What the first-grader taught me about the purple journal

I’ve had this swelling urge to do something different, burst out of my usual and express unadulterated, uncensored creativity. I could get out my stained glass, but it is so messy and the family balks at the remnant solder lead balls and flakes of glass on the dining table, the only surface large enough to contain the paraphernalia.

And so, for the tenth time, I pick up this journal and run my fingers over the purple-dyed cover embedded with delicately veined leaves, bound with two sticks of bamboo by someone in India. 

Each time after I touch the empty white pages, I close it, afraid my efforts will mar the simple elegance that should be contained there. Thoughts of wisdom or etchings of artistry.

My reluctance reminds me of the first and last time I subbed for a first-grade teacher. Better suited to work with people who can reason and not cry—eighth grade and above—I should have turned the assignment down, but finances forced an unwise decision.

Twenty eager little faces, like puppies expecting a treat, waited as I distributed their art supplies. Everyone diligently absorbed themselves in the teacher’s designated project, but when I told them they had five more minutes before I collected the papers, one little girl started sobbing.

A line had not strung out the way she imagined, and she refused to accept the delinquent product. No way was she going to turn that in.

At first I tried my soothing, sympathetic voice: “It’s ok, sweetie.”

Sweetie didn’t buy it. She clenched her crayon and declared no it wasn’t.

Resourceful teacher I, I brought out my bright, full of possibility voice: “Look, just color over this line and it can be a . . .  .”

Unappeased One cried louder. She hunkered down with that drawing and flat out refused to budge. It was ruined. Period. Nineteen nervous faces watched as Frustrated Artist and Substitute teacher faced off.

By this time, I really wanted to haul out my life’s-tough-get-over-it voice, but discerned that was not the best approach for a six-year-old. I wish I could tell you how this ended, but ironically all I remember is the conflict, not the resolution.

 And it’s that conflict—the lack in skills to express the beauty as felt in my own soul and mind that I am facing down today.

How can you capture the longing for God? How can you express a beauty felt but not seen?

This I know. Christ is the perfection of beauty. I am not.

However.

It is for freedom that Christ has set me free. Not to be enslaved by self doubt, self consciousness, self criticism.

And so I put pen and paint to paper and delight in marring that perfectly white page with my primitive expression of the verse that has embedded in my mind this week. And if that weren't enough, I rejoice that I dare share it with you.

Is something tugging at your heart that you long to punch through? 

You may not be able to harness Christ’s creative power that called worlds into being, but he is in you and for that, be brave. Be empty of the critic that taunts you not to burst through that shell.

Try something new this week and if you will, come back and share it.

Play Time: Passing Along the Blessing

 How many of us remember receiving a chain letter promising good fortune as long we passed it along and piles of guilt if we didn’t? 

These days I get the pass-a-blessing- along kind in my email. Although I appreciate the thought of someone forwarding me a blessing, and I dread the prospect of being the one to stop a prayer someone might need that day, I usually suck up my guilt for all of five minutes as I whisper “thank you” and then delete. I just don’t do play well.

So when I received this blogger award that required taking time to answer eleven questions, make eleven new ones, and choose eleven others to pass the award along to, I balked. Thirty-three things! At first I didn’t want to take the time.

 I wanted to write a pithy blog post—you know—the one that released words of refreshment, healing, joy, encouragement, and previously un-penned truth.

But that one just wouldn’t come, imagine that.

This Liebster Award, (Beloved) however, was burning a hole in my inbox. Since it was given to me by the lovely Cathy Baker, who manages to pen poems of beauty by day and laugh, play, and gab by night I’ve decided to take part in the spirit of it. It’s given to bloggers with 200 or fewer followers by bloggers as a way to acknowledge each other and say “you’re doing a great job.”  (Looks like encouragement to me.)We hope you’ll check them out.

One way it goes is when you receive the award, you post 11 random facts about yourself and answer 11 questions from the person(s) who nominated you, then pass the Award onto 11 other blogs (make sure you tell them you nominated them!) and ask them 11 questions. 

However I have seen shorter versions of this, hence I have reduced my responses to six. 

To those of you who receive my award, please do with as your time and energy dictates. It’s supposed to be fun! (To get the button, right click the picture on my page and save the picture to your computer. You can then upload to your blog.)

6 Random Facts About Me

1. Snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef--guide promised there weren't any sharks--later found out it was the shark attack capital of the seas. 

  2. Made my own 20' diameter tepee and lived in it for a summer--my contribution to the hippie culture.

  3.  Hedwig von Trapp (yes, one of them) kicked me in the shin for missing a note in some Latin hymn. I was in fourth grade and probably shouldn't have been in the choir, but there were only about six of us in the little Catholic church--haven't been able to carry a tune since.)  

4. Might be the only person on House Hunters who gushes, "I love the kitchen; it's so small."    

5. Am a middle child. Does that explain anything?                                                          

6.  Am married to a man who can turn my visions into realities and to a God who makes all things possible                                                                                                                     .                             

6 Questions asked of me         

1.      If someone wrote a book about your life, what would they title it?                                                        

Call of a Coward—the God of Moses and the Middle-Class Housewife!

2.      Who’s your favorite singer or band?

Depends on the season—Still…Who can top Simon and Garfunkel?

3.      If you had to choose a favorite book of the Bible, what would it be and why?

 Isaiah. I’m an Isaiah junkie, but Hebrews is next. So to the throne with both of them.

4.      What's your favorite cookie?

Not big on cookies ever since I ate a whole bag of ginger snaps in college to cure myself of sweets.

