(Very late) five-minute Friday: Loved.

I feel most loved when…

Go.

Write me a letter.

Ask me about my day, and listen.

Walk beside me in my struggles.

Remember.

Surprise me.

Sing me a song.

Take time for me.

Initiate — conversation and hanging out.

Share one of my favorite things with me.

Write me a letter.

Done.

(Prompted by Lisa-Jo at The Gypsy Mama.)

[More than] five-minute Friday: Who is that girl I see?

Go.

I stare into her eyes, then down to her feet and back up to her eyes. I survey all that she is and in discontentment I push my shoulders back, put on my sexy face (as my younger brother calls it), and offer an unconvincing smile. I don’t like what I see in her, but that dissatisfying reflection keeps staring back at me — wide-eyed, smile fading.

I see a mask because I am ashamed of walking out the door without it. I see fading color in my thin, flat hair. I see a waist that is three sizes too big. I see fashion that is fading faster than my hair.

I see a girl who doesn’t love her family enough to help out around the house more often. I see a writer who isn’t a real writer, who rarely challenges readers enough to respond. I see a wanna-be follower of Christ who hasn’t picked up her Bible in.. weeks? months? too long.

I see this distorted picture.

I see myself in comparison to you, to the girl next door, and the girl all the guys swoon over. I see myself through the eyes of the world who put on the same mask, who burn their whole paycheck on the newest trends, and who don’t eat in order to be called beautiful. And I am nearly convinced that would be easier because maybe then I would feel beautiful.

But somewhere I’ve been told that won’t be enough. Somewhere I’ve been told that I am more.

I don’t see it yet, but I want to.

I want to see myself through the eyes that delight in me, through the lips that call me “beloved,” and the heart that would give his life for me.

I want to see her. Lord, give me the courage to see the woman you see — the woman who is your beautiful bride.

Done.

(Prompted by Lisa-Jo at The Gypsy Mama.)

Five-minute Friday: To the ones I love.

Go.

This one goes out to those who share their hearts
and stories.

To those who offer me their homes when I need a place to rest
and give me money when I don’t have enough.

This one goes out to the friends who ask me “How are you,” and really mean, “How is your soul?”

To those who let me cry, let me speak, let me be silent,
and know which one I need the most.

To the ones who pray for me when I’m hurting
and call and text and message and skype me just to make sure I’m ok.

To you who take me out to coffee, out to lunch, or to get my nose pierced
when you know I need to talk or get my mind off things.

To those who put my pride in its place and aren’t afraid to tell me when I’m wrong.

To those who keep my heart in check, who keep me accountable, and ask me about my walk with God.

This one goes out to you.

Thank you, dearest friends, just for being you. Thank you for loving me well. My heart is so encouraged in the midst of trials because of you. You mean the world to me, and I love you more than you know.

Done.

(Five-minute Friday prompt from Lisa-Jo at The Gypsy Mama.)

Five-minute Friday: Mail.

Go.

Writing letters is one of my love languages. I know it’s not technically one of the five love languages, but it is mine. I check the mail box impatiently — waiting, waiting, waiting. I anticipate carefully thought out words stuffed in carefully addressed envelopes. Sometimes there are surprises that have me smiling for the whole day.

I go over the words carefully — over and over — taking in the precious thoughts of a dear friend. It says to me, “I was thinking about you days (or weeks) ago and thought you needed a reminder that I love you.

One of the greatest things about having friends all over the world is that getting mail happens more often. The best letters have envelopes that tell stories.

Japan.

France.

South Africa.

Mexico.

They tell stories of places they’ve been and I dream of the adventure they had in getting all the way to my mail box. What a grand adventure! I await the next stories that find themselves in my mail box. I await their colorful postage and stamps and the friendly words inside. Always waiting, waiting, waiting, and in the meantime, sending, sending sending. You won’t be waiting long.

Done.

(Prompted by Lisa-Jo over at The Gypsy Mama.)