Second Sunday of Advent

The reading for today:

Amos 6:1-14,  2 Thessalonians 1:5-12,  Luke 1:57-68

Zachariah opens his mouth in praise when his voice is returned to him after the birth of his son, John.  "Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has come and has redeemed his people." (Luke 1:68)

Praise be to the Lord indeed! We are a redeemed people! Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now I'm found, was blind but now I see! 

Advent is all about waiting for the Coming One, watching for his arrival. And now we watch for his return, waiting for the coming kingdom.

Praise the Lord for the One that came, the One that redeems.

Eagerly Watch

Today is the first Sunday of Advent in the church calendar. If you read from the Lectionary in the Book of Common Prayer, you join with Christians who have read the same scriptures on this day for hundreds of years and read from Amos, Luke and 1 Thessalonians.
       
     Amos 1:1-5,13-2:8 We read of the pending Judgement of Israel and Judah.

"For three sins of Judah, even for four, I will not turn back my wrath. Because they have rejected the law of the Lord..." (2:4)

"For three sins of Israel, even for four I will not turn back my wrath. They sell the righteous for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals." (2:6)

      

     Luke 21:5-19- We read about the signs of the end of the age. 

     1 Thessalonians 5:1-11-  We are told to be watchful and alert

Be watchful. Be alert. That is what Advent is about. Once, a people watched for the coming of their Messiah. We celebrate Christmas now because he came, though many of them were blind to it. And now, in the season of Advent we remember his first coming and wait in eager expectation for his return, that day when the Bridegroom returns to this world for his Bride. Stay awake! 

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of

darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of

this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit

us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come

again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the

dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives

and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and

for ever. Amen.  (Book of Common Prayer, 345)

Morning Song

Praise God from whom all blessings flow
Praise Him for another morning, still, with sparkle-white grass in the cold
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him for the beauty and the mystery of this earth turning toward the sun again
Praise Him above ye heavenly host
Praise the Life-Breath, the One who is always near
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.



The sun comes, lifting above the trees glorious and brilliant. It sends out its light, touching my face, lighting my wall.

The Son came, rising up out of the grave, glorious and brilliant...and victorious. He sends out his light, touching the world, lighting my life.

Let everything that has breath...

"Let everything that has breath praise the Lord"  -Psalm 150:6

     I woke up this morning and outside my window as the sky started to turn gold I heard a crow calling...and calling...and calling. It continued for some time. I would stop paying attention and then become aware again that it was still going. It made me think of this Psalm.

"Let everything that has breath..."

     I like the thought that when you hear birds, crickets, tree frogs, cicadas...each chorus is joining together in the choir of the breathing in praise of our Creator-Lord. It was good to pause for a minute and watch the sun emerge from behind the trees and join with the crow outside in a moment of praise.

Psalm 150

Praise the Lord!

Praise God in his sanctuary;

    praise him in his mighty heavens!

 

Praise him for his mighty deeds;

    praise him according to his excellent greatness!

Praise him with trumpet sound;

    praise him with lute and harp!

Praise him with tambourine and dance;

    praise him with strings and pipe!

 

Praise him with sounding cymbals;

    praise him with loud clashing cymbals!

 

Let everything that has breath praise the Lord!

Praise the Lord!

I'm alive! Thank God!

          Guess what! I'm alive! How do I know? I can feel it. My body is sore from pounding the pavement, I feel the cool morning dew on my hot skin. I'm laying in a patch of shade in the grass, each limb spread out, catching my breath. I'm breathing, that's how I know I'm alive. I feel my heart beating hard. I can feel it in my head, my wrists, my stomach, my feet. My shoes feel too tight. I can feel them pinch, that's how I know I'm alive. I feel the grass grow warm beneath me and start to prickle. I feel the textured, soft hair of my dog who rests beside me. I feel. That's how I know I'm alive. I hear me heart in my ears. I hear my breath, finally slowing. I hear my dog pant beside me. The interstate roars in the distance, but over it I can hear the wind, made audible by the bare branches that stir above me. I smell sweat. I smell dog. I smell fall. It is good to be alive. It is good to be aware. I thank God for my life, for my next breath. It's Thanksgiving after all, today of all days He should be thanked for the life He gives.

