The Writer/ misplaced awe part 2

Isaiah 64:8
Yet you, LORD, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand.


"why don't you be the artist and make me out of clay.."


How easy it is to hope in a person. Reflecting on the human condition/tendency to make another person too supreme, to even shape ourselves into what the person we love desires, I realized that what I've been guilty of, is simply misplaced awe. Too enamored with created ones, when all should point back to the creator? According to scripture, we are to be shaped by God, to be in awe of him, and yet how easy it is to give this role to a mere human... How difficult it is to love, trust, and adore that which is less tangible than human flesh..


"don't adore what is impossible...
don't you love what is intangible"

sacred questions

the mystery between our work and God's. between the return of our good work that may appear empty at the time. do things truly resonate in eternity? is it only the good things we do? what about our mistakes? if God "blesses your good choices" what does he do with the bad ones? is growth and progress because i am strong and a fighter or purely grace? what is the role of God in our toil and suffering? what is mine?

misplaced awe

girl, i know!
what a beautiful song :)

eggs in one basket..






You wait for a silence
I wait for a word
Lie next to your frame
Girl unobserved
You change your position
And you are changing me
Casting these shadows
Where they shouldn't be

We're interrupted by the heat of the sun
Trying to prevent what's already begun
You're just a body
I can smell your skin
And when I feel it, you're wearing thin

But I've got a plan
Why don't you be the artist; and make me out of clay?
Why don't you be the writer and decide the words I say?
Because I'd rather pretend
I'll still be there at the end
Only it's too hard to ask... won't you try to help me

Sat on your sofa...it's all broken springs
This isn't the place for those violin strings
I try out a smile and I aim it at you
You must have missed it
You always do

But I've got a plan
Why don't you be the artist; and make me out of clay?
Why don't you be the writer and decide the words I say?
Because I'd rather pretend
I'll still be there at the end
Only it's too hard to ask... won't you try to help me

You wait, I wait, casting shadows, interrupted
You wait, I wait, casting shadows, interrupted
You wait, I wait, casting shadows, interrupted
You wait, I wait, casting shadows

Why don't you be the artist; and make me out of clay?
Why don't you be the writer and decide the words I say?
Because I'd rather pretend
I'll still be there at the end
Only it's too hard to ask... won't you try to help me

Why don't you be the artist; and make me out of clay?
Why don't you be the writer and decide the words I say?
Because I'd rather pretend
I'll still be there at the end
Only it's too hard to ask... won't you try to help me