Chosen; My Soul Sacred.

"She does him good, not harm, all the days of her life." Proverbs 31:12

"But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God..." I Peter 2:4

I did a visual exercise with my campers, and with my 8th graders. In both, I started with a red construction-paper heart. And through the process of story, slowly rip it apart. Pieces falling and coming off for each time she meets someone new who enters her heart, for each first kiss, for each time she goes a little bit farther.... Pieces falling. Pieces, tattered and broken off. Pieces given away.... And when she meets The One, she gives him what's left of her heart...

I wonder what that looks like for me now. What portions are left, scattered, frayed, manipulated, in my hand. Where sections of it lie. Where partitions have been blocked away, given, or stolen.

A wise friend once commented something like: "things only have value if we given them value, by only giving chosen access..." And the keys of our heart, are ours to hold.

I think I've given my keys away to beholders that don't understand the sacredness of the space.

Today, I was thinking, deeply (surprise!) and marking my way, my path, my life, through this maize of verses and was struck with one thought, that I had to write down...

Keep my soul sacred for him....

What does that mean? It means, I belong to my lover, and my lover to I. It means protecting and guarding. It means seeing that I am a chosen woman. A loved, a wanted woman. Right now, by singularly God. But eventually, by the Lord's chosen for me. And I am called to protect myself and our life together now already; all the days of my life. Like a garden. Growing.

It means, it's messy. Wondering how to keep this heart, this sacred space loved and available to my friends, and the men in my life. By not locking the gate or access to it, but allowing it to be known and loved... by somehow equating that with the balance of knowing who it is for, and allowing him to have the fullest of rights and access... And not playing around with fake versions.

Sometimes I wear rings on my wedding finger. It started as rebellion and confidence, feeling strongly that I shouldn't have to wait to be 'in the club' or seen as whole by wearing this ring, so it was a way of blending and playing around... But it has turned into so much more.

Somehow, putting on that ring, makes me feel chosen.

There is never a day where I don't put a ring on my fourth finger without that feeling. As if loved and blessed and wanted and taken and chosen. Fuller. Complete.

Its the beginning of that feeling of what is sacred.

I am a chosen woman, a royal priesthood, a holy [set apart] woman (I Peter 2:4). And because of that, I am a sacred soul. For His use, and for the fullness of the One he chooses for me. And in that, I will tend to this garden, this growing, and do him good and not harm, all the days of my life.

Her Mother.

Isn't it interesting that in 26 years of celebrating Mother's Day, I never gave thought to my mother not having her mother?

Godly & Sexy.

Godly and sexy can go together.

Sometimes, we try to separate them. Labeling one bad, the other good. And draw lines in the sand. Which not only separate us, but our marriages.

Sexy doesn't have to mean trashy.

It can be alluring, fun, grounded, confident, playful, sultry.

Sexy.

Godly.

This is Friendship.

My friend spoke these words over me this weekend. His covering of words, allowing display of friendship...

"No, I like you like this." He said as he held me at the elbows, distant enough to be safe in a plethora of company, but close enough to know I was still safe with him.

But I replied, "No, I hate being like this. I hate being drama. Drama girls drive me crazy."

"No." He protested, moving his hands to my arms.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." My apologies refuted by his shaking head. "No, seriously, I'm sorry, I don't like being like this..."

"Stop it. Stop right there." He looked over my face until I couldn't help but have to gaze straight into honest eyes and hold the weight of the truth there. "This is friendship. This is who you are. And I want our friendship this way. You're sensitive and caring and honest and up and down. That's you. So stop apologizing. That's how this friendship needs to be. All of it. Not pieces."

My tongue lay silenced against my cheek, my heart settled by such striking vigilance. To take all of me? To not judge the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the joys and struggles? To take all of it the same way and carry it, need it, weigh it, find it, label it. True depth, need, honesty: friendship.

To be taken: Whole.

Silenced. Cupped elbows. Opened by words. Settled by Truth.

Prisoners of Hope.

"O Prisoners of Hope" ~ Zechariah 9:12

Caught. But released. The physical may be chained, bound by the rapture of this world -- iron, cords, walls of the cells. The circumstances, cycles, circles of friends. Sold. captive. Caught. Prisoner in the world.

"But I move forward..." sings Bethany Dillion. "Our hope endures," adds Natalie Grant. Hope. Character. Purpose. Validity. Peaceful rest in contented soul. Even amidst strife or scattered circumstances.

Prisoner of Hope.

God's people were prisoners of hope. Waiting for the Savior; waiting for freedoms as captives. Babylon. Assyria. Persia. Locked. Chain. Dusted with harsh labor and counter-culture climate. Struggling against kings and legality and sin and injustice. Chained. Captive. Wrought in iron. Prisoners of Hope.

God's people are prisoners of hope. Waiting. Looking. Aiming for hope. For life. For eternity. For His good things. Today, always, we are prisoners of hope.

The Opposite.

I re-bought my house today.

And sat on the floor of Barnes and Noble

And cried.

I held her book in my hand --

She called and said

"Don't stop

Don't pass go

Head straight to the store

And buy this book

Its the second book in four days

I've read."

Miracle.

Joy and fullness in her voice.

So tonight,

I went and held it in my hands

Choosing to See.

Leaned against the bookshelves

My legs propped up

Before me

And cried.

About alone.

About a house.

About a family who loss.

About hope.

I bought a house today

And cried.

Playing the Part.

Trish and I arrived to Queens Cup Steeplechase laughing and talking about how we feel like we're playing the part, pretending to be the role in some great showcase.

It's a beautiful array of hats, dresses, seer sucker, bow ties, and the best of the South. Jockeys mount, dollars are bet, wine is toasted, and the corn hole is tossed.

The man in the car next to us smiled and remarked something about how should keep pretending, and he knows how we feel. He grinned, his convertible top slowly lowering to cover his elite car; his Quail Hallow Championship golf shirt embroidered. He was the real deal. He added relaxed words about the enjoyment of playing the part, and how we should just keep doing it.

We smiled.

Then fanned back our hair, to walk in our dresses and hats...