                                   

My running buddy, Ace

                                  

St. Patrick's Breastplate

Christ be with me

Christ within me 

Christ behind me 

Christ before me

Christ beside me

Christ to win me

Christ to comfort 

and restore me

Christ beneath me

Christ above me

Christ in quiet 

Christ in danger 

Christ in hearts of 

all that love me

Christ in mouth of

Friend and stranger

       Some days you wake up and know that He is there, before, beside, behind, within. Some days you have to pray this prayer. His presence hasn't left, but some days you just need to remind yourself. Some days you pray it for the one who has walked away. You can't follow, save or protect, but Christ can.

It is Finished

I was reading John 19 yesterday and was struck again by the miracle that is the gospel we believe!

      It is finished. My God the Creator and Holy One saw my sin, so disgusting to him, forever a wedge between me and a perfect relationship with himself. I rebel again and again against the One True King, but he has never ceased loving me. With perfect love, he sent from his own being the part of himself that is his Son to become fully man-with every human tendency, every trial, every pain. This God-Man Jesus lived on this earth, tempted and tried, but unlike us he never once gave in to sin. He understands fully our plight, but did not succumb to the same fate! Yet despite the good that he was and the good he did, we hated him and killed him, nailing him to a tree. As he died, the blood that was spilled, the life that he gave, became the blood price that we owed as payment for our rebellion against the Father! He was the perfect sacrifice, giving freely the perfection that was his life to pay our ransom. Now we stand free and clear if only we accept his gift and call him LORD. I am free indeed! Because here's the thing, death, that was to be the end of sinful man, could not hold the perfect Savior. On the third day he rose from the dead forever smashing death and living in utter victory. He is the coming King! But where is he now? He sits at the right hand of his Father interceding on our behalf as the only worthy one who actually understands what we are going through. What a wonderful Savior! What a beautiful Gospel!

This is just a reminder, just an encouragement. The task before us now is to seek to bring his Kingdom here to this earth and to bring the light that is this gospel to the dark places in this world that all men might see the Truth.

Life, Light, Living Water

"In him was life and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness but the darkness has not overcome it."   John 1:4-5

"Jesus answered, 'Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become a spring of living water welling up to eternal life.' "   John 4:13-14

    Jesus, Life abundant, Light victorious, Living water. He is everything I need. He deserves my everything. To make much of God is precisely what He deserves, but no matter how much I make of Him, there is always so much more to be made much of!
     Giver of life, Light to my path, Mighty God, Creator. Your creation calls for the praise you deserve! May the joy I find in the life you made, the meaning I find in the beauty of your creation and the life that you have given me be a victorious but warming, welcoming light in the darkness of this world. May those living in darkness draw near to the warmth of the light that is in me because of you. May I be generous with the life abundant that you have gifted me with.

Heat Lightning and Strawberry Shortcake

     I've never been one to remember things in great detail--that has always been my sister's job. She tells the stories and they are what become my memories. But every so often there will be something that my mind will hold onto with unusual clarity. One of these rich, vivid memories is one I have from one of my family's early visits to my grandparent's house in Alabama. We had driven from New York that summer and I was young--maybe six years old. On this particular night I remember waking up from a bad nightmare, one of the many that seemed to plague me along with some kind of insomnia through those years. I remember being scared and unhappy, with the dream residue hovering just beyond my consciousness. Hot and restless, I didn't want to go back to sleep until the fear faded somewhat, so I crawled out of the bottom bunk where I was sleeping that night. My sister above me and my brothers in the bunk bed across the room all slept, peaceful and happy, leaving me alone in my wakefulness. That's when I went to seek out the comfort of company.
     I remember stepping out of the house onto the wide screened in porch, into the sticky heat of an Alabama summer night. My parents and grandparents were sitting there, Mom and Grammy on the porch swing and Dad and Grandpa in adirondack chairs, talking while enjoying a dessert of strawberry shortcake. I don't remember what I said to them, all I know is that I ended up on the swing between Grammy and my mom with a helping of strawberry shortcake in my hand. As the adults took up their conversation again I remember feeling not only utterly secure, but also special and grown up somehow, to be sitting up late with them. Who knows what they were talking about, I don't remember any of the conversation except for one point when they paused to watch the heat lightning out over the lake. It silently flickered, briefly illuminating the clouds here, then there, dancing in the heavy heat and etching itself into my memory.
     I am watching it again tonight as it jumps from cloud to cloud in flickering bolts, or as it flashes white just behind a great bank of clouds, which are sharply outlined for an instant before returning to the same black as the rest of the night. The lightning is the same. The heat is the same. I am up late again, but this time of my own choice, as I savor the memory it brings of childhood, simplicity, security, and shortcake.

