.

and she is found drinking deeply,
and she is found swimming in the heat of the glory.

as she bellows "I want to be with You where you are"
and as soon as the song is sung, the tenor overtakes
from the depths of His being, the same song,
"I want to be with You where you are."

she didn't ask to be born in this hour.

and she barely understands.

but He is asking for friends.
for His rod of iron shall dash them,
and His wife will be clean.
His glory shall arise in Zion,
and the darkened skies will break,
and nothing will ever be the same.

and so the chorus arises, for those who love His appearing,
"Even so, Come Lord Jesus."

Even so, Come.

Jesus, we want You to come back.

running in the spirit

words. words. words.
how they tire me so.
letters embracing each other into syllables, syntax, sentences...
silent, voiceless little characters.
colorless and lifeless mirages.

you can stare into them, yet they remain
lines perched upon a white sheet.

like grave stones.
like grave stones.

above the dead man.
a hollowed one, a box full of bones

they are only a little, worn out postcard with scribbled ink
soaked up into a photograph
of a distant land

a whirlwind of emotion.

yet in these moments its my only means,
as weak as it seems
to yank out the roaring waters within and push them into an understanding
other than just my own.
for behind these lonely eyes is a circus of reds and yellows
shrieks and swirling MOTTTTIOOOOONNNNN
of hands that have touched, or held, or touched
melodies. backed by symphonies.
strings swelling as my heart, dressed up as a simple, blonde girl
flings herself to and fro like a rag doll
liberated because something within caught a
GLIMPSE of a man named Invisible
a lion roaring in the darkness, and the resounding
sound of passion splatters light
into a once blind heart.

there are visionsssss put on display behind eyelids, that have the
power to burn into a soul
harder, faster, gentler than any embrace found on the outside.

it is wonder.

and it's more than a w-o-n-d-e-r.
it's REALITY because this is touching the hem of LOVE.
which never fades away - when the avalanche of the throne of God
collides into this black abyss we call life.

love shall remain.

and this love that haunts the screen of my spirit is a
rushing waterfall of divinity and fire and screams of
all the abandonments that were worth it, all the trades of petty trinkets for strings and strings and strings of gold,
this is more than i knew i was stepping into
this is more than i was ready for
this is more than this weak one can handle

barred by time, time, time.
skin, skin, skin.
this unglorified being
that rattles the cage of now.
longing plagues this prisoner of hope

for then. when i will see the eyes of flaming fire.
and all this overwhelming beauty that has wounded me and left me mourning for
His coming.
when all of these rhythms and beats dancing to the colors of morning fading into night, night, darkness of waiting. waiting. waiting, the great epic drama locked in by my skin and bones,
singing to me from within... will be set free.


that is when i can do away with these WORDS. words. words.
and paint the harmonies of what i see, feel, live in...
hidden from the outside.
far away.
far away.
far away.
far away from any others.

but for now this postcard of letters is all i have. all i have. all i have to threaten the accusations before my eyes. to throw rejections at the luxurious invitation of self-pity. to keep the chains of despair from crawling back up to my neck.

and so words will be my drug to appease this season of
tension.




and to that the choruses sing, "amen&amen."