silently

 

“I wish they could talk, like they do in cartoons.”

Ah, but they do, I thought—contemplating how to explain the concept of silent communication to my very talkative eight-year-old sister. Drem is watching me at a distance, ears forward, then flicking back ever so briefly. I thought you came out here to get us for dinner, I hear her say. Then precocious Splash saunters toward me with a saucy tilt to her ears, shying away at the last second and exploding into a quick lope. You can’t catch me! she taunts, nearly aloud, and I play along with her game of tag until her sides heave and her breath comes in rapid snorts.

Equine communication is the reading of body language at its finest. Small shifts in movement, posture, and weight are all it takes to alert the horse beneath me to my mood and level of confidence; likewise, I can enter the corral in tears, and Drem will soon have her head buried comfortingly in my chest. They are experts at deciphering the words never spoken and the feelings never expressed.

I have learned, over my brief seven years of horse ownership, how to interpret some of their language in return. They do speak, though silently; and I only wish I were half as good at understanding them as they are at understanding me.

grace, weekly // 5

 

i. those eleven-degree mornings when the world is silver-plated and diamond-studded in sunrise light.

ii. the wonder of learning and developing as a photographer.

I’m in the middle of a distance-learning professional photography certification course from the New York Institute of Photography right now, and though some of the reading can get a bit dense, I can’t believe that I get to call it my job description to seek out beauty and portray it honestly for hungry eyes.

This is a photo I took for my first course project. I don’t consider it representative of my style at all—I think it’s the first time I’ve ever consciously stopped my aperture down to f/32! But part of learning is trying new techniques from every angle.

iii. opportunities to teach.

I am beginning to realize that along with a love of learning, I find tremendous joy in teaching. On Sunday night, I spent an hour giving a presentation to my church about my experiences in Israel, and my favorite part was teaching about the culture and Biblical history there. On Monday, I got to take my little sister riding and teach her how to control my horse. And this morning I got to teach her how to diagram sentences in English while Mom was gone. :)

iv. horses—pure power, beauty, and speed packaged in a form of delicate legs and huge muscles.

v. quiet, lonesome morning walks.

I walk every day—because I can’t not. It’s when I get time to breathe, to pray, to think—without having to be doing. It’s the time when I can, for three-quarters of an hour, just be.

vi. words:

I found these words tucked inside this gem of an article. It was a timely and convicting reminder.

vii. music:

Listen, and breathe in the reality that He can redeem you from anything.

viii. Bible:

Let your conduct be without covetousness; be content with such things as you have. For He Himself has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Hebrews 13:5

In all honesty, this has been a hard post for me to write this week. Some of the blessings I’m listing here really were “wow” moments, but as the week wore on they faded into a noisy background of stress and worry and fear.

Fear. It is the antithesis of trust, the opposite of joy, and the father of many wicked children—discontentment, worry, covetousness, and the horrific stress that they cause. It is the subconscious statement of the heart: “I do not believe that God is with me, that God cares for me, or that God is in perfect control of my life.”

And there it is.

Reading between the lines of my anxious heart, I find a painful truth.

The reason that I so desperately want control over my life is that I truly do not believe that anyone—even God—loves me as much as I love myself.

Ouch.

 

 

 

<center><a href="http://halliejophotography.blogspot.com/search/label/grace%20weekly" target="_blank"><img alt="Hallie Jo Photography" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8JQp9aHkWjN873iY-8FzwCZI8UjVHW7geUKwXxz5Kd12zTgtDJo0sriNWjVzsGlV6s8xbpbR8U53_tj67EvMZmSPTQBx6sacRqLPNITCDC8IkUGEX8o8byBQZYvW9jNLUhpR7W6ldKo8/s207-p-no/" /></a></center>

thoughts for a thursday afternoon

There is a celebration of “toughness” in society these days. I see it everywhere—an attitude especially prevalent in women, who have been brought up by a feminist generation determined to throw off the typecasting of being soft, compassionate homemakers who genuinely care for those around them. Even in people I know to be capable of deep feeling, there is an exterior prickliness that holds the rest of the world at arm’s length.

