Five Minute FridayHere’s the deal. Five Minute Friday. You go find the little prompt at the wonderful Lisa-Jo’s blog, set the time and write for five minutes, and then just stop. Where you are, no edits, just publish raw words.



It’s funny, because I feel like we’ve done this word before.

And then I think to myself, “when did we ever stop being broken?”

I break and He heals and I crack a little bit more, but this time love seeps out because He has filled.

When I am most empty inside, He fills me back up with that pitcher full of grace.

Last week I wrote of Belong and these words escaped my fingertips:

My life is a string of un-accidents, gloriously painted by the Artist who can see the masterpiece of my life, when all I recognize is a mess of imperfections. I am a constant work in progress, learning and re-learning that He gives good gifts and broken people can be made whole again. I am mended, hole-y, with cracks down every side. But with Him, there is community and love that covers all. Even the bleeding cracks. The Great Artist takes my red and turns it into a sunset.

And then I went to Arkansas and met all these people, a family that I’ve worked with for almost a year now.


And when Crystal talked of the nerves, shared that she didn’t feel like she would belong, I more than whispered back, oh girl, you belong just as much as the rest of us do. “I had to keep myself from laughing while reading this because what the heck YOU WILL BE ENGULFED IN LOVE AND HUGS all weekend. DUH. You belong with us, just as much and even more than I belong in that place. Because He goes before.

But the words that escaped my fingertips soon escaped my lips on a Monday morning as I sat and blinked back the tears, broken and working to push away the numbness that threatened.

Instead of ignoring the thoughts, I sat in a circle of friends and family and cried silent as we prayed.

No more than a few tears broke from my squeezed eyelids, but they slipped through all the same.

‘How did I end up here and what am I doing? A twenty-year-old among wise women and mommas and go-getters. And me, single and not well known and no book contract or big plans me.’

I fought it quick and I fought it hard, desperate for no one to see the questions in my eyes, and desperate that someone would notice and care at the same time.

And He does. He whispers verses back to my wrung out heart, tired from weeks of serving and pouring, and I am reminded that no matter how broken, I belong.

With Him.
In Him.
By Him.
For Him.