February deserves more hype

What brought me to return here, I can't explain. Frankly, I have innumerable thoughts and musings and heartaches to share, and yet I am seemingly at a loss for words. I'm anxious to see what the Lord allows to bubble up here as I ruminate, as I contemplate deeply all He has studied with me. The following words, I imagine, will be a collection of words and prayers and lessons learned in some of the most poignant and deep months of my college time thus far.

"May your Word soak into my bones

May you wring the sin from my mind

May I be purged of uncleanness

Not to declare my victory, but so I

May relish in yours."

-prayer, Feb 11


Coming off of a difficult month, for my mind, my heart, and my hands, I prayed this prayer. The Lord is actively answering this prayer, and is along the way depositing little wealths in my path that awaken me anew to the beauty of this life in Him.

Oddly enough, God has met me in the mist of a quiet morning, and in secular media just the same. I've read a couple novels since January, and watched dozens of films. Wildly, I've found myself practicing prayer with a newfound honesty following this consumption. I wrote in my journal after watching the film Her: "An articulation of what it's like to be lost, and the desire to be found. You see our sin and suffering, and it does not drive you away, but draws you in. You do not resent the condition and needs and longings of your sheep. A complex existence is met with a simple word."

That "word" changes with the seasons. Falling away like crumbling leaves and budding into something new just when we need it. Sometimes that "word" is one word, sometimes an image. Sometimes a person. At the moment, what I can't get out of my mind is this image of a garden: lush, spilling over with exotic florals and trailing vines, and today I see wisteria. I am walking through this garden, ambling through it's winding paths. Not alone, but with my Lord Jesus, less than a pace ahead of me. I follow in the imprints from his feet.

I stop sometimes in this garden. I bend down, looking under a leaf to see a spot that has been tended, but appears bare. Pale lines raked into the earth, no sprouts or signs of life. Not forsaken, but this is something my pride blinds me to.

I am immobile, looking at this small patch. Jesus turns around.

"Why Lord is this longing so strong and the desire not granted?" I ask. "What have I done to deserve this?"

"My child, stand! Look at the abundance before you!"

"But—"

"Do you not believe that I withhold no good thing?"

I stand up. In that moment, I remember that he is right. I also remember that I do not deserve his lovingkindness, his guiding hand. I don't deserve a simple word. My uncleanness warrants silence, wrath, and death.

And yet, Yahweh, the artist of our fine universe and Father to each nation within it, sent his son to walk to Calvary so that he could walk with me. I then, am receiving each day immeasurably more than I could begin to covet, my account is spilling over with unmerited favor. And in the misty Birmingham mornings and on the cobbled streets of New England, and even in the 5 minute drives to a coffee shop on a Monday morning, he offers us love in a thousand forms.


I am captivated.


What a gift that I am offered citizenship in heaven, an inheritance shared with Christ, an invitation out of sin, a transformed, renewed mind, the armor of God, the Spirit's intercession, a constant friend, a lover that out-loves humanity every time, a lamp to my feet, and a beautiful pilgrimage.


So "whatsoever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ" (Col 3:17)

So "I press on to make my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own (Phil 3:12)

So "present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God (Romans 12:1)

And each day, I fervently petition the Lord to awaken me once again to the scenery before me: the lush gardens, the pillowy pastures, the crystal streams. Even through a glass, dimly, I see glimpses of home. And I delight!

From one storyteller to another,

Mary Grace Rowell

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In time for the New