It’s one of those picturesque autumnal mornings– grey and damp, the mist so heavy it begins to form into a drizzle, the trees aflame as if set to a slow burn by some invisible dragon, their blazing orange and red leaves littering sidewalk and lawn, fallen sentries to the season’s change.
I should be studying, or reading, or working on my script, or any of the hundreds of other priorities I have clamouring for my attention.
Instead, I’m thinking about rain.
About walking, running, dancing in sheets of it as it falls, utterly soaked to the skin and perfectly happy. Of standing arms outstretched, face turned up, attempting to catch it all, and being overcome with a divine, perfect sense of peace in the midst of a chaotic beating. Of dripping my way indoors from the street and into the warm arms of home, sitting on the kitchen floor, swaddled in a towel, hands wrapped around a cup of tea; “you have not known true joy until you have waltzed in the rain.”
I’m also thinking about the deluge of God’s love, the torrential downpour of His mercy and grace and even the storms of His righteous wrath. I am thinking about the constancy of His inescapable presence, His nearness despite my feeling far, the cleansing peace of His perfect promises.
He will come to us like rain, causing streams to run in the desert and dry bones to rejoice.
He will come to us like rain, making all things new.
He will come to us like rain.



Sunday-paper comics, hard-wood floors, a tall vase of fresh flowers, and the smell of clean linen; a tea mug stain on old paper, an oversized sweater and thick socks. The rush of an early Manhattan morning– the push and pull of people, the steam that rises from the sidewalk vents, the passing smell of roasted peanuts, the crisp fall air. Soft paws and deep-throated purrs, the clinging warmth of the blankets after a long night’s sleep, a long, standing embrace, the sound of rain on the world beyond the window. Abandoned buildings, vines growing up and over the sides, through broken panes, and across derelict tiles. Orchestras tuning up and symphonies in empty rooms, waltzing in the dark. Counting clouds, the smooth coarseness of sand, the crash and spray of the salt-sea. Eye contact, comfortable silence. An old book. A new one too. The sincerity of prayer.

These are a few of my favourite things.



There is a house far and away that collects the things lost in time–letters never sent, tattered pages fallen from books, and toys abandoned in play and kicked under the bed, neglected. The basement shelters boxes of memories long forgotten, the attic houses dreams deserted by their sehnsucht minds.

The floor, a once smooth surface, is now scraped and dented, worn with grooves by the years of passing feet and dragging chairs. The walls still echo silently with the laughter, the arguments, the whispered secrets that once filled a million other rooms. The building itself stands forlorn and sentry-like on a mist-covered hill, the only landmark for miles. It’s callers are few, but those who visit find either moments of nostalgic delight or hours of dissatisfied solivagance and regret.

It all depends on the length of your stay.



My rings have been breaking.

It started with the pinch of a broken band, an unexpected and alarming discovery that wouldn’t be fixed after several applications of superglue. I continued to wear it-a traditional heart held by two nontraditional Celtic knots-taking care not to stress and play with it in my absentminded habits, until it snapped into threes this morning.
The second happened all at once, the floss-thin silver immediately destroyed beyond repair.

I had four, now I have two– these carefully selected, sterling-silver bands invested with meaning and worn so long that they’ve perfectly formed to my hand, and I feel oddly naked without them. It’s amazing how easily I attach symbolism to objects and occurrences, second only to how alarmingly attached to the items themselves I then become. I’ve struggled over the line I feel I sometimes ambivalently straddle between iconoclastic idolatry and mere figure, how inhibited I become by the meanings I sometime endow, and the question of sin that traces its black mark indelibly throughout. I’ve also begun to understand that my preoccupation with the past is largely fueled by my blind refusal to move on. The two issues meet in the middle over things as small as the four covenantal promises to never forget that are housed on my left-hand fingers.