A Day in Haiku

     I wonder what life would be like if people recorded it in Haiku...there is something so peaceful and simple about the haiku that makes even the most common thing seem beautiful and special. It is like a sweet breath, making you pause and notice the beauty of a brief moment. Here are a few that describe a little of my day so far.


sun, bright and warm, gold
pulling back, curtains shine white
enter light, white, gold

book open, more than book

words, The Word, teach, giving life

life and hope. I breath

point of light shining

casting many rainbows, blue

coloring the floor

driving, curving slow

narrow road winding through hills

sunlight patterns, warm

sitting, engine off

warm stillness quiet surrounds

my head, quiet now

I'm an artist

So here's a free verse poem that I wrote. It's just some thoughts I have about what it means to be an artist, and an attempt to describe how that feels to me. The punctuation is random, only there to help you understand better how to read it. 


I'm an artist
I think.
I make art,
I dip brushes in paint,
I mix colors on a canvas.
Does that make me an artist?
That is part of it
I think.
But there's more to it.
I see things
others may not see.
Red leaves
against a blue sky
and something swells within me.
Is that normal?
Seeing,
smelling, feeling, hearing
more.
Richly.
Do others want to dance
and sing
when the warmth of the sun
touches
gently, their face?
I do.
Do others notice with every sense awake
the smell 
the feel
of the change of seasons?
I'm an artist
I think.
That's what it is called 
to have ears
for every bird's song.
Eyes
for every color.
Love
for every texture 
and touch.
I make art.
I dip brushes in paint
I sketch and build
but who I am
is more than that.
I'm an artist.

Here's my heart

     I was listening to my music today and heard the song that this piece is based on. I was able to spend some time thinking about it again, and wanted to write some of that out to share some of the meaning that it has in it for me. I  hope that at the very least it will cause you understand better the images, and also that you might look closely at the words of this hymn. There is so much beauty in the words that its writer penned as a prayer to his God...to our God!

     

     There are some times when a phrase will bring to mind a very vivid image, usually in my mind an illustration or picture of the phrase. One example of this led my making of this piece, which was one of the last assignments in my drawing 2 class this past semester. I do a lot of thinking and processing in my journals and sometimes that includes a writing out a song that absolutely speaks to the subject, or making a sketch...or sometimes both. 

     I remember a few years back, I was listening to a Chris Rice hymns CD while writing, and the song "Come Thou Font of Every Blessing" came on. I don't recall what I was experiencing at the time or what I was writing, but I remember really hearing for the first time the line in the last verse that goes: 

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,

prone to leave the God I love;

Here's my heart, oh take and seal it,

seal it for thy courts above.

     "Here's my heart." Very vividly in my mind I pictured hands holding a heart, but open, reaching out and offering it. "Here's my heart Lord." I remember drawing that picture in my journal that morning...and so many times since in order to remind myself of the posture that I need to have at all times toward my God. My heart is weak and changing, it is prone to wander, prone to leave my God and instead seek fulfillment elsewhere. It sets up things of this world as idols, it is selfish and proud. My only hope is to allow God to capture it and to offer it completely to Him. To give it over to His care and to beg Him to place His mark upon it. 

     To Come back to this semester, we were given the assignment to make a triptych--three separate pieces that work together as a whole. Usually the center piece is the focal point and the pieces to either side compliment, enhance and lead into it. As I considered subjects for my drawing, my mind came back to the "Here's my heart" drawing, and I began to sketch, working out how I could make it into three pieces. In the end, I placed the "Here's my heart" in the center, flanked on either side with pictures of the condition of the heart before and after it is given wholly to God.

<><><> 

   The first panel is "Prone to wander." It shows the heart caught under a net. It is a picture of how, when our heart is wandering, we must always be chasing it down and recapturing it. But notice, while the heart is "freely" doing whatever it feels like doing, it is under the net. It is not truly free.

