Category Archives: Amber Haines

How Worship Is In The Broken Things {An Abstraction on Worship}

 Sunlight streaming so soft through the windows, and here I am in cut-off jean shorts and t-shirt, hands in soapy water, the suds are like large clouds I want to lay down in. Summer time comes through the blinds and the air-conditioning tries to keep up.

My hands scrubbing and scouring the blackened pots, it’s like I’m close to God because I’m a made-in-His-image-girl and I feel closest to His heart in the serving and the pouring of water on hands, on feet.

The water trickles and rinses off all the drought, all the dirt and scum. The worship music wafts on soap bubbles in the kitchen, and she croons and I listen to the story-song about a little girl who fell off her bike and hurt her knee, about a little girl needing Him desperately.

Come if you can, and you said, ‘I AM’

It breaks me, right there, staring at suds, and the intricate detail of iridescent colors, the warmth of the sink and the work making me feel alive. I’m singing along with her and the tears begin to fall, washing away the scum of my heart, and I’m a vessel broken, open, spilled, washed out for His use.

She sings about a little girl’s wedding day, about babies crying too much at 2 am, and I don’t know why, but there is a palpable presence in the room and I know Whose it is.

Come if you can, and you said ‘I AM’….

I’m broken, reminded what a sinner I am, because He comes to me when I least deserve it, when I’m really needy, and the most desperate.

And in that moment, right there, those four little words–Come if you can–they give voice to what lies deep, to the fear and doubt and this is real worship, to say what’s really in the heart.

No pretense.

Just real.

Talking to God like He’s a friend.

I’m convinced that He doesn’t care about altar dances late into the night, and endless prayers for hours for healing for the sick as much as He cares about one broken Come if you can.

Because it’s in the broken places that He’s nearest. That’s where He is really God. That’s where He’s strongest in us, when we’re weakest. That’s where we worship.

It’s a broken hallelujah He’s interested in, the broken hallelujah I offer up in the middle of the night, holding my baby, moonlight waxing the pine floor, rocking chair creaking. In a t-shirt and bare feet, with hair all haphazard and a bird’s nest in the very back where I’ve been lying, I rock her, and beg God in whispers so fragmented they are barely words and I cry.

When I go to church I don’t raise my hands and I’m the one sitting in a crowd standing because I have grown weary of shows and I refuse to follow a mere form. I’m no longer convicted of raising a hand being worship, and I’m almost sure completely that if I just close my mouth and listen, more worship takes place in my heart somehow.

The rebel in me is not a crowd-follower, but a Christ-follower.

My father sat in a pew once, arms crossed while my husband and I stood and worshipped. My three year-old child played under the pew. He leaned over to me later, said in my ear, “You know where I see the glory of God, if ever I’ve seen it anywhere?”

“In that child’s face.”

At the time, I thought he had absolutely lost his mind, and wasn’t altogether sure he wasn’t blaspheming.

But, somehow, being brought up Pentecostal and Charismatic, I am tired from the years that I felt I had to earn my salvation, had to work hard to enter the holy of holies, and I now see at thirty four what my father saw at forty-seven. What a crazy blessing.

To know that Jesus came to crush Satan’s head so I no longer need to work to be near God.

On this beautiful Sunday, I go outside bare-footed and swing my little ones on their wooden swing-set, lay out in the sun in my black bathing suit, hair tied up on top of my head, and slather on the coconut-infused oil while listenin’ to country music. It smells of tropics and I’m dreamin of a beach somewhere with eyes closed. My girls explore outside, getting their hands in the black dirt, so close to God, His good Earth in their fingernails, down in their skin, the sunshine strengthening our minds and spirits, and their laughter and my joy in them is worship to me and the flushed glow of their faces reminds me of glory and I feel like I’m in the Holy of Holies when I see her flying high up in the air, or I yell a little too loud, and I get to share the gospel with them because Mama messed up. Again.

I’m that battle-weary Christian, a little soul-jaded, who lets her hand slip tentatively up toward heaven in the sanctuary because it’s impossible not to when they sing those lines, that truth that makes my soul croon, makes me sway to a heavenly choir, leaning, ear tuned for that rhapsody, yearning for pearly gates.

Before the throne of God above
I have a strong and perfect peace
A great high Priest whose name is Love
Who ever lives and pleads for me
My name is graven on His hand
My name is written on His heart
I know that while in Heaven He stands
No tongue can bid me thence depart. 



