Archive for January, 2013

January 14, 2013

I don’t want to be a virgin anymore.

Up the ladder to the roof.
January 3, 2013

Seven years ago, and almost unbelievable that it’s been that long, seven years ago today my toes were tucked into the famous pink sands of Eleuthera.

I was two days in to what would be the best week of my life.

It was the week that nothing mattered but my hands, my heart, our hands, our hearts.

Six women joined me on three flights to the tiny island that needed Jesus.
Because even tiny islands need Him.

Somewhere between the making breakfast and the painting and hammering and singing and teaching, somewhere around sips of sweet punch and through the indescribable surf, all that mattered was that we wanted to help, we wanted to love.

We went to bed with sunkissed smiles curled on our faces, even if the sand fleas hopped maddeningly around our legs.

And in the days of no makeup and peach skies and kids in our laps and conch shells within every reach, I realized that the nudging to get there, the nudging that’d poked at my insides during a cold Ohio autumn & winter was something that deserved attention.

We helped, we laughed a lot, we knotted tight our friendships, and we came back thankful.  And we were so connected from working side by side, we had a shared experience, and a joyous one at that. The blessing we felt was rich & thick on our spirits… we weren’t hollow from blessing others, from giving, we were more-than-far from hollow.

This last week, tucked under my roof and my old blankets were two beloveds.

Four years ago these two joined me on a not-so-tiny island that needed Jesus.
Because even The Big Apple needs Him.

We spent much much longer than a week working side by side, and this shared experience was seeded with just as much hard hurt as it was with joy.

But here we were, all these years later, and that tight knot of friendship? …not one thread unraveled.
We spent the days laughing. …laughing and talking and daydreaming out loud, asking for advice and passing around hefty heaps of memories.

There was something about that season that we shared that was absolutely, without a doubt, on purpose.

Life doesn’t always seem to be dished on purpose, designed on purpose, enjoyed on purpose, lived on purpose…

And in the nooks between intentional seasons, or, in my case, in the football fields of valley-dom that lie between the eensy crannies of hilltop beauty & purpose… is it about being satiated or is it about fighting for the hilltop?