I have met several women who take pride in their hostile outer shell. There are certain bragging rights that accompany the ability to intimidate men, manipulate other women, or strike fear in children. I, too, have been tempted by the benefits of such a heart-fortress: the outward appearance of strength, the ability to detach, less of the pain that comes from really caring.

It’s easier. It doesn’t require the resilience of an oft-broken heart. It doesn’t demand us to lay our lives down by day or pray through tears by night. It draws a neat blindfold over the part of our heart that really sees other people—the part that is courageous, the part that is compassionate, the part that protects the unprotected and defends the defenseless. When I allow this wall to go up, I can see my my actions become selfish and hear my words turn cold.

And through a haze of clouded vision, I read:

“When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and was troubled, and said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to Him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus wept. So the Jews were saying, ‘See how He loved him!’” John 11:33-36

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, who kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to her! How often I wanted to gather your children together, the way a hen gathers chicks under her wings, and you were unwilling.” Matthew 23:37

“When they came to the place called The Skull, there they crucified Him and the criminals, one on the right and the other on the left. But Jesus was saying, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’” Luke 23:33-34a

“I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd lays down His life for the sheep.” John 10:11

The strongest Person I know didn’t have to prove His strength by being tough and stiff-necked. He proved it by laying down His life—daily as well as literally—to invest in the hearts and lives of people who were hopelessly lost without Him. He saw the needy, the sick, the broken, the sin-dead—not with eyes of cold indifference, but with eyes of compassion, of unconditional love.

As a human being, I am created to follow His example (Genesis 1:27). As a woman, I am called to live out His precious gentleness in the home and everywhere else (1 Peter 3:3-4). As a follower of Christ, I am commanded to be an accurate representation of my Savior (John 13:34-35).

Hardheartedness is certainly trendier, certainly easier—but Jesus Himself is proof of the power of soft hearts. It’s the heart that loves, breaks, and forgives that, beyond the nondescript thresholds of family homes and churches, can truly change the world.

the evolution of a thunderstorm

It was the kind of storm you could literally watch racing across the sky toward you. First billowy white thunderheads, then their dark blue undersides; a deafening stillness and then a mighty wind. Dust thickened the air. Leaves swirled. The sky darkened like twilight. The flashes and rumbles began, followed by the fresh scent of summer rain.
This is one of my favorite scenes on the dry Eastern Washington plains.

gettysburg: 150 years later

 

I crossed something off my bucket list yesterday as I walked the actual fields and woods where the battles of Gettysburg took place. The grass is long and dry and rustles inconspicuously in the breeze, while split-rail fences meander in a zigzag pattern between the peach orchard and the road. Trees line the horizon in every direction. Throughout the wide open space, various stone monuments are scattered, rising with dignity from the ordinary pastureland to commemorate the many soldiers who fought and bled and died on it.

None of these pictures were taken there—all of them are from the reenactment grounds on the opposite side of Gettysburg. I took pictures at the real battlefield as well, but they just didn’t quite capture the character of the site somehow. The quiet humbleness seemed to get lost in translation—the subtle sense of awe, not in a breathtaking vista, but in the sober reality of what this piece of ground witnessed 150 years ago. It became the signature location of a turning point not merely in a war, but in United States history. Its soil drank the blood of thousands of young Americans in the span of a few days. It is a place that softly reminds us that our “indivisible” nation was once torn from one end to the other in the most violent of possible ways—but only because both sides were on a quest to achieve liberty and justice for all, and neither would give up easily.

i miss you

 

Seven days. Short enough that I wished it was longer, yet long enough to be an almost cruel taste of togetherness before he had to fly back to Washington. But every day was beautiful, showing him a week in my life as a Bible student in Florida. And I’m thankful.