“The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath”

“The Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath” (Mark 2:28). 

Gratitude: {1076-1082}

A friend who is willing to trade services and help me out by tutoring my girls

Getting to cut hair for my friend’s family and how spiffy they say they feel

Looking forward to a positive change for our family

Making up with Husband and how wonderful it is

The love Eddie and I make and how right it is and how it wraps us up in so much goodness

Giving husband a haircut and he beams proud like a new man

Packing for Jumping Tandem! Woo-hoo….(Scared and excited–pray for this introverted country girl?)

Friends, I appreciate you helping me get the word out about Concrete Words! Be sure to use the hashtag #concretewords. Please use the “Share” feature at the bottom of this post–thanks!  

What this link-up is about: In the lovely Amber Haines’ words, we “write out spirit” by practicing writing about the invisible using concrete words. In case you are going “what in the world is a concrete word?!“–this just means (using the prompt to inspire) write out what’s around us–concrete words make the senses come alive, gives place: fire smoke in the air, an old, tattered wooden swing, black rich dirt underneath bare feet, a woodpecker hammering at a birch. Go here to learn more of what Amber meant for us to do with concrete words when this all began. This will help your writing–I promise! 

A few simple guidelines:  1. Be sure you link up the URL to your Concrete Words
                                             post and not just your blog home page URL.
                                         2. Put a link to this post on your blog so that others 
                                             can find their way back here.
                                         3. Try to visit one or two others and encourage their efforts
                                         4. Please write along with us, using concrete words–
                                             Please no entries with how-to’s, advertising, or 
                                             sponsored posts 
                                         5. Consider sharing via social media to help get word out!
                                         6. Please leave a comment–I love getting to know you!
**Today’s prompt is Worship


Next week, our Concrete Words prompt is the Sink. I will be out of town at the Jumping Tandem Retreat–the lovely Kimberly Coyle will be hosting for me. Please watch her blog for a #concretewords post! {Something new–I’ll highlight a beautiful post on Friday (and announce it on social media), so come back here to see whose post is highlighted and encourage them!

**Because of what I shared * here,I cannot always answer comments and visit very many blogs, but I will do my best to visit those who link up here! I would love for you to feel a sense of community when you are here, and I hope you do feel right at home–I just think–though we all search for so much interaction and approval from others, that sometimes, maybe in some seasons, sometimes very long seasons, just a quiet place is what we truly need. Just a place to reflect, pray, dream. 


I cherish your words, and the beautiful soul God made you. I am nodding my head, teary-eyed, as I read your hearts here. I’d like you to know that when I see you here, my heart just leaps out of my chest to connect with you–to let you know I hear you! And while you leave such sweet words here, I am probably somewhere cleaning a precious 3-year-old baby girls’ messes, listening to an eleven year old playwrite’s brave words, or teaching my crew. If you are here, know you are loved, and you’re the seasonin’ in my soup. 


{This post shared with Ann, Jen, Laura, Heather, Emily, and Jennifer for #TellHisStory}

Let’s have some fun with concrete words! (You can join in anytime this week until the linky is closed!) **When linking, please check out the one-word prompt first! Thanks!** 

An Abstraction on the Chain {Fear Day 22}




We were arguing late at night, standing there on cold wood floors, moonlight streaming in, and all I want is to touch his face, for him to trace the lines of mine, and for us to hold each other close in our big four-poster bed with the windows all around, and I said some awful things. Love can make you do the truly abhorrent when you’re lonely.

I said the “H” word–that four letter one that lets him know how I feel. I wounded and scarred up our home, the sacred, the holy. “I hate that you are so distant, that you never touch me, if you want to know the truth, I hate you when you make me feel this way!”

I wrecked everything, hurt him in my thirst for more. So we go to bed holding one another and when I turn over, the chain pulls him toward me and he scoots in close. I wake and touch feet to shiny pine, shuffle out of my bedroom in yoga pants and black flip-flops, feeling rested and slightly askew, step around a little pile of trash someone forgot to discard, and first thing I go and make sprite for my baby, hug my eldest who has been sick in the night.

She looks at me, her all spindly and hair disheveled and curled in fractured sunlight bouncing off, and I see pain in her eyes, and I wonder how much of the argument she heard on her end of the house. With all my babies’ stomachs churning for the past week and running back and forth to the toilet even in black quiet when I can’t hear, I pray it stops somehow. That this would be the end of this torment.

