dear home, dear hope. 
simply, thanks. 
love, 
me. 

we know the hope that we lie in wait for. why do we wait, shallowly, wonderingly here? why do we not reach out and take it? why is there a fear of growing, of expectancy, of the faint sparkle or glimmer of hope disappointing us, when we are spiritually caught up in a hope beyond all our fathom or reason? as soon as i draw a line in the sand on how far i'm willing to be welded and worked and stretched to become, i'm limiting how i see God. i'm limiting His ability to work in me through me, and in so doing, i suffocate my very purpose. oh, fear. you artist. you deceiver. you have wrapped yourself in soft blankets and cozy nooks and portrayed yourself as an object of beauty, this staying safe. we are frail creatures, strong as we like to think we are, and you have made sure we continue to see ourselves as such instead of who Love has created us to be. but no longer can you keep me here, locked up in chains i have etched for myself and are yet made out of paper, though i see and feel them hang as something much stronger. i have hope. i have been given that vision. and in these chains, the breaking of them, the running freely, He is made strong.