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And as the sun makes its place in the mid-morning sky, the clouds, so fluffy you dare believe you can touch them, break forth, opening the heavens to show the bluest of skies. She looks up to take in the creation in all its glory and holy air fills her lungs. And she yells out, as the poets and prophets have done from years past and still present.
Here, in the hills and valleys filled with wildflowers that spread their intoxicating scent, she scans the horizon. She claims this space and calls it His.
Here there will be beauty. Here there will be love. Here there will be truth.
There will be words of praise and cries in the dark. The ground will grow wet with rain - His tears of joy, His tears of sadness.
And the mighty, righteous oaks will grow strong over the years. She will rest in its shade - rebuild - renew. She will find renewal from the desert place.
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This. This place is where she is grounded, where her strength will rise up. And this ground, this holy foundation will not be trampled with anything other than holy wrestling and the dancing that comes from the most raucous of parties.
Here we celebrate it all.
And it is good.
This was a three minute write, scribbled down on a legal pad during a writing retreat. As we sat in a circle talking about what to do when you feel "stuck" during the creative process, I looked up and saw my friend and for whatever reason, in that moment I knew what I wanted my blog to look like and these words poured out. Thank you for reading and for your comments of support. I like this place.