Stories that Shine on an Awesome God

Archive for the ‘Creative’ Category

Making Do

Compared to others, my family didn’t have much money, but one thing we shared with our community was the Culture of Silence.  If something bad or questionable happened, it was all hush-hush or became part of the gossip mill in which I was seldom included. Hard issues like abuse or trauma—even my own—were never dealt with directly.

I became adept at ignoring the obvious, and I could for sure make-do. Making do with what I had financially and emotionally became a well-honed skill. I learned to do the best with what I had.

(These ladies are making-do well before my time)

Mental health was never talked about, but like most humans, I sought love, joy, and beauty. This pursuit became my life-saver.

When, in 1990, my repression of silence broke free and I was ready to process the hidden, dark places in order to heal, my ability to look for beauty among ashes served me well.

Long before that date, I was given the gift of quilt-making. When I was fourteen, a dear friend’s mother invited me over to help her quilt. Later, during the winter of my first child’s birth, my husband worked away so I was alone for days. I gathered scraps from past sewing projects and pieced a sunny quilt top.

Quilting filled the void of my husband’s absence. The scraps refreshed happy memories of clothing I had made for myself and others. It afforded beauty. It was also inexpensive.

I made-do with what I had.

When I first married, someone donated a depleted couch that was covered in stains. I was determined to hide the ugly. This time, I crocheted a large granny-square afghan that stayed on that couch for years.

Later, in order to make my home beautiful, I quilted bedspreads and sewed curtains.

Like choosing a pattern and fabric, I’d been given just so much to work with in life. I had to do the best with what I had, but I could create beauty.

And so can you. No matter our past, each of us can create.

Our creativity comes from our Creator God. If you don’t feel it, try something simple. A coloring book and crayons are pretty basic. A pencil and paper costs little. Digging the ground and planting  flower seeds works too.

It’s amazing what difficult issues we can process when our hands are busy creating.

When we express ourselves through our own creations, we are coming out of silence. When we create, our mental health improves and, despite our pain, we begin to catch glimpses of beauty.

O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness: fear before him, all the earth.

Psalm 96:9 KJV

And thou shalt make holy garments for Aaron thy brother for glory and for beauty.

Exodus 28:2 KJV

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Creative, Culture of Silence, Points of Light, Restoration from Abuse, Shining on God's Character

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Before I Leave Winter

March has hit a home run and is sliding into April. It even sprinkled a few early daffodils as it rounded second base. Sunshine ahead should get it well past third. It runs pell-mell down the last stretch toward spring. I must tag it now or it will be too late, because there is a moment of winter I want to freeze in time.

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Nine years ago, I learned to snow ski and I was no spring chick.

My husband, at the top of each run, watched his student progress in hesitant turns, hogging the whole slope. He waited and then, in half the time, caught up in rhythmic, even glides. Most every winter since, we’ve made it to the Colorado mountains. Each time, I’ve gained more confidence.

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“All you need is miles under your skis,” he assured me.

This winter, we had five weeks’ worth of miles. We left home in January with new skis itching to show off their finesse and returned in March with legs that never felt stronger.

“You sure turned the engines on,” my husband bragged. “I’ve got to up my game.”

I also returned with a new glimpse of heaven.

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We woke around 6:00 every day, ate a sturdy breakfast, and, ski boots fastened, clumped out the door in time to make first tracks. If we’re early enough, we can be there when the lifts open, ahead enough so, when we slide off at the top, all that lies before us is pristine sky, mountains rising in grandeur, few or no people, and ski runs groomed to perfection.

There are no other tracks but those in our thoughts—the ones we are about to make.

Trust me. It’s worth the early rise.

Give it thirty minutes and it’s time to work one’s way to the back side where the lifts open later.

***

We were well into our third week. My amazing skis had made me look almost expert.

Beauty, the kind that truly catches one’s breath, had blended with exercise. Our blood flowed pure.

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“Fresh powder last night,” my husband says over his oatmeal topped with cinnamon and pecans.

Powder! Magic word. Snow had fallen again. Not a minute to waste.

First off the lifts, we warm up on the front runs and head to the back.

We push off from the lift, and, as we glide to the top of the slope, I adjust my poles. It’s more than a straight run. It’s a wide swath of nature that spills in all directions over the mountainside. Scattered evergreens rise stately over its surface. Today they are more than frosted. Today, their boughs are laden.

The air is crisp … clean … with a hint of fir.

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My husband slides along beside me.

“Wow. Look at this,” he breathes.

Further words are useless.

On the horizon, other peaks zigzag a cloudless sky. They trim the cobalt of heaven with white.

Stretched beneath me, four, maybe six inches of virgin snow whisper a promise of pure ecstasy. I take my time. There is plenty of room between the trees to weave in and out. To explore. To sight-see.

I swish through the powder on ski wings.

Floating timeless through my Creator’s perfection.

Just me and His Spirit in soundless bonding.

This is one holy place.

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Alright, March, go for it. Reach home plate and usher in spring. Let’s see what divine glories it will display.