5.      If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?

 Israel

6.      What recent blessing from the Lord would you like to share? 

Seeing the fruit of a long labored prayer for loved one       

 Actually, the above questions are also the ones I am asking my six  (seven for now) choices:    

Elizabeth, who manages to make preparing food as much of a delight as eating it—and serve it all up with finesse   http://www.ecollinswriter.com/            

Celeste  who offers a daily prescription hope and healing at Celestial Prescriptions  

Beth who has a lovely website and is fun http://bethpensinger.com/blog/page/2/

Alycia who always has a Thoughtful Spot

Leslie who is a voice for those who have none—the trafficked and abused http://thehallowedpath.wordpress.com/

Cecilia whose gentle thoughts and outstanding artwork inspires at Out of the closet and into the light

Mary whose reflections are blessings at  A Mary Like Me 

 Thanks for stopping by. Have a blessed day and remember- The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:5

The scariest thing about memoir: hanging out the laundry

 Someone has approached me to write a book about a plan interrupted—actually, his plan to kill his mother’s murderer.  

 I’m interested for a couple of reasons. The first is because I love how God gets in the way of things, doesn’t sweat standing between a round of 9mm bullets and a man’s heart. Brings assassins to their knees in worship. 

That kind of story reminds me no heart is too hardened, too broken, or too bitter for Him to heal.

The second reason is personal. After writing one memoir, I’ve taken on a great deal of anxiety about having hung my laundry, right down to the seamless underwear, out there for all to see. In person I am cautious, reserved. I keep my distance for a while. (I think I figured out that even a fool seems wise if she keeps her mouth shut long before I read it in Scripture.) 

But when I write, this other person starts talking. She’s shameless, she tells all. Then she publishes it.

It’s ironic that I feel more comfortable about getting into someone else’s head—even one with murder on the mind—than I do about exposing my own story again. Now there are probably other things going on here, but one thing is for sure: good memoir isn’t about airing dirty laundry just for the sake of shocking the neighbors, but it is about being real, touching nerves, bravely hanging those bigger-than-you-like and dingier-than-you-wish undies right alongside the teeny frilly pair.

And then not hiding behind the sheets when someone comes by.

I see from the reviews on my book how much people enjoy seeing the humanness that wrestles with life but surrenders to God, the hidden weakness that stands strong in God’s strength. Because truth touches the stuff of life that belongs to us all.

So what stops us from openly sharing these thoughts—the struggles AND the joys with each other or even with God? What makes me fend off swarms of insecurity about what people will think now that the memoirist inside of me has spilled her mind?

Last Sunday our pastor asked everyone to write down what stops them from diving full-face into a surrendered life with the Lord. What blocks our living as though we really believed?  As the pastor read some of the responses: fear, self, carnal delights, and distrust that God would fail them, I ran down my own list. 

Why do I block that person who delights in early morning solitude with the Lord from living “joyfully free” in him in front of others?

Maybe that early morning person is related to the memoirist who boldly pens about faith and foibles.

Maybe I need to be living inside out.

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Those who chirp and mutter

I have to admit—no one says it better than the Lord. My Bible journal is punctuated with bits and pieces of sentences, unusual phrases, perfect metaphors and imagery. 

This morning I really wanted to share with you one more thought about God’s time, but my attention is snagged on some wording from my reading in Isaiah 8:19:

And when they say to you, ‘Inquire of the mediums and the necromancers who chirp and mutter,’ should not a people inquire of their God?

Chirp and mutter.

What a perfect way to express the delivery of foolish, empty words. Yet how many people today, as in Isaiah’s time, would rather seek advice and consolation from those who chirp and mutter than from the One whose living and active word is able to save their souls, give truth, and life?

At one time in my life, I too sought out those who I thought held the secrets to life. For weeks, I made the two hour trip from my home in Vermont to Montreal so I could study palmistry with a man from India. I drove across country in my blue Volkswagen bug to spend a month with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi at a retreat in California where I hoped to find enlightenment. I studied books with charts of star times and treks.

But one day, enroute to yet another empty adventure, I stood in my living room and said, “God, this time I want to know truth.”

I continued on my journey, but on the other end, instead of finding the answer in a rich man and course in the healing power of colors, I found Jesus, the Word of God.

Now I am beyond seeking the consolation of seers and necromancers, but before I get too self-righteous, I have to question whether or not I’m beyond giving ear to chirped and muttered words of deception.

Recently I had a go at it in the pit of despair, unable to slug off a shroud of apathy. Some said it was an attack of the enemy because I was going to speak at a church women’s conference. Regardless of the source, I was the one listening.

Although the other conference speaker and I had never met, we had perfectly matched messages. But God used her to give me the jump start I needed. Being a good Southern Baptist girl all her life, she had memorized lots of Scripture—books even.

For some reason, instead of being another spiritual have-to, the idea invigorated me. (And I pictured the perfect place to do it—on the dreaded treadmill time my daughter has me scheduled for!)

It’s been a while since I memorized Bible verses and probably forever since I’ve memorized a whole book, but I have begun—just ask me the first twelve verses of James. Oh, and to practice doing them!

Whether it’s from hiding his word in my heart from memory or from reading it fresh in the morning, I want to infuse my spirit with words from the One who gives life, because I know, “With God we shall do valiantly!”—Psalm 108:13

How about you? Do you need a fresh infusion of words of life?

Lord, I pray for any friend stopping by who is bowed low because of muttering and chirping rather than the word that revives.

WE wait for you LORD, our souls do wait, and in your word do we hope.—Psalm 130:5

Sustain us according to your word, that we may live; —Psalm. 119:116, and

Establish your word to us as that which produces reverence for you.—Psalm 130:5

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