Covenantal promises that began to break in the midst of so much that was already shattering; questions I haven’t wanted to ask with answers I don’t like to accept, adopted apathy for the sake of self-defense, and roots grown in the ground of fear, based on limited, painful experience and shame. All things bound up in the symbolism of two rings that have just as symbolically begun to pass away, as all things will. And when the dust and broken pieces settle there remains the realisation that my identity is not in the things of my past but the One into whose image I am being (slowly, painfully) transformed. That I’ve already been set free from it all, and there is no image and symbol in breaking but that of Christ and His body that can truly convey the depth of this release.

I threw away my broken bits of silver in a random school rubbish bin and thought about Judas’ thirty pieces on the floor of the temple, the irony of tangible symbolism, and my remaining two rings.


All effortless,
Dancing peace.
Dipflow of brush,
Inkswirl of pen,
The reincarnation of emotion onto blank page;
The imperfect interpretation
Of tangled lines that tie
The head to the heart
To heliophilic soul,
Peering into eternity and yet,
Bound to the present.
The thought
The action,
And the shadows in between.

{Darkness over the surface of the deep,
And the Spirit of God hovering over the waters}

Come to the Well



One of my favourite Biblical encounters during Jesus’ earthly ministry is the story of the woman at the well. There are many reasons behind this, a few being His seemingly plucky disregard of social norms as He reached out to a woman whose race He was instructed by society and tradition to ignore. It was just one more way He was signifying the changes to come, excusing strict adherence to the law and direct punishment for unpardonable sins in favour of freedom and forgiveness through an indescribably difficult sacrifice.

But above all I love the symbolism of the water, the meeting at the well; a place where water is not only drawn out, but expected. You do not go to a well wondering if there will be water or not, you expect to find it, and that in abundance. There is the knowledge, though, that haunts all things on this earth; that nothing lasts forever, that scarcity is the only thing in true abundance– that all things end. It is the shadow of the invisible beast that sinks its teeth of despair into our joy.

Imagine being the one with the trail of mistakes littered behind you that have led you to sit at alone at the well of dissatisfaction. Perhaps this isn’t too hard for you to conjure—scars from the past visible enough to leave you feeling isolated, abandoned by others who would have nothing to do with you and your shortcomings. You come to the well for the water that will sustain and clean you enough to leave a temporary semblance of fulfillment. But even your time at the well is tainted and torn, because you come alone to avoid meeting those who have deserted you lest your flaws adhere to them, the irrational fears of the self-righteous hypocrites. You come to the well expecting to be alone, but meet instead the lover of your soul.

And He sees your scars; He sees the path of pain trailing in your wake. He points out your past and you turn to leave, but He begins to speak in love of a new and ageless well of the purest waters that forever run. A well you need only visit once to be fulfilled, and you see in your mind a gathering place where you are free from disgrace and not only are you filled but healed, cleaned from every stain you ever tried to hide. Your disappointment is only brief when you discover these waters cannot be consumed but by the heart and for the soul, for no sooner do you ask but you receive.

I have found myself coming to the well again and again these past several weeks, parched and exhausted, seeking hope and life—yearning for a purpose that I seem to lose the moment I wander away. Every Wednesday my sisters from Story Sessions gather to reconstruct a version of this well, a meeting place where we can bring our burdens, and pass the waters of prayer and healing. I often ask  myself why I cannot seem to stay quenched when I leave the well’s walls, but I realize that as long as we are cursed with sin we will always be in thirst. The trick is to carry the water with you and remember to drink deep, and drink often.

And so, dear reader, with your scars and mistakes and fears; you are no different as you approach this well. You’ve tried so many others- I did too- but found them lacking. But here there is water in abundance, here you pull from a source fathoms deep that will not only heal and revive, but will never run dry.

I invite you to come and forget the past in favour of the future.
To follow the streams that run even in the desert.
To know hope and love, and to know it eternally.
I invite you to drink living water and not only know life
But know it abundantly.​


{picture via}