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Solitary Creature.


"Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky."

The Love of God by Fred­er­ick Leh­man.


"They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away."

Isaiah 35: 10 (NIV)


"Even if I never understand why this is happening, I will not deny that You are good, that I am always loved by You, even when the chisel hurts, You are using this to conform me to the image of God."

Ann Voskamp.


I love this woman.

I am never right, yet I insist on arguing.  I dump cans and cans of worms, just to try to feel right and justified in something, but the mess builds beneath my feet, and seeps into the cracks of the floor, where it will surely reappear later.  Why I do this, I’ll never know.  A blind rebellious force in me just wants to drive some point home in everything I do, even if I end up in a fatal accident on the way there (which happens often).  And the fear arises again that I have nothing good or tactful to say.  Who can bear me?  I practically wake up angry and dwell on the bile that turns my stomach to deliberately feed my peevishness.  Do I just think myself above civil kindness?  And most shamefully, I try to go before the Lord with my bile heart.  The hammer of His conviction comes down hard, and I strain to plead innocent, but how can I stand against Him, when He already knows?  The worms emerge from the cracks. 

The place I’m in now is distressingly familiar.  I’m in the place of paranoia that all I do is vanity.  It’s as if I’ve lost the ability to function not only as a person, but as a child of God.  It’s this depression of the mind and soul.  I thought I transcended this a year ago, but I suppose a little relapse is inevitable.  But how guilty I feel.  Where is my strength now?  I drag my feet to pray, not because I feel reluctant to ask the Lord for help, but because I don’t want Him to see me this way.  The outpourings of my heart are broken pieces of glass on the floor, and I sit among the worms.  But the Lord is good, and loves the rebellious, neurotic daughter.  He sits with me, already knowing my heart, and patiently waits for me to lift my head.  And I do.  He washes my feet, the floors, and brings the broken pieces together, like only He can.  He helps me to slowly transcend again, and I rest in His goodness.  He fills the emptiest, deepest parts of me and repairs the damaged fibers of my soul over and over again.    

Wherefore He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.

 Hebrews 7:25 (KJV)







"So it turns out a man’s arms can look the strongest when he’s carrying love in like a gentle surprise. Give me ‘boring’ love any old day — the romance of old love just boring tenderly into each others’ hearts."

Ann Voskamp.

iminyourceiling:

I don’t want to complain anymore.  I want to be full of joy and thanksgiving.  I will allow myself to lament and feel, but I don’t want to gripe about an alleged “horrible lot in life”.  God has given so much grace, so what do I say about myself and Him when I don’t acknowledge it?  Even when I feel that I have been wronged, I want to understand that grace is still present, and I want to be thankful for it.




Thank you very much for everything so far, Studio Ghibli! /ありがとうございます!!

Adventures will continue to start, love to win, trees to grow, wars to rage, castles to move, winds to blow, planes to soar, magic to work, rivers to run and friendships to develop. Through you.



Everything you need to know about me can probably be summed up in a line from The Golden Girls.

I hope to provide you with adequate stalking material.





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