Glorious migration

The migration has begun ... the glorious migration of the monarch butterflies, driven from Canada and the upper reaches of the U.S. by the falling temperatures of the coming winter. Their final destination is Florida (or somewhere equally close to the equator), but -- have you noticed -- for the past several weeks, Alabama has been their camping ground.

We noticed, because one of their favorite landing places, it seems, has been our zinnia patch. A few days ago, we counted almost thirty of these royal lepidoptera just outside our back door. THIRTY! All flittering and fluttering around. A glorious sight, it was! We watched in awe.

Initially, it was just the little kids (Bella and AJ) and me -- we'd had snack on the deck, and the kids got the idea to let the butterflies land on their fingers. ("Why not?" they wondered -- "it'd be just like the butterfly room at the aquarium in Chattanooga.")

Only these butterflies weren't like those in the aquarium -- a little less friendly with the human species. AJ (the nature-loving, scientist-type, you know) was distraught; he tried and tried, but narry a monarch butterfly would light upon his finger.

Then, suddenly it seemed, they were attracted to him like bees to honey (sticking with the nature analogies here)! No sooner had I squealed in delight for AJ, so happy that the butterflies were taking a liking to him, that he informed me he'd coaxed them there by spreading pollen from the zinnias onto his fingers. Brilliant kid, he is!

Eventually, Emma heard the commotion and joined us on the deck to participate in the excitement. (Notice the cell phone attached to her ear -- she supplied her friend with spirited play-by-play of the butterfly behavior.)

Such a memory -- this happy time of playing with the monarchs in our backyard.

The days are getting cooler now, and already the monarchs are beginning to disappear, continuing their journey toward warmer climate. A book I own tells me that monarchs, once they've arrived at their migration destination, will make "butterfly trees": they'll settle themselves by the thousands over the limbs of great evergreen trees, wait out the cold weather, and then wake to head back north. Only this time, they won't complete the journey. They'll mate, lay their eggs on milkweed plants, then die. Their eggs will hatch into caterpillars, feed on the milkweed (that's important) and become new butterflies. And because their new little bodies will be full of the milkweed on which they've fed, these little creatures will be safe from the beaks of hungry birds (which are allergic to milkweed). Protected, they will finish their parents' journey home.

Astonishing to me.

On putting books aside ...

For all my love of books, there's truth to Wordsworth's words ...

The Tables Turned

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books:
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless --
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: --
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

William Wordsworth, English 1770-1850

These are lovely days for savoring the outdoors.

For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made ... Romans 1:20.

Beauty and order

This love affair I have with poetry and art and music ... I set it aside for years as frivolous, sentimental and unproductive. My ambition-focused education brainwashed me into believing that success, efficiency and professionalism were of ultimate value. I could kick myself; I fell for it.

Truth is, I'm a creature who loves the things of beauty in this world.

Science and math -- the things of logic -- have never been my forte. I see now that they reveal the character of Creator God: order, changelessness, consistency. They're beautiful, in their own way. I can appreciate that, even get excited about it.

But they aren't the things God uses to reach into the deepest recesses of my soul -- to entice me and bring my spirit to life. No, that would be the things of the senses: words, colors, sounds. These things lead me to a greater awe of the God who created them, the God who created me. These things lead me to worship.

Give me ...

• Poetry: The lovely prose of Elizabeth Goudge, or a friend's captivating (and randomly written!) poetry
• Art: Marcel Duchamps' Sonata, or a vibrant autumn sunset
• Music: The voice of Stokes Skellie, or the lively song of a bird outside my window

... and for a moment (if only a moment), I glimpse something of the glory of God. And these words, these colors, these sounds ... they bring me to my knees.

Literary pumpkin

The biggest adjustment made by anyone with Bella going to school wasn't made by her, but by me: I've been astounded at the number of assignments and deadlines I have to keep up with just for her kindergarten class. Field trip fees, fundraiser money, weekly show-and-tell assignments, Thursday's wardrobe color, Friday's letter object ... her class is active!
Once a month, she has a family project she's supposed to complete with one or more members of her family. She and I had some fun with the latest assignment: read a favorite book, then decorate a pumpkin like the child's favorite character from the story. Bella chose the book Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy. (Fancy Nancy is a little girl who loves all things fancy, including fancy words -- parfait for ice cream, chauffeur for driver, etc.) Here's a picture of Bella's pumpkin (though I think we aged Fancy Nancy by about ten years -- just couldn't get the childlike appearance with the face).
Wouldn't it be interesting to see how creative adults could be with their favorite literary characters? I'd have a hard time choosing my favorite. How about you -- what's your favorite literary work, and which character would you portray with your pumpkin?

A gift

Man-Boy enters the kitchen, vibrant red rose blossom in hand. He thrusts the bloom toward me, deep voice offering the gift: "Here, Mom."

I turn to see him holding that rose, waiting for me to take it. I'm unsure, for a moment, who the rose is from. Did Dad send him in with it, I wonder (because Dad likes to pluck fresh blooms for me), or is this gift from the Man-Boy himself?

"Did you pick this," I ask, nonchalantly as possible. "Mmm-hmm," he answers, adding with wonder, "It was growing through the fence." Man-Boy has found a bit of beauty in an unusual place, and he has brought it to me.

Taking the few steps necessary, I reach to hug him. Gangly arms wrap around me. His stature now having outgrown my own, he must bend to hug. It's becoming a familiar unfamiliar feeling -- the awkward, tentative, different hug of a Man-Boy. One who brings roses to his mother.

Dying to self ...

If everything is lost, thanks be to God
If I must see it go, watch it go,
Watch it fade away, die
Thanks be to God that He is all I have
And if I have Him not, I have nothing at all
Nothing at all, only a farewell to the wind
Farewell to the grey sky
Goodbye, God be with you evening October sky.
If all is lost, thanks be to God,
For He is He, and I, I am only I.

Davy Vanauken kept this poem beside her bed as she lay dying. I was captivated by it the minute I read it. It expresses with subtle solemnity the difficulty of death -- the withering away of life, the resistance to see life go (because, of course, we were created to live eternally), the loss (on so many levels) that comes with dying. And then, as well, acknowledgment by the Believer that God (the Trinity) is all we really have anyway -- the only surety, the only constant. And, hence, the surrender -- the willingness (however feeble) to let go.

The poem captivated me because it seems to me a perfect analogy for the life of Believers -- this dying to self to which we're called as followers of Jesus. What, I ask myself, does dying to self look like for me? Today. In this moment? Here's a short list of the things I came up with.

Dying to self means:

* Trusting the ones in charge.
* Not spending $8 on those brown leggings with the adorable detail on the bottom, because it will be a great encouragement to my husband when we stay in budget for the month.
* Driving 30 minutes to pick up a friend so that my teenage daughter has another opinion on her shopping trip.
* Going to bed earlier (and therefore having less free time for myself) so that I'm a gentler mother to my children.
* Performing support-raising activity with joyful trust, rather than trying to make it happen in my