   

     The second, and center panel, again, is the picture that I feel is a perfect illustration of surrender, the giving up and turning over to God of the heart. The human hands still hold the heart, but they are open, letting go, not clinging to it. "Here's my heart."

      The third panel is "Take and seal it", and it shows the heart no longer in the human hands, but sealed by God, stamped with His signet ring. It is free, with nothing holding it, but it carries the mark of God upon it. It belongs fully to Him. The stamp that is on the seal is the Hebrew for the words "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine."

Come thou fount of every blessing
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace
Streams of mercy never ceasing
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount
I'm fixed upon it
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer,
Here by Thy great help I've come.
And I hope by Thy good pleasure
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God.
He to rescue me from danger
Interposed His precious blood

Oh that day when freed from sinning
I shall see Thy lovely face.
Clothe it then in blood washed linen
How I'll sing thy sovereign grace.
Come my Lord no longer tarry
Take my ransom soul away.
Send Thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless days.

Oh to grace how great a debtor
Daily I'm constraint to be!
Let Thy goodness like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to thee.
Prone to wander Lord I feel it
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart
Oh take and seal it.
Seal it for thy courts above.

1.   What can be more beautiful than to stand in a congregation, surrounded by believers with voices joined in joyous song to celebrate the great hope and victory that is ours!
   
   
   My hope is built on nothing less
   Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness;
   I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
   But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.
   • On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
     All other ground is sinking sand,
     All other ground is sinking sand.
2. When darkness veils His lovely face,
   I rest on His unchanging grace;
   In every high and stormy gale,
   My anchor holds within the veil.
   
   

   On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;

   All other ground is sinking sand,

   All other ground is sinking sand.
3. His oath, His covenant, His blood
   Support me in the whelming flood;
   When all around my soul gives way,
   He then is all my hope and stay.
   
   
   On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;

   All other ground is sinking sand,

   All other ground is sinking sand.
4. When He shall come with trumpet sound,
   Oh, may I then in Him be found;
   Dressed in His righteousness alone,
   Faultless to stand before the throne.
   
   
   On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;

   All other ground is sinking sand,

   All other ground is sinking sand.

Painting Pietà

      I couldn't sleep last night. At all. What that looks like for me is, I sit in the dark eyes closed, brain racing one hundred miles per hour. It is frustrating when all I want is a peaceful sleep, but it is often in times like this that I have my best ideas and greatest inspiration. Last night was no exception.


     It was 11pm and I was just getting started. As my mind flipped from thought to thought, image to image, it rested on something that I have wanted to do for awhile, moved on, then came back. "Every artist should make at least one Pietà," one of my professors had told us last semester. One of my closest friends did, in the course of that class, and it was a beautiful, terrible, wonderful thing to see. From that time on I have wanted to make my own, to work through that image with my heart, my hands and my medium: paint. 
   
  In looking for information about Pietà (plural), I learned a little about the history of these pieces of artwork. Pietà is Italian for pity. These works were used historically as the 13th station in the Stations of the Cross. The image is of Mary Mother of Jesus, cradling the body of the dead Christ, an image of great sorrow. The face of a mother who has watched her son, the Son of promise, die, and the seemingly defeated form of the Christ together are moving beyond words. Typically Pietà are sculptures, but throughout history there have also been a number of paintings done. Many artists have explored the same subject. I wonder what each felt as he depicted the scene? 
     
     What does sorrow look like? How are the shoulders held? The head? What is the facial expression?
     These were questions I asked as I sat in my closet-studio in the garage, sketchbook laying before me. I had turned on my music a moment before, and the first song that played was one my friend had recently listened to: There is a Fountain. 

There is a fountain filled with blood

drawn from Emmanuel's veins

and sinners plunged beneath that flood

loose all their guilty stains

     That is why I am doing this right now. Because of this sorrow, I am made clean! 

     
     O sacred head now wounded. This became a beautiful experience as I worked through the imagery. Drawing sorrow. Death. Pain. My God! My Savior! How great is Your love for me! The time it took to work through the picture was time that I was able to spend thinking about His great steadfast-love and be thankful.

