Free Write… on grace and ripe purple
I look outside and see the squirrel dangling from the tree, so playful and lost in his own wonder, and I wonder too. Wonder what it’s like to call a tree my home. Sometimes I feel so bogged down with home and work and all that is required of me. Full days. Yawning, stretching days. There is so much, it feels, so much to do and accomplish and work.
Rest. I keep hearing about your rest, God, and I wonder what that means. To enter into your rest. To let you lift while I rest. This feels wrong to me. Shouldn’t I be working, working hard for you? I feel good with work and effort and striving. I am so accustomed to this. I am not accustomed to rest, to grace. To the idea of you working through me. What does that even mean? How does that actually happen? It’s too great a mystery for me to unpack with my tools of words and letters. God, working through, woman.
I want your grace, God. I keep hearing about it, everywhere. Grace. Grace. Grace. The word is nearly meaningless to me. I’ve heard it so much. In song. In book. In scripture. It’s everywhere, like dew that you don’t even notice on the morning grass. It’s so everywhere. What is it God? Will you tell me? What is grace? Your grace. How do I live with a burden that is light and a yoke that is easy? Why do things still feel hard if your yoke is easy? There is a disconnect. Surely. Somewhere inside me. A disconnect.
I feel this disconnect in my writing. I feel as though I’m striving to reflect you, and I can’t seem to manage it. Can’t manufacture this connecting on my own. My writing feels gray and you are color. You are fat, plump red and hot blue and ripe purple. You are color. So much color. Oh God, I am your creation, your daughter. You made me colorful too. Help me, God. Help me live out my color in this gray world. Live out color. Grace. Light burden. Easy yoke. Teach me, oh God. Teach me for I fear I know so little. I pretend to know more. I pretend to know so much about your love and grace and kindness, but God, I still feel like such a small student. Teach me, God. Won’t you? Teach me how to write and live your grace. Give meaning to the word. It’s lost on me. I want to be found.
Okay. Wow. That’s what’s going on in my head apparently. Free writing exposes so much. How do you guys feel about loose journaling like this? Does it help you unclog your artist pores?