Hands in the Dirt.

“People are not measuring sticks—”In the midst of my mindless scrolling the Lord startled me with these words. And all the prison walls I’d built high through my comparing of lives lived in squares came crumbling down, leaving me humbled and appalled and liberated all at once.The next day, gathered in a sweet living room among twelve other women, I realized those words weren't only for me. Oh the chains that fall when we lay down our measuring sticks and look one another in the eye. When we meet each other in the mayhem and the scars and the laugh lines, when we listen to the stories and see the tears brim. For in a social media saturated world we applause and envy the seen, we measure and mark our fleeting seasons by others’ races. We sow into the seen and forget the harvest comes from the unseen. Not from highlight reels but our hands in the dirt, uprooting and planting and tending. Our empty hands and open schedules preparing us for the full, begging us not to waste this whisper of a life we've been given. Granting us the grace to run with wild abandoned purpose even here. Especially here.Here in the secret place that beckons us to be still. Here in the barren days that bid us to wait, in the valleys that enable us to meet each other in the mess and say “me, too.” Here in the mundane and the dishes in the sink and the words in our journals and the promises delayed. Here in the victories and mountain tops— setting down our screens to be here now. To live this life to the brim. To chase the affections of one. Why be concerned with our own little kingdoms when the King of Kings is wild for us?For this same King has called me to life abundant, and I long to be a woman so lost in His smile I have no need to seek it elsewhere. I long to throw my hands up in surrender to a God who writes stories far better than captions, who paints skies that don't need filters. A God who delights in our being more than our doing, and in our hearts more than our metrics. A God we find in the dirt under our nails and the light dancing across the floor and in the beauty of looking up instead of around.May we be found chasing down purpose over pretty feeds. May we wrestle with every gifting and grace and do something worthy with these days. May we be famous for our lack, and find a masterpiece unfolding in the unseen. Laying down the rulers and measuring our days by our love. Acknowledging our thirst to run back to the arms of a Father who gives more than we can hold. Growing deep roots in the love that calls us enough.Nothing to prove sweet one. Not a thing to prove.words and photo by Emma TallySaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSave