Mountain. (Dear you, pt. 19)

Did you lose it?

Or did you just stop looking?

The view from over here is wild;

It’s grand;

It’s unobstructed.

And I think the craziest part -

The part that hits me the most -

Is that it was never really hidden the way that I thought it was.

From the bottom of the valley it’s hard to see the horizon,

But the horizon never moved. 

So why did we move?

Did you lose it?

Or did you just stop looking?

Maybe the mountains that were obstructing the view were self-made;

Altars of complacency,

Built as monuments to the wrong things.

And maybe instead of looking to those monuments,

Hoping to stare into the past longing for distant fleeting pleasure,

We can stare into the present.

The present. 

Did you lose it?

Or did you just stop looking?

There’s no mountain in front of us,

Because the Mountain-Maker placed us on top of the mountain instead.

And maybe instead of looking down at the bottom,

Where we feel paralyzed at times by the sheer magnitude of it all,

We should look forward,

Looking toward the beauty around us and ahead of us;

Looking at the joy of life and the miracle of belonging. 

Maybe we stop scaling the mountain alone,

And we realize that it’s so much better climbing with a team.

Maybe we stop using the mountains as monuments and use the Mountain-Maker as a living compass.

Dear you,

Did you lose it?

Or did you just stop looking?

Because it’s here.

It’s wild.

And it’s waiting for you to enjoy the view.

wait/weight (dear you, pt. 18)

there’s wisdom in waiting -

that’s what i’ve been told my whole life.

and i never entirely understood it,

because i’ve always looked to now;

to instant;

to the things that i wanted, whenever.

there’s wisdom in waiting -

and so i waited.

through calm and through hurricanes;

through peace and war;

through hell and back -

waited for provision,





i waited for a restored life,

against my own will at times,

hoping without trusting.

there’s wisdom in waiting -

and so i surrendered.

i surrendered to the waiting;

to the Plan-Maker;

to the Promise Keeper;

to the hope that God works all things together.

and oh, how sweet it was -

to receive rest,




and -

my greatest gift -


there’s wisdom in waiting -

and that waiting brought me to love;

to a love that embodies everything about the Maker of love;

to a love that radiates the warmth of Light;

to a love that emanates the joy of the Father;

to a love that reflects the beauty of the Author.

to you -

my love,

my greatest gift.

there’s wisdom in waiting -

and right now,

i’m waiting again,

for what feels like an eternity,

to embrace you again.

it’s a waiting that i never knew the weight of -

because we don’t think about the weight of the wait -

but it’s a wait with a promise.

a promise,

that the waiting is worth both the weight and the wait.

a promise to reunite,

and that the hole left here in my heart that longs for your embrace will be filled -

because the one who formed my heart in the first place is faithful enough to hold it together for me and with me.

dear you,

there’s wisdom in waiting,

and you’ve been more than worth the weight.

weightless (dear you, pt. 17)

there’s no burden in weightlessness;

no chains in letting go.

these things that we carried for so long,

they buried us while we were too stubborn to say ‘no.’

stubborn? or mesmerized?

it’s hard to tell sometimes.

we become so accustomed to these patterns,

these people,

these choices,

that they began to look like all we had left.

and, for the longest time,

it felt like it was all i had left.

discovering who i was meant a lot of learning who i wasn’t.

the weight of who you aren’t can feel crushing,

as if our shortcomings are irreparably set in stone,

and all of a sudden we find ourselves chained to a reality that we want no part of.

but the beauty of weightlessness,

is that there are no chains,

except for the ones that keep you anchored to the shore.

the beauty of weightlessness

is that life feels manageable again.

the beauty of weightlessness

is that it’s so much fun to dream again.

dear you,

i’m dreaming again,

and this time,

i’m weightless.

let go, hold on. (dear you, pt. 16)

the biggest weight we carry

is the one that we’ve convinced ourselves we deserve.

or, at least i used to think that.


i’m pretty certain that our biggest burden

is the one that we’ve enabled others to stack onto us.

because most of the time,

at least with most people i know,

they have no idea how heavy their words are.

words of lead;

words of cement;

words that on their own may not have much pull,

but when compounded with our own thoughts and insecurities,

those words feel like a glue that we can’t get out of.

and instead of scraping them off slowly,

and peeling back at the layers,

we want to take a jackhammer and destroy the whole thing.

but, you see,

a jackhammer is messy and noisy.

it disrupts everything around us;

it lacks nuance.

dear you,

i watch the weight that you’ve allowed others’ words to pile onto you.

and i know that weight very well,

because i’ve been there,

desperate to please everyone,

but too closed-handed to allow anyone to take the reigns other than myself.

i know the feeling -

the feeling that nobody is on your side,

that everyone has a criticism but nobody has a helping hand.

i know what it feels like to try your best while feeling trapped in the same repeating cycles.

someone once told me that i need to stop ‘trying my best’,

and i was pretty angry at them,

because i didn’t really trust their heart.

but the more that i’ve thought about it,

the more it made sense.

trying your best will only get you so far,

and so i have to shift -

stop trying my best,

and start accepting God’s best -


the literal embodiment of God’s best.

letting go is painful,

because familiarity breeds comfort.

but comfort is death.

let go.

let go of control,

let go of condemnation,

let go of habits that need to go,

let go of people that don’t point you to Jesus,

let go of fears that cripple you,

let go of desires that hold you back,

let go of it all.

hold on.

hold on to hope.

hold on to love - true love.

hold on to grace.

hold on to healing.

hold on to laughter.

hold on to necessary tears.

hold on to those who are willing to keep their arms stretched out to you no matter how tough.

hold on to you.

hold on to me.

hold on to Him.

dear you,

let go.

hold on.

breathe. (dear you, pt. 15)

the toughest part about breathing,

i think,

is thinking about breathing.

once your conscious mind starts thinking about breathing,

you’re stuck thinking about it.

no turning back.

and so what was once such a natural function to you

is no longer effortless.

at least, temporarily.

give it a few minutes, and the thought usually wears off.

it’s transferred back to your subconscious and you can just let your body and brain and heart and lungs do their thing.

you see,

that’s how things are divided.

conscious and subconscious.

automatic and manual.

routine and ritual.

it’s important to distinguish between the two.

it’s important to discern what goes on which side.

it’s also very easy to lose track.

because breathing is a given.

but i think i lump too much into the subconscious,

and so i miss things that matter

because i’m so focused on the things that i’ve already inaccurately placed in my list of things that go on the conscious side.

and again we’re back to the noise.

it’s why i haven’t been listening to you.

(either/any of you for that matter - because there’s a lot of people i haven’t been listening to.)

i think i fear you telling me what is out of place,

because chaos quickly becomes comfortable to me.

isolation is easy when life feels like a hurricane,

because we tell ourselves that it’ll be safer for everyone else to just wait on the harbor so that we can keep them out of the storm.

but maybe the shore is there for a reason,

and the storm isn’t following us. we just keep chasing it instead of getting out of the water and onto the safety of dry land.

dear you,

i get it.

just give me some time.

let me come to the shore,

because it looks good and i miss standing in security.

and please,

throw some ropes out here,

because while you’ve been on the shore for quite some time,

long enough for it to become subconscious for you,

i’m still thinking about each breath.