hope for the artist

Know that the author of creativity longs for you to barge in, break open the gift you have been saving; he will not only receive you, he can bring you purpose behind the battle, and rebuke those who reject you. Mary’s oil was the only thing Jesus wore to the cross. He was stripped of everything else, but art can sometimes endure even torture. A friend of mine said that in the aroma of Christ, Mary’s oil mixed with Christ’s blood and sweat, there are da Vincis and Bachs floating about. He will bring your art, music and dance to the darkness of death, and into the resurrection of the third day.
- Makoto Fujimura

losing a spreadsheet

My hard drive crashed the other day. Since I've gone lax on my "back up every day" rule, I lost almost a months worth of...trying to be in control and on top of things. One of those things was a spreadsheet on which I keep a log of all of my monthly income and spending. I found an old version of it, but because it is now not up to date, I feel behind. I do not like feeling behind or out of control. K. was praying with me yesterday regarding this and I just sat there, clenched, in my chair, flipping through my mental file box of other things that were probably lost. Half listening at best.

Then later on in the evening, I picked up the book I'm reading on prayer, and read this:

I live in daily hope of getting my life under control. At home I left a desk covered with to-do lists: study the manual for my balky printer, unclog pine needles in the gutter, unstick the toilet, change snow tires, check on my sick neighbor. Maybe if I take a day off, I'll have time...On the mountain one bolt of lightening, splitting a rock on a nearby peak and exploding against my eardrums, exposes any illusion that I am ever in control. I can count on the moment before me, nothing more.

"Let me know how fleeting is my life," prayed one psalmist. A mountain storm thunderously answers that prayer. The priorities of my life crack apart and slide into a new place. (Phillip Yancey)

between words

i was once frustrated by words. which was really a frustration about not having a way to adequately and accurately express my experience of the world. And while I love being able to communicate precisely thoughts that are captive and unfinished in my mind, I also find another service of words.  They often lead to a varied kind of communication.

These words - all these audible attempts at communicating - sometimes lead to silences that are filled with mutual knowing - the indisputable and lucid kind - where intimate exchanges unspeakably stun the spirit. Time, charged with significance and meaning, halts its insistent and frantic whirlwind, leaving us breathless, fully present and full of eternity. Where no thing can be uttered; simultaneously no thing is confused.

No thing is confused. Or confusing. In these moments, I find myself with an urge to wink.

*sigh*

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sov’reign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow’r.
Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

- William Cowper

7 Stanzas at Easter

One of my favorites...


Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

- John Updike

a night off

I sit outside on a small flight of tall wooden benches, polished and modern, under halogen light with rock music prominently streaming from the speaker above my head. i just finished a spinning class and am now back at the coffee shop (finishing the coffee from before). my muscles are exhausted. my mind is awake.

A new man comes and sits at the other end, sipping his coffee. Something it seems only city folk do at 8:00 in the evening. I like the city. In the city people readily sit near you and go about their lives.

A small spec of a bug travels the wall to my right. It twists and turns as it navigates the rough terrain of grey-blue paint. I like how this insect is not affected by gravity the way I am.

I look at people as they come and go; i watch them, not self-consciously. And I think about how God loves them. Flesh and blood and heart. He loves them. At each moment of the day someone is lying down to sleep, to rest from the journey. They surrender to the night in bitterness or in peace.

Some collapse heavy.

I’m almost thirty. I’ve survived city life and love it.

People. People are hard and beautiful. Beautiful to consider. Hard to live in the close company of. But worth it, for God pursues people and His spirit dwells in many.

It is LA cold and I shiver. But I stay until close because this is a moment of worship.

My feet are dusty. There is dirt under my nails. I drink cold coffee. I am at rest.

I like being here. alone. I wonder when the day will come where I get too lonely and cry for want of company.

I wonder about the man from earlier. I wonder if he’s gone home. I wonder what he’s thinking about. I wonder if he’s still writing. Still trying to say something.

….

I’m now in my room. sorrowful. my tissue box looks like a blue volcano exploding thin white paper. i wish sarah lived next door. i’d invite her over and let her disregard the do not disturb sign that hangs permanently from my door knob. we could listen to the police sirens together.

untitled

all paths of the Lord are merciful and true.

i forgot where i first read this. probably in an amy carmichael book.

…i’m writing at the end of a short and narrow table at the venice intelligentsia. i wanted to make enough room for a stranger to sit next to me. rankin was preaching yesterday about how God loves people. and, yes, we hear that and say that without even assessing whether or not we actually believe such a true assertion.

but…God loves people…and i wanted to leave room for someone to sit close. and it worked. i’m actually intrigued by the man that is now sitting in the space i intentionally left available. he is busy writing. he was writing facing forward, which left me facing him semi-dead-on as i typed at my computer. he has since turned the other direction. i understand. i would have likely done the same thing. it’s not comfortable for a stranger to be in somebody else’s line of sight for an extended period of time.

i think i’ll pray for him…

it’s sweet to pray for strangers in coffee shops who have no idea you are petitioning the God of the Universe on their behalf.

…

of dark nights: In Christ, has not God brought out of the most hideous dark night surpassing glory and hope?

of color: leaves are more colorful when they are dying and on the verge of departing from their tree.

on unity: Father, you know what will meld beautifully for Your kingdom. In due time would you make it plain?

You, the King & I

In the shade of ancient trees,
your thoughts
take shape.
i wait on them,
expectantly,
as i wait on great poets
to unleash the profound,
and lace it with beauty.

Under waltzing clouds,
your unassuming hum
fills my soul
as symphonies do.
All praise you bring
to our Maker
with economy that baffles
all who think themselves skilled and wise.

On a common day in a busy city,
Your child-like glances
countenance me;
Coax me to laughter,
overwhelm the ache of the 'not yet'.
I play so well with you,
I find joy so well
with you.

Simply,
in your presence
i remember…
Life is about
the King
and I.

expression

We dance
clumsily
in the dark
laughing.

We are more in love
with music
than
with grace.