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Creative, Points of Light, Shining on God's Character

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Old Fashioned Sanity – 2

Southern Appalachia isn’t the only place our ancestors eked out an existence clearing virgin timber and hauling rocks from new fields. Across our nation, across our world, survival usually depended on hardy folks with muscles hard. Folks in touch with nature and in tune with the soil. When food was scarce, what fed their souls? Other than fellowship, when they lost a loved one, where did they go for comfort?

“I lift up my eyes to the hills – where does my help come from?”

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They lifted up their eyes to the hills, the windswept prairies, over the sandy beaches across the infinity of water, or up to a night of pulsating stars. Nature, mixed with its wild surprises and eternal solidity drew their souls to a larger existence.

Every day they woke up knowing oneness with the earth and there was something, someone, larger than they. They could depend on spring loosening the grip of winter. They were assured autumn would slow the intensity of summer’s hot work.

Nature can still do that.

It did for Rose-Marie, the protagonist in my manuscript, my work still-in-progress-submitting-to-publishers. A couple scenes pulled from an early draft describe nature’s role in her heart’s healing:

“At the top of Newfound Gap, Rose-Marie and her friends piled out of the car. A road, dipping and twisting along the mountainside, had long forgotten the teams of loggers that had rutted its surface. Now, blanketed with snow, it called to the teens. They grabbed their sleds.

When the afternoon grew late, she took a final ride, reached the end of the normal run, and continued to glide on deep into the forest. Snowflakes drifted. Hemlock and spruce stood like mute soldiers with their giant boughs drooping with snow in a world that was very still. Her sled stopped. She listened to the silence, turned onto her back, and with flakes gentling her face, gazed into the vast gray sky. There, in the peaceful quiet, she longed for Matthew.”

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 Near the end of the book, with teens of her own, nature continued to feed her soul:

“That weekend, fresh air currents swept the mountain and took the fog with them over the grassy bald, leaving a holiday scent of Frasier fir and Carolina blue sky. A mass of lavender rhododendron spilled a bank. Rose-Marie’s workweek slipped away like a leaf through an eddy.

She stepped into a clearing and dropped her pack. Soft, layered branches of majestic hemlocks drooped to the forest floor. Green expanses of fern waved from mossy ground.

Sunset spun the air with filtered gold and reflected from the white quartz outcropping where her family sat in awe surrounded by a sea of mountains. Forever they went, in hazy, folded shades of blue while the golden sun settled itself for the night. God had done his homework.”

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God still does his homework. Lift up your eyes to the hills and know where your help comes from. Take the time. Find the place.

In our complex, often crazy world, get out in the woods, the creek side, the ocean. Drink in the sanity it provides. Appreciate the symmetry and strength of a tree even if its growing in the medium of a traffic-jammed highway. Know, deep in your soul, that your help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.

“I lift up my eyes unto the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” Psalms 121:1 & 2

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Category:

Creative, Healer, Points of Light, Shining on God's Character

Womb of the Wind

 

Heartache abounds. Slow and insidious or sudden and gut-wrenching

While the wind roars its violence.

Depression debilitates. Dark cloud suffocating heart and joy.

While the wind moans in death.

Suppressed grief. Trickling tears inside the mind. Slipping, sliding, letting go.

While the wind grows silent.

Others, friends, and mothers pray, weep, and worry. Cling to the faith of their fathers

While they wait for the Wind

Hearing its sound. Not knowing, only petitioning its destination.

While the Wind blows where it pleases.

Down the pathway of their hope to the heart giving up, letting go.

While the Wind soars on its wings with new birth.

Unseen work. Left to the Creator to tell where it comes from and where it is going.

While the womb of the Wind molds a new creature.

“He who forms the mountains, creates the wind, and reveals his thoughts to man, he who turns dawn to darkness, and treads the high places of the earth – the Lord God Almighty is his name.” – Amos 4:13:

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Creative, Grief, Points of Light, Relationships, Shining on God's Character

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A Love that Hides

His heart burned with love and there was no cure. Night and day the glory of it consumed his being. Tortuous burning. White hot and pure. He longed to communicate, to reach out, to touch, and to finally know that he had been heard and perhaps, just perhaps, been understood. The burning never ended and the glory only blinded. Could he love without destroying? At times, with the passing of years, loneliness engulfed him, pulled at his heart, and strung it out into strands of aching flesh. He knew her by name.

“Oh, my darling, my darling! How often I would have gathered you . . . .”

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He wondered, watched, and waited. On sunlit days he left armfuls of flowers on her doorstep.

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On rainy ones, he sent playful ducklings to splash in her pond. Often, he wrote kind, encouraging words and placed them for delivery in the hands of a friend. And the fire continued to burn.

“If for a moment I would go up among you, I would consume you.”

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One day in a nearby shop, he purchased a painting of a sunset glowing over the ocean. He wrapped his gift and as he gave directions to her cottage, he glanced toward it and caught a glimpse of a pensive face peeping through the curtain. She had grown aware of his presence. On another day he saw a smile like an angel brightening her window. From then on, he tuned his ear to hear her voice. It came like a siren’s call, like a prayer in the night.

