See Et Al.

Et al. is a scholarly abbreviation meaning "and others." Seattle, and the surrounding area is flled with many others, whose souls are of the same creator, but whose minds are so different from those fiery Texans who so fiercely run from the truth.

Sharing with my mother and her favored company is mind boggling. The conversation loops in strands with new words, but unaltered meaning. They seem to accept the absolutes of God's person, but then delude them until He is nothing short of an inspirational story, relevant only those who prefer the name Jesus above any of the other seemingly suffiecent titles for good luck deities.

I found that my words were lost, except for these ; to my creator, my maker, my intensely powerful God who sets the times in His hands and yet graciously waits and has mercy on those who so boldly deny Him. Oh potter, make malleable their hearts, and bring them unto Yourself.


They have trained themselves not to doubt,
For doubting is their sin,
"We must never allude to the attitude of the
discontentment that lies within."

They struggle in secret, while their bodies
grow weak,
A hidden illness for the outwardly brave
While they die alone, no one suspects a thing
Just that they found their home amid their cave.

What do I say? For I can not change
I have no words, I fear
It is only the voice f the Holy One,
Which can turn their distant ear.

How dare I think that it rest in my hands,
I've never been one to convince,
But on my knees I will trust in Thee,
For it is with You that their hearts will commence.

coming back

I abandoned this blog almost as quickly as I had I had commenced it, noticing that my only temptation was to blog in sorrow rather than in praise. I have decided that my mind was not at ease for that season in my life and that, though sorrow still finds me, I am ready to engage this world of blogging for the sake of release and not another way to try and impress the world around me.

I want to share my heights and depths and I want to remain in communication of the stuff that fills me and not just the paint on my shell.

There is something to be said of the springtime. While most feel the pangs of loneliness in the winter time, it tends to be the anticipation of summer which leaves me most despaired. However, last spring my agony devoured me, whereas this time I see the healthiness of the season. It is a time for shedding layers. For releasing myself of the skin and scales which built in the short days of cold air and winter skies.

I have a custom of connecting with others, and taking the gift as a supplemental lifeline. It is the IV that pumps into my veins, giving life and breath artificially, until my time runs out. Then, it is guaranteed to fail me; to crumble and I am back to square one. This sin morphs into a variation of degrees, intentions, and executions, but always the same heart and the same result.

On my worst day, I can scream in anger that all who love run, but this is the truth exchanged for a lie. Instead, I have a loving Father, desperate for my attention, and yet also giving me over to my sin by seeing to it that I live out my greatest fear; brought upon myself by the expectation that I misplaced on those who can sustain me not.

Today, I am thankful. Today, I am overwhelmed to see the faces of God's affection change, but the enduring love persists. Today, I can breathe again, not knowing what the future holds, but trusting in His sufficiency for this moment, and not tomorrow who has enough worries of her own.


Nonetheless, the process of letting go will never be an easy one:

Hurriedly, I shuffle, not going anywhere,
Desperately I extend my arms and choke the morning air,
Longingly, I think of times when intimacy was mine,
I mourn among these empty tombs,
and the dust of fallen shrine.

-Jade Winter