A few years back, I surprised Nate with tickets to Handel’s Messiah, but the gift ended up being mine. For two hours I sat fixed on the musicians whose unique expression of personality, diligence, and passion was fused into something that made me worship the One who made them that way.

So much of my life is ordered, it’s easy for me to believe I wasn’t made for creative worship.

Enter writing.

Every once in a while, this mom (whose favorite accessory is her planner) needs to have a place to play her instrument.

So another edition of free-skating

In the wee hours of this morning when my offering was slim and gravity was still pulling my eyelids shut, You met me.

I came empty-handed, and left with another early deposit of my inheritance. It may also be a dowry, as my husband and family are sure to benefit from the strength you are pouring into my weak spirit.

You continue to love me this way.

Over and over again.

You show up most when I am most aware of my depravity, and are not put off by how I’ve failed you. To the contrary, you move in. You engage. You call me up and out.

This morning’s whisper was a building block. Because you are a God who builds. Last week you told me, “every single broken place” in reference to your restoration. “Go for broke,” you said. “I want to redeem it all.”

My mind danced around all the scenarios — from small to big. Stinging words. Severed relationships. Trust awry. Empty womb. Really, God? All of it?

I settle for scraps and get full on morsels.

But not for your daughter.

Feast, you say, not famine. And this morning, you, my father the builder, added to your words.


You are abundance. Abundance can be found in even just your eyes. And at six a.m. I knew it. I became acutely aware of my frame needing the fat that only the father can provide. Compared to all that is found in you, I am starving. And yet I feel like I’ve had my fill.

Oh God, time is short, increase my capacity.

What a shame to stand before you on that day only to find the acres and acres of land, full of harvest, left unexplored simply because I was all- too-satisfied with the castoffs. You will still allow me in, but how I will grieve my missed opportunity on this side for the depth of your touch.

A new kind of portion control.

Expand me on the inside so that I might receive all the fullness you have to offer. Grow my dissatisfaction with anything less than all of you.

Stir up hunger.

Prepare me to receive the abundance of you, God. Now. Not when it’s too late.