     The painting itself was hard, so hard. I had to work through how to use color, and the nature of watercolor paint to really convey the emotion that I was feeling. I wanted to use blue for Mary for the sake of tradition, but blue also brings to mind sadness. I wanted to emphesize this aspect of it as well as the drippy, watery nature of watercolors, so I added it to Mary's face, shadowing it with blue, allowing the blue to drip like tears, staining her face. Then I came to the Man of Sorrows, Christ, bruised, bleeding, broken. I still am afraid that I did not do a good job on this part. It had been hard in the sketching up to draw a figure that was limp, heavy with the the weight of death, and then to put a face on it...and then to mar that face. "Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our  and sorrows, yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by him and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed. We all like sheep have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; but the Lord was laid on him the iniquity of us all." (Isaiah 53:4-6) I used red, of course, allowing the mind to read from the color, applied loosely on the form of the Christ figure, the story of his beautiful blood that was spilled as payment. The story of his beautiful life, given in forfeit.

What can wash away my sins?

Nothing but the blood of Jesus

What can make me whole again?

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

O Precious is that flow

that made me white as snow

no other fount I know

Nothing but the blood of Jesus

   

Dusty Garage

dusty garage

cobwebbed closet

cluttered shelves

pushing boxes

laying boards

making tables

sweeping floor

upright brushes

rows of paint

sketchbook open

pen uncapped

music plays

squeezing paint

dipping brush

humming harmony

colored canvas

see myself

heart spilled

in colors 

To Walk Blind

It is dark

So dark.

Where am I?

I had been walking

walking on a path

that was lit by the lantern I hold in my hand

but now the light is dim

it barely stands up against the darkness

a darkness that is thicker now, somehow

then it was only a moment ago

heavier, somehow, than it was before

oppressive, threatening

and terrifying.

Dark.

the weak light of my lantern only illuminates a small area

a circle about my feet. 

my motionless feet.

I can't step

I won't step

my next step will be beyond the light

beyond the known

beyond my sight.

I'm scared of this dark.

Only a moment ago my way had been clear

a good path had stretched before me

well lit by the light

I walked in confidence

happy.

I had the order that I love

I knew what lay before me

it was clear

I like that.

But that is gone now

everything is gone

all that is left is the unknown

the pale light

and my still feet.

Desperate, terrified, paralyzed

I call out

can He even hear me here?

why?

why would You take my light?

I walked on Your path

how can I follow it

how can I go where You call me

when I can't see the way?

Trust Me.

I hear the Voice

it is gentle and fatherly

it penetrates the darkness

Trust Me.

Yes you followed My path

but you walked in your own  strength

you needed no help

you needed no Faith.

It is only when you walk blind

when you walk in faith

that your Faith can grow.

Trust me.

I love you daughter

This is a test

a trial to strengthen

a fire to refine

your faith

worth more than gold

Your faith.

continue

on the path

you saw that it was good

it is still there

it is still Mine

Trust Me.

All is still

the Voice is gone

darkness presses in

fear

my old enemy

Fear whispers

binding, freezing

paralyzing.

what if I stray from the way

and get lost?

what if I slip

what if I fall?

The Voice is gone

but I am not alone

there is a Presence

in the dark

Remember.

I remember

George Muller

and the path he walked

thanking God each day 

for a meal 

that he didn't have.

God was faithful.

I remember the woman and her jars of oil

I remember Israel and the Manna from heaven

I remember Jesus and the bread

and the fish that fed the 5,000

I remember the disciples

in the boat

I remember the great storm that came

and threatened

I remember their fear

and I remember Him

and the words he spoke

the rebuke

they didn't trust

He had the power

He calmed the storm

I remember a song

My voice sounds weak in my own ears

but I sing

You are my hiding place

You always fill my heart 

with songs of deliverance

whenever I am afraid

I will trust in You.

A shiver runs over me as I look around

trying, so hard

to penetrate the darkness

I will trust in You.

I look down at the small circle about my feet 

lit by my weak lantern

I will trust in You.

I breath deep

holding my lantern aloft

I step.

One step

into the unknown

into the black

it is so dark

I will trust in You.