Depression has been hanging over me, a buzzard circling overhead, waiting for the right moment, that moment when life ceases.

I see the chains that bind. I see all the fears that keep me captive, make me a lunatic starving mad for affection in the middle of the night.

I’m linked, soul-bound to this man I said “Yes” to when he whispered in my ear so softly, as we both leaned in close, so unsure, right there on my parents’ couch, “Will you marry me?”‘ Just a quiet hush, nothing more, almost a question, him needing my response to fully form his asking and let it hang free in the air.

I see that I’m afraid of losing him. I’m afraid he’ll go so far away that he’ll never return.

It can feel like that–when a man is distant, like he actually left physically. I ache and groan and grieve and misery spews out of my mouth in words that should never be uttered.

And there is only one way I know to put an end to all things vile. And that’s what I do first thing, what the misery pushes me toward, and like an old song being played I know the steps to, I get out my bible and read a whole psalm.

I read through the first several verses alone and then I open right up, let breath flow out of me, and read the entirety of God’s goodness to them. They fall back to sleep, all my sick littles, while I herald the good news. They are lulled by His grace and peace, settling down over them, covering, a down comforter, weighted and weightless.

I feel satiated and I know this is how to break the chains that have made me a prisoner and I’m a prisoner of my own making. I have chosen in my hurt to not forgive. I have forgotten to look up always, and every morning when I’m ravenous, to the One who satisfies, but especially during times of distance, of pain and suffering.

I feel it right there–how my spirit babe within grows strong at the nourishing breast of the Word. It’s like a huge, tiny miracle right there on our old soft, beige couch in morning light spilling in through high, cathedral-like windows, and I’m offering my prayer, my confession right there, His body taken in my mouth.

I go ’round doling out little medicine cups of Sprite and Pedialyte, lovingly slapping cold rags on heads, tucking blankets firmly around aching bodies, kissing foreheads and hot cheeks, just prayin’ I don’t contract another round of it, and slathering Vaseline thick on cracking lips that whisper could they just have water? And I give my running-around-the-house two year old who is all better a big kiss on her baby-squishy soft cheek, just begs me nuzzle in close.

I look out the window and see them there, large black birds littering the yard, their thick, gangly red necks pecking at my children’s toys, wings beating loud, fighting for territory. I frown at their hunkering, and I don’t know why they are there, like they’re just waiting for death.

I’m not sure if it’s our illness, this misery, this decaying of life–of love–they sense, but I prance outside like a woman with fight in me and a broom and I shew those vultures away. It feels a little silly at first, but at my voice, they immediately beat away, all this blackness fleeing in morning light through the maples, and I feel loosed.

I see how powerful my voice is, how I can call on Jesus for us, for my own depravity. I swallow down the huge, tiny miracle that God has sustained me and when he walks in the door, I won’t resent him. I will love him.

Whoa, sharing all of this, with quaking and trembling, asking God to undo these chains, loosen these fears in the confession…        
**This post shared with Husband’s permission, and I hope you will join me, friends, as I continue to write on marriage this week. God is leading my heart there, whispering to me, wooing me….

Still counting gifts in gratitude to my Father… {1,020-1036}.. This is good for the soul, no?

For fears relieved, for Lilly trying so hard to say a word for me, how her voice sounds so tiny, for all of us being so sick and getting the rest we need, for making up in the night, for snuggling, the way they all gather and lay on me when I lie down, how good it feels to nurture their little hearts, for Ivy cleaning my bedroom and laundry room without being asked just to cheer me up, for a break from routine and just long rest, watching movies together, cuddling, folding clothes, for Husband bringing home chicken noodle soup, sprite, and crackers for days in a row, for all of us learning to take care of one another, for God’s freedom, for the power He’s placed within and knowing I can access it–call upon Jesus’ name…

Linking with Amber, Ann, EmilyLaura, Jen, LL, and Heather for Just Write

Also linking up with The Nester, and all the other 31-Dayers.…This ought to be one wild, brave ride…

Do you struggle with fear– of him leaving, of marriage not turning out quite like you thought? Of this love not playing out, not feeling the way you imagined it should feel, not fulfilling you the way you imagined it would? Please tell me your story? Have you seen God redeem these fears in your marriage? Have you found grace? Your comments so encourage me. I draw strength from your kind words and knowing you were here. My faith walk is seasoned with the right ingredients when you hang around…


This is one post in a series of 31 days of Fear. You can find the entire 31 Day collective here. {I’ve jumped from Day 12 to Day 22 because I want to finish this series at the end of the month & this gal started late}

I hope you will come with me on this journey–to get a taste of glorious redemption as I soul-search and look for Jesus smack-dab in the middle of my fears. And Jesus sits with sinners. I won’t have to look very far.