“Please, show me your glory.”

Would she live through the burning? He thought not. His love was too intense. If she looked at the fire in his eyes, if she so much as saw his face, she would shrink from the truth shining there. Better that he and not she be tortured. Perhaps she would feel secure with friends nearby, but it was she who had called, not them. A boundary might help to keep others safely away from their sacred rendezvous. He would build a fence in the valley. The two of them would meet on top of a mountain.

“Set limits around the mountain and set it apart as holy.”

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He knew just the place. It was a shining rock of granite kind of place. Fir trees grew from crags with plenty of places to hide. He could protect her there, for he knew of a cleft just her size. Inside lay a rock, smooth for her feet. She could stand on that rock. But what could he show her and how? How much of his heart could he reveal? Love, after all, must protect.

“I will make all my goodness pass before you and will proclaim before you my name.”

The day came. The fog lifted in wisps and uncovered the cerulean sky.

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Granite shone in the sunlight. Breaths of the firs’ clean fragrance drifted down. Slowly, cautiously his beloved picked her way up the mountain trail. Her gossamer gown swished over slender toes while bird’s song lilted a welcome. She loosened her shawl. When at last she stood beside the rock, his voice was strong yet tender.

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“Look beside you, my darling. There is a place near me where you can stand. There on that smooth rock. Now, while my glory passes by, I will lift you into that cleft and cover you with my hand. Don’t be afraid. Once I pass, I will take away my hand. You cannot yet see my face and the truth that is in my eyes. It is too bright and it burns too deep.”

His beloved complied. He began to pass in front of her with his warm hand, like a shield of protection, over her eyes. At last he spoke the words that had burned for an eternity inside his mind:

“I am your true Love. Your Love, merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness. I keep this steadfast love for thousands, for you and for all of your friends in the valley below. I forgive their iniquity, transgression, and sin, yet I am honest about such things. Such things have consequences that sometimes linger for several generations.”

His hand left her face and, overcome with awe, she fell upon the rock. When she could finally speak, it was in hushed tones. Tears streamed down her radiant cheeks. “Your love is beyond measure. Please, forgive my reluctance. Forgive my blindness. Forgive me and my friends.”

“Ah, my love. Listen here!” His voice held her transfixed. “I am making a vow to you, a covenant. Just you wait and see. Before long all the people you are among will see the results of my love in you, for it is an awesome thing that I will do with you. An awesome thing indeed. Go now. Go back knowing my presence will be with you and I will give you rest.”

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Saturated in love, she skipped down the mountain. She neared the fence in the valley. When she came into view, her friends gasped. Their hands flew to their mouths and they stepped back in horror. Her face was ablaze. She stopped, covered her face with her shawl, and wondered at their fear.

Today my insides burn
I must do something
  I must create
I cannot burn up
I must give the fire some escape
I must create

From my perspective, God’s true character of love fits into math’s Transitive Property of Equations, a =  b = c:
God = A consuming fire. (Heb 12:29)
God = love  (John 4:8)
Therefore God’s Consuming Fire = God’s Love

And it’s nothing to be afraid of!

 

See Luke 13:33, Ex. 19, 33, & 34

Category:

Creative, Faithful, Forgiving, Loving, Points of Light, Respectful, Shining on God's Character

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Creative Healer

Pulling folders out of the metal cabinet, I glanced at their tabs before tossing them into the trash bag. “Church Communications, Youth Ministry, Sermon Topic Ideas . . . .”

“I won’t need these anymore, ever,” I gritted as the mound on the floor grew. “After what I’ve done, the shame and dishonesty, God can never use me again. Never.”

My eyes fell on a manuscript draft that had launched a creative flourish nearly a decade before.

“This I’m keeping, but not much else.”

The emotional pain constricting my heart blocked any thought of creativity.

I tied the ends of the trash bag and set it outside the room that had once been my daughter’s. Before she married and left home. Before I had turned it into my own private space to write and study. The file cabinet was empty just like my side of the walk-in closet down the hall.

It was time to leave. Time to make a new home. Time to live out the consequences of my choices in an arena devoid of church fellowship or ministry.

Four years later:Image of Corn plants against the sky

I bent over a hoe, scratching dirt around tender corn stalks. Creativity did not enter my mind. Surrendering to the hoe, to the whole, huge garden that my new husband loved, filled every crevice of my thoughts. Straightening my back, I gave in and breathed an agreement to learn the lessons that garden had to teach.

“And I will write! I will write those lessons.”

Creative musings stirred as if roused from the grave. New life seemed to surge from deep within.

“Perhaps, just perhaps God will use me again.”

Thank you, heavenly Father. Thank You for being a God who creates and recreates. Always. Constantly. You never stop creating. Creativity is how You mend a tattered heart. Thank You for the creativity You place in me. Thank You for its healing power.

How has God revealed Himself through your creativity?  Care to share?

“Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”  Psalms 51:10

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Creative

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