The hands, the mind, and the heart of an artist

"A man who works with his hands is a laborer; a man who works with his hands and his brain is a craftsman; but a man who works with his hands his brain and his heart is an artist."   -Louis Nizer

   

    It was around finals week this spring that I began thinking about what it means to be an artist along these lines--in particular from the time of the senior show of one graduating student. Her show discussed how we are bombarded, "Overloaded" by media at all times. I started to consider at that time how much what I am absorbing from the media all around me affects me as an artist. One thing my professors mention often is how the brain is constantly storing images. They recommended that we constantly be looking at pictures of artwork, filling our minds with images of creativity so that, while we may never remember the exact piece, all the ideas would be stored in our subconscious to eventually come together in a different way as an original work. 

   Think about that for a moment. What kind of images to I fill my mind with? Are they beautiful ones? Creative? God-glorifying? Or are they distracting, images of lies, violent or disturbing? What kind of thoughts am I filling my head with from things that I read? Am I reading things that encourage pure, beautiful, deep, creative, challenging thoughts? Or am I filling my head with the worldly, the twisted, the unhelpful, the cotton candy and fluff?

   Something I remember writing in my journal at that time was this: If I am to really be creative in a way that will bring glory to God, if I am to be able to represent Him and His ways accurately in my work then I need to have beautiful hands, a beautiful heart and a beautiful mind.

   The next thing I had to figure out was what this meant.

   What are beautiful hands? I believe that the hands that are worn and calloused from serving others are the most beautiful hands that can be found. Just as the feet are beautiful of the person who brings the Good News, I believe that the hands that tirelessly serve, the hands that are rough from use but gentle, with a touch of love--a 1 Corinthians 13 love--these are beautiful.

   A beautiful heart can only be a heart that seeks after One thing. A heart that is faithful only to Him, a heart that is full of Him, and through that fullness this heart spills over with His love for all those around. This heart is not self-loving, but completely others-loving. The beautiful heart is the heart that beats for its Maker, that continues beating so that it can do His Work and spread the Light that illuminates it. Create in me a clean heart, oh God, and renew a right spirit within me!

   A beautiful mind is a mind that is carefully guarded. A mind that has not been filled with the garbage that is so easy to find in this fallen world. "Finally brothers, what ever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, if anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think on these things." (Philippians 4:8) It is a mind used to think good of people, a mind with no evil thought. It is a mind that has been carefully pruned, tended and grown. It is a mind that poses problems, and solves them, and it is a mind that considers deep things and is not filled with nothingness. There is so much nothingness out there that is clamoring to be allowed to take up space in your head. Don't let it! It will only hinder your ability to approach life in a manner that can really build the Kingdom. A beautiful mind is a focused mind. One that cannot be distracted from it's purpose, and that is striving to fulfill the Great Commission, working to restore the Shalom that once was. That is what is beautiful.

   And these were my thoughts, and they continue to be something that I think about often. I don't know where they came from, but there they are. And then recently a dear friend shared with me the Louis Nizer quote that I began with. How perfectly it fit! I was amazed, and excited to see that the three areas that I had decided were important as an artist were considered important be at least one other.

A woman who works with her hands is a laborer; a woman who works with her mind and her hands is a craftswoman; but a woman who works with her hands her mind and her heart, SHE is an artist. And if her hands, mind and heart are beautiful...just imagine the work that she will be able to do!

  One thing I have learned in my first year studying art is that becoming an artist is so much more then training for a day job. Being an artist is not like being an accountant or a teacher, or so many other professions, where you go somewhere to work and do your job, then when your time is over you put aside that part of yourself, drive home to live your home life. Being an artist is truly being something all day, every day. It is more then painting in your free time. It is living life with a mindset of seeing as well as making things. It is opening up to everything that is beautiful, allowing it to fill you and responding to it with your own work. It means working through big questions and struggles, sometimes in thought, sometimes in writing, and sometimes through your work. It is seeing that life itself is beautiful and living it, appreciating every detail--the hard, the easy, the sweet, the bitter, the sweaty, the sore, the fun... 
   I thought about this last weekend, which we spent and my grandpa's home in Alabama. There are few places that hold so many sweet and rich memories for me the way that that house on the lake in Northern Alabama does. There are few places where I have been able to see so much beauty in the same the way that I have experienced the beauty there through the many years. It is the same scenes, the same landscape, the same view, but it is always different in some way--the way that the sun falls on the trees, the color and shape of the clouds, the waves sparkling out on the lake--it is always changing. There are so many experiences I could share from that place of retreat, but here I only want to share a taste of the richness of life that can be found...