I pray God gives me the strength and the courage to complete 31 days–y’all, it’s going to be hard on this ‘ol gal to write every.single.day. Pray for me?   

Some other 31 Day collectives I’m loving: Shelly @ Redemptions BeautyAmber Haines , and Lisa-Jo

True Worship & Fearing Change: An Abstraction on Table {Day 12}

An abstraction on a Table: A prompt by Amber Haines….

Beautiful wood that is so old, it’s called antique, which sounds such fragile a word. Of course, its purpose was a place to serve meals, but to a kid, it can be a fort, a castle, or the carpet underneath a forest floor, legs rising tall as trees. All of us grandchildren used to play under its delicately routed and carved legs and underbelly.

It cast such dark shadows that hid me and no one could find me. Underneath there, I was a queen or a damsel in distress, tracing the curved lines and crevices in hopes of escape from my soft-carpeted prison.

From underneath my hiding place, I could spot, just dimly lit in soft, heavy-curtained afternoon light up on the buffet table, the old iridescent blue set of bowls, one holding old-fashioned candies of all flavors. Absolutely fascinating and irresistible to a child. It was my sole mission to play underneath the table long enough so that my Granny wouldn’t notice when I snuck quickly out, tip-toed to the blue bowl to grab a candy.

All of the precious memories of Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and Sunday dinners were made here.

The best memories were the Sundays when Granny had Chicken and Dumplins or blackberry cobbler waiting on me, my favorites.

Years and years later, after this little girl had grown up, the table became a sort of gift from my grandparents, who had no place to put it in their new apartment.

They had given up their home to a son, and it was eventually sold, a sad time for us all as the memories went with it.

Now the table sits in my high-ceilinged home, not on carpet, but on old, brightly polished pine floors. It’s a deep mahogany and makes the mood dark. It needs a fresh coat of white paint, slapped on heavy and thick with love, which would make the whole room lovely.

Then some of those grooves, crevices, the caving-in places I tried to escape as a child will fade into the background, and the past will be the past.

But then I worry about change–it’s been the way it is for so long. My heart stops a bit to think of the eternal consequence of marring such a priceless item with paint.

Now, where it sits, it’s a place of gathering, it seems to magnetically draw us all together.

No matter the chaos going on around the home– paper cut-outs being thrown awry, sisters chasing one another–screaming, me fussing at a daughter to just finish the sweeping already, and oh my aching head–when we all sit down at the table, candles lit, and we slide into our familiar places, something just feels right and it’s home.

It feels familiar and yet uncomfortable as children begin to bang, and to argue and to wail, to complain about the food.

High-pitched yelling and wailing is like nails on the chalkboard of my nerves. The banging and the water glass knocking over is more than I can handle. I shift in my seat, look for a way out, want to escape.

But here, in this familiar safe place, we all do the necessary thing. We gather. We are community. Every day, no matter what. We need the safe rhythm, the consistency.

Husband prays for us to love one another better as we hold hands, and this convicts me.

And these, these children and this husband around my table, they are my people, my church.

We are the body broken, and we worship with quieted spirits that want to bolt, and we do the hard work of staying.

We raise glasses to mouths and swallow down water and offer words of love where there has been grating of nerves and this is our true worship.

Linking up with Amber

Also linking up with The Nester, and all the other 31-Dayers.…This ought to be one wild, brave ride…

Do you struggle with fear of change, or fear of the everyday change, the always fluid problems that come our way, like wailing and arguing at the supper table? Please tell me your story? Have you seen God redeem these anxieties? Have you found grace? Your comments so encourage me. I draw strength from your kind words and knowing you were here. My faith walk is seasoned with the right ingredients when you hang around…


This is one post in a series of 31 days of Fear. You can find the entire 31 Day collective here. 

I hope you will come with me on this journey–to get a taste of glorious redemption as I soul-search and look for Jesus smack-dab in the middle of my fears. And Jesus sits with sinners. I won’t have to look very far.

