katie rose writes

“I have so much more for you than the work.” It came from the depths of my spirit last night, budding off of a conversation on identity and insecurity and how writing settles itself unkindly between those two things sometimes. But we instantly recognized it as from Him, me and my fellow writer-friend, Elizabeth. I said it again, recounting each syllable with its own breath as a new, deeper word. “I have so much more for you than the work.”  “I need to write that down.” I said. “Yeah, you do.” She echoed in affirmation. “It’s a good word.”  I started typing it into a sticky note on my desktop. I stared at it for a few seconds, my blinking eyes of disbelief at the God who speaks-- silently saying an awed “thank you.” And today I stare at Greek nouns and prepositions and the mingling of the two, and those same eyes fill up with tears.  proskaira. aionia. “Not looking to the things seen, but the unseen things… for the things that are seen are proskaira, but ...

You’ve told us we’re prepared, ready, equipped for battle. You’ve spoken promises over us, and you’ve sung your song of deliverance. You’ve surrounded us with your refrain: “I AM the LORD, who brings you our of Egypt, to give you the land of promise.” But we’re your people of promise— far more precious to you. As you tell us to turn back, and to settle down by the sea, we’re unsure of where to look or who to look for. So our eyes grow idle, until we see the enemy’s approach. Then our cries grow fearful, coming to you, but not staying with you. But grace does not rebuke our complaints— spurred by wandering eyes— But sweetly, sovereignly replies: “Fear not, stand firm, and see my salvation. Look higher than the circumstances and see Me. I will give you victory — over your enemies, yes, but more importantly— over you. My songs are not enough for me. I want you to join in; Oh my daughter, I want you to sing. This is my victo...

Today, I sat on my balcony, listening. Speak, even if your voice is trembling please, you’ve been quiet for so long believe, it’ll be worth the risk you’re taking. “Do you really have dreams this big for me?”   my tears whisper as they spill out of my eyes, like little drops of dew rolling over my eyelashes as these words overcame me.  I first listened to this song after our first full week or two here in town. And I knew immediately it would become an anthem over this season here. I sat on my bed and went through the songs on the album I knew, and then the new ones began. This might have been the first one.  You’re afraid. But you can hear adventure calling. There’s a rush of adrenaline to your bones: What you make  of this moment changes everything. I hadn’t heard truer words in awhile from a piece of music. It perfectly captured the words jumbling out of our  mouths , the emotions that I was fumbling around with, the thoughts that w...

It’s interesting to me that God gave our eyes room to fill with tears. They so quickly pool around our retinas, and things get blurry. Then they either fall out and fill again or they dissipate as quietly as they came. It’s a beautiful exchange, to fill and to empty, fill and empty, again and again. And not just in sorrow, but in joy. in laughter. in pain. in confusion. in frustration. and everything in between those crevices of emotions that we can put names to and file away like books. This week has been a week full of tears. Not because it’s been a sad week. But it’s been a full week, and so my eyes have been full. After one morning, I wrote: This morning, I was on my floor, a puddle of tears from a melodramatic heart that couldn’t feel anything but His pounding, faithful fist at the door. “Let. Me. In.” Through others, through His word, through everything, He was coming, running, pursuing me. My anxiety and self-consciousness over the past few days had barred the do...

Friday night, as I fell asleep, I was wandering through the laundry list of prayers that come up out of my physical fatigue and my weary mind, soul,  and spirit. This week has been long. Friday took forever to arrive. There have been good moments, but also hard moments. There have been sweet times of fellowship with the Father and with community, but also really  heavy moments of processing and headaches from stress. There have been moments of incredible affirmation—including being called “a writer” on several different occasions. But the week ended with a pretty unexpected realization that an “identity crisis” was at hand. Questions about who I am and what I’m doing here—yes, even in this land that I love—bounced around my mind Friday like pinballs in a machine that is never-ending. The machine won’t make a wrong move and lose the game. It just keeping going, hitting, racking up points—wearing me out. Towards the end of the list, I thought about what Saturday morning coul...