Wooden heart… Beat a little stronger.


The grain that was once anew is all the more revealed day by day, footstep by footstep, as the beings of heartbeats compress onto it’s splintered surface. Souls bustling with pacing strides rushing to surrounding buildings for the punctuated 8 A.M. open time that awaits their keychains brings a stress and strain on the boards that are the foundation of this little coffee shop abiding the corner of Washington Street. These square planks show much more than just lumber. A thousand hot coffee spills and crumbles of pumpkin spice cake covered and smothered with the grandest cream cheese frosting you could ever let mingle with your tastebuds cover its floors. All the while, brown, slouchy sofas, blue, velvet high back recliners and rustic tables have been drug to and fro inside of for redecoration creating divots and lacerations.


The wooden planks filling the millions of “best coffee in town” java shops throughout the distances have a certain kindred unlike any other to hearts. Hearts like mine, hearts like yours…hearts like every heart that has a still beat. Just as them, souls are compressed with the weight of the daily. The grind of the ongoing clock tick-tick-ticking with a fever relentless bustles through our beings rushing us forward into labor.


Our heart chambers have imprints of crumbles binding their walls. Shattered pieces of heartbreak cover our surface at moments. Fibs and flubs, pasts and mistakes spill into our depths leaving stains for the majorities to see in days and years to come. There’s a certain beauty to it all though, you know. The unwavering truth that with every weakness, there is a strength to be found. With the weathering, the scrapes and the scratches, the discoloration… they, the wood and the heartbeats alike, are brought to life.


God is teaching wooden hearts to be just that, lavishly grand when the world tells them they are not. 

To laugh and love and truly live in Him by being remodeled through heartbreak and strain is of pure gold. Sometimes it takes a hard look to realize that the wood surface of your being may seem battered through the distress it has seen but in reality, it has become its own. It has become an incandescent luminosity to the souls who look onto it and dance with the rhythm of its heartbeat.


You are a wooden soul. A heartbeat wearing your abrasions as a beauty, for that is what they truly are. 


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