I pray God gives me the strength and the courage to complete 31 days–y’all, it’s going to be hard on this ‘ol gal to write every.single.day. Pray for me?   

Some other 31 Day collectives I’m loving: Shelly @ Redemptions BeautyAmber Haines , and Lisa-Jo

On Voice And Fear of Being Uniquely Me {Day 7}

Photo credit

“It’s harder than you think. It’s not enough to be good. You have to be great…You’d better love it. (Otherwise, quit now.)”–Jeff Goins, writer

This world moves a little too fast for me–blogging, writing, tweeting–it all seems to blur straight past me, and I’m a straggler, weary to keep up.

Every day there are more stories that are important to read, tweeted writing advice I should pay attention to. I open them so I don’t forget and they never get read.

I wonder, amongst so much good advice, so much rich story-telling, so many beautiful voices on the web and in great books, what IS my voice? How do I find this elusive thing?

If I find it, does it have a place amongst such beauty, depth, richness, and efficiency moving forward, me left standing in the wake of all that momentum?

I read this on Amber Haine’s site and it left me reeling a little. Thank God for writers like Amber, who really write what we’re all thinking. Stories are great, and must be told, must be written, handed down. I believe in this.

But telling the truth? This is priceless,

and I’m a just-starting-out-writer who is so grateful for people like her, who make me pause, make me ponder and reflect, draw up out of me what’s really clawing at the surface, fighting to get out. The problem is that I keep stuffing it back down.

But that voice that keeps asking me what is your voice, Nacole? Where is it? 

That voice is very important, and it just may be that it’s the very voice I’m looking for—the one I’ve been stuffing down, shoving a sock in, telling it to hush so I can do this grown-up business.

The whole time I’ve been on this quest to find my voice–even when I wasn’t aware that’s what I was doing–and all along, that holy grail, has been trying to claw it’s way out of an early grave, buried alive.

I’ve been squelching it out of fear. How much of what God created me to be have I silenced and buried deep because I was afraid to be me, out loud, with no apologies?

I’m thinking about voice, as seasons change and things are hard for me, and I sometimes feel I’ve committed to too much, and I stand braced against the gale winds–

and I think, maybe voice is about just that–maybe it’s letting go of the fear and inviting whatever will come, maybe it’s not being willing to change who I am for anybody, not a jot or a tittle.

Maybe it’s just being uniquely me. Here is where I choose to take the road less traveled by and I let go of my fear of being “me” all wrong.

There is no right or wrong way of being me, because God created me the only one.

What freedom.

Linking up with The Nester, and all the other 31-Dayers.…This ought to be one wild, brave ride…

Do you struggle with fear of being uniquely you, friend? Does it hold you hostage? What’s your story? How has God redeemed it? Have you found grace? Your comments so encourage me. I draw strength from your kind words and knowing you were here. My faith walk is seasoned with the right ingredients when you hang around…


Some other 31 Day collectives I’m loving: Shelly @ Redemptions BeautyAmber Haines , and Lisa-Jo


This is one post in a series of 31 days of Fear. You can find the entire 31 Day collective here.  I have chosen to do this one on FEAR, because it seems to be something I keep wrestling with over and over, something that keeps me in chains, pins me down, won’t let me free. I hope you will come with me on this journey–to get a taste of glorious redemption as I soul-search and look for Jesus smack-dab in the middle of my fears. And Jesus sits with sinners. I won’t have to look very far.

Couldn’t we all use some freedom from those fear-chains that bind? I pray God gives me the strength and the courage to complete 31 days–y’all, it’s going to be hard on this ‘ol gal to write every.single.day. Pray for me?   







Friends, meet my friend, Jennifer Lee. She is so lovely and down-to-earth, a farmer’s wife in Iowa. I just love her, and you will too. If you would so kindly click here and go over to my friend, Jennifer’s site for a GIVEAWAY!You can enter until the 14th! Her sweet daughter, Lydia, is having a jewelry party to raise money for a school playground for children in Haiti. We know these children and families have been affected by much suffering after the earthquake. This jewelry is hand-made by our sisters in Haiti–Jennifer has been there, met them, hung out with them in their homes–and this is Jennifer’s project. By buying one of these beautiful necklaces, you will be helping a Haitian woman work to feed her family, AND you will be helping raise money for children to have a place to play! She is also giving away some jewelry, so hurry on over and share on facebook, twitter, etc for your spot in the giveaway! I’m definitely buying one–I hope you do, too!