  The car vibrates as I take out my pen to write. Miles of road stretch out before us, lined on either side by rolling mountains covered with trees, clothed in the rich green of summer. The van is quiet for once, each member of my family occupied with something. My heart is light and I can feel excitement building as we travel ever nearer to our destination.
   The familiar sight of my dad at the wheel with my mom sitting beside him is before me, and I find the familiarity calming. Fiona makes herself busy in the seat beside me, copying what I do with her notebook and pencil in hand. Her pages fill faster then mine. Behind me, all are either sleeping or reading. For once peace reigns. All the people I love, minus one, my older sister who had to stay behind to train for a new job, all in one place, together and happy. This is becoming too rare of an occurrence, and I treasure the beauty of this moment in my heart.
   Why am I excited? Because we are traveling to a place that holds sixteen years of memories, a place that has been there and remained the same as I have grown and changed through the years.
  
   It is late. The van's headlights shine, piercing the pure darkness of rural Alabama, illuminating a gravel road and casting deep shadows into the dense woods on either side. The car is a sleepy kind of silent, the only noise being the gentle sound of the engine, a whine that is only heard when driving the final stretch of road before coming to rest at the end of a long trip. We turn, pulling up the steep driveway on the hill on which Grandpa's house sits. The van doors are opened, letting in the warm, humid night air. I hear crickets and cicadas, together singing their summer lullaby into the stillness of the night. We pile out of the van sleepily and gather a few items, still not breaking the stillness. The screen door the the wide side porch creaks, and in the dim lighting I see a familiar form, arms open, welcoming. We have arrived.


   It is morning--early morning. It has to be early if I am going to make it to the lake before the fishermen, meaning my brothers. I gather a few things, my camera, notebook and Bible and make my way from the back room of the house. My feet know just where to land to avoid the boards that creak as I move to the door. The house is so still that even the smallest sound seems loud, making me cringe. I reach the door and step out onto the porch. Oh morning! The sun has not yet risen above the trees and the sky is still a lavender-gray color. Far down the hill, which slopes steeply away from the house, I can see a glimpse of the lake through the trees. It is glassy, with hardly a ripple marring its perfect surface. I start down the rough wooden steps that lead to the dock, careful as I step on the ones that have come loose over the years. This long stretch of stairs is so easy when going down on a morning as beautiful as this one, a "first morning" when I am not yet sore in every muscle from waterfront activities. Finally I make it down to the dock. Already the sky has grown lighter, changing to a rosy pink in the east, preparing to celebrate the dawning of a new day with an ever-unique sky painting. I settle myself into the wooden porch swing that hangs on the dock and take a few minutes to simple look around and absorb as much of the beauty that surrounds me as I can. And there I sit until the sun makes its first appearance, sending its golden light to warm my face. There I sit until the world begins to stir, with the fishermen on the lake heading home for breakfast, roaring by in their boats, and my brothers making their way down to set up for their morning fishing, speaking of a house that is awake and ready to begin the day.


