Welcome to the Blog
Pour That Second Cup of Coffee + Get Cozy
Sam, will you go to prom with me?
Take me to church.
An open letter to Joe.
I’m never going to be able to go to God at the end of this and give him an inventory of my faith that consists of a cross, and a bible, and a pew. I am going to say the inventory of my faith was a lot of uncertainty, a few bad Tinder dates, a good mother, the feeling of grace, a yellow room, the play Les Miserables, a slew of coffee shops, and you.
Good morning Baltimore.
Why did the spider cross the road?
Old Camel Knees. 9 parts.
Honestly— I don’t think God has any care for me being good or perfect. He just wants me. All of me. And how do I wrestle a thing like that— a thing like communicating with him just because my heart is needy and empty— to the ground?
I need you to lean left.
Staying in the dark is easy because it's a hell you can control.
War is over (if you want it)
I know you’re out there laying awake at night. Whispering mistakes into the night. I know that when the phone screen doesn’t light up in the way you hoped it would, you’re a bit devastated. You wanted so badly to hear from him tonight.
Please proceed to step out of the woods.
Welcome to the valley.
You are not forgotten in all of this, you are becoming something new. Lay down your armor. Meet things face-to-face. Let the work be done. Let the slow and quiet work be done right.
Do what it takes to make me your gold.
You get to lay down your armor too.
It’s easier to touch a lot of lives instead of laying your hands upon a few and refusing to let go.
Little thing.
Loving someone is a process. Whether that’s God, or that’s another sticky human, it’s a process.
A dirty, little gospel.
Saying “I am a Christian” is taking a risk. It’s giving you an open door to not like me because of what other people have told you about me. You've read of me in the papers. You've seen me on the news.
We cannot stay here any longer.
Take my hand. Don't even turn your head to look back. We're gonna try forward and I promise, I promise, you'll weep for joy when you find it fits you like an old lover's sweatshirt in the night winds of April.
This ain't no pretty Christian story.
And he's been waiting on my return to load the shingles with icing and guard the doors with candy canes.
We construct God out of the things we know to be true of humans. So He becomes a conditional lover. He becomes a gossip among angels. He strikes tallies against us on chalkboard in the sky. He rips the winged petals of daisies off, "I love you, I LOVE YOU NOT..."
HolderOfYourHand@gmail.com
I was done with how the world told me I SHOULD respond to God. I was done with perfect little prayers. I was over, SO OVER, feeling like I could only reach him some of the time. Mainly in the mornings. When I was extra holy. And not sinning.
You were made for mighty things.
Darling, darling, hear me good: The dark has stars that poke through the sky and the light, the light that pours on through, is thicker than you know.
Trust me, trust me, I am the road map much grander than you.
My "religion" holds rest in its corners and surrender in its pockets, people don't take too kindly to that sort of order.