   The day is fading. I am slightly weary from spending many hours doing the usual waterfront activities, but not too weary to go for a final tow. The sun has moved across the sky until it is positioned over the channel, a narrowing of the lake that leads back toward the Yellow Creek Falls. It sits, shining bright and long, preparing to set. Finally other boat traffic has cleared from the lake as, one by one, families and individuals dock their boats, heading to supper, leaving the the waves to subside and the lake to calm into that smooth, glassy state that is ideal for waterskiing. Many in my family have themselves already headed up to the house to get ready for dinner, with only a few of my brothers remaining to fish for a little longer. My dad gets the boat and I get the skis, and we head out.
   After moving out a good distance from the dock, dad stops the boat. I have my life jacket on already, and, as he casts the tow rope out over the water in a long, slithering throw, I fiddle with it, adjusting the straps until it fits comfortably. Then, grabbing the single slalom ski I walk to the end of the boat. Dropping the ski into the water, I follow right behind it, pushing off the boat and plunging feet first into the lake. The slightly warm water closes over my head momentarily before my life jacket pushes me back to the surface right beside my ski. With familiar motions, I allow the life jacket to support me in the water and slide my right foot into the binding of the buoyant ski. Aligning myself with the boat, I position my foot and ski at and angle through the water in front of me and reach to my left to grab the tow rope. I hear the boat's motor cough and start, and I hear the "clunk" as my dad shifts into gear, moving slowly forward, pulling the rough rope through my loose grip until the handle at the end comes to my hands and the rope is taut between me and the boat. Keeping the tension, I position my body, right knee to my chest, ski angled, tip barely emerging from the water, left leg dragging to balance me as I start. I hear my dad call back to see if I am ready, and I call back that I am.
   With a roar the boat begins to accelerate rapidly. My arms strain as I pull back against the rope, and my leg, tense, pushes against the force of the water. Spray flies up, wetting my face, and suddenly I am standing! Water flies by beneath the single ski and I balance, bringing my free left foot around to the back of the ski, quickly working it into the toe strap there. Once both feet are securely in place, I shift my weight to my back leg and lean to the right. The ski's edge catches the water and sends me cutting over the rough water of the boat's wake and out, free, onto the smooth water outside. I ride there for a bit, enjoying the perfection of the water and the beauty of my surroundings, every color being accentuated by the light of the evening sun, then I dig hard with my back left edge, turning sharply and sending a sheet of shimmering water up into the air to catch the golden light as it falls. I fly, leaving that behind, and bump across the wake to play on the other side. These are the moves of the dance that I love to dance behind the boat. 
   
   The sun is in it's last moments, I can see through the open window as I sit in the dining room, surrounded by family. The lights in the house glow cheerfully, shining from the windows as if to reassure the fading sun that they are there to carry us on and light our long night. The sun sinks behind the trees sending up its farewell with a last bloom of color in the west that slowly fades to purple, then to a deep blue, then to black. Night has fallen.

A Stained Glass Window

Oh to have the words! There are thought, swirling, moving, but to grab them, pin them down and make them logical is impossible, and would probably destroy them. But I have to try, if only to see them in writing and to better understand them. 


Light. It is intangible, but so powerful. In its smallest form it has the power to chase darkness away. 


Your assignment is to use light as a three dimensional medium.


Light. It flickers, glows, shines, beams. 


How do I do that? Light is beyond the three dimensional world. I know the beauty of light. I know the power of light, but how do I express that through art? I know how it moves me, I know what I feel deep inside when The Master Artist lets me see an especially beautiful instance of light, but I have never thought it possible to share that with anyone else. I wonder if it is possible.


Light is divine. God is light, and in Him there is no darkness. Light shone in the world and the darkness could not overcome it.


I know the Perfect Light, it shines in me and through me. Oh to be able make a piece of art that shares that.
Make a sacred space. Rather then bringing light to a space, bring light to someones heart. 


Light. Illuminating, watchful.


Oh God, shine through this project. Thank you for the gift of light, I pray that it might bring you glory.


"You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it; you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God you will not despise." Psalm 51:16-17


How can the simple act of filling a space with candle light move people so much? 


Light. It causes people to be still. It moves people to song. 


"It's a whisper in my ear, It's a shiver up my spine. 
It's the gratitude I feel for all that's right. 
It's a mystery appeal that's been granted me tonight. 
This peace." 

...

Color. Light, reflecting. Hues and saturation.

Your assignment is to change the color of an object in a way that will create a response.

Color. It makes the world beautiful.

Oh color! My favorite element! Oh color, how can I best show you off to the world? I want everyone to notice, if only for one day how beautiful you are. I want them to appreciate you and praise God for you, for what would the world be like without you?


Color. Bright paint, vivid tape, tinted light.


Go all out. Am I all in? Oh! The idea of colored light makes me excited. 


Color. Brighten my day, color it orange. 


Weekend laziness. Oh color, so much work. Oh Color! I stop and stare as you transform the drab, the mundane. Color on the window and on the floor. 


Color. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Purple.


I don't know how to react right now. My heart is singing with the beauty that is taking place around me. It isn't of my creation. It would be nothing without the sun. But oh, color! You tell a story without words, without pictures. You point to the One and sing songs to those who will listen of His unfathomable love. Who could ignore the song you sing now? 


Color. Redeeming. It transforms the drab, making this mundane space a cathedral.


Stained glass windows glow. They are blank, without a picture, because none is needed. Light and color dance together singing their divine song, a song of praise to their Creator and the love He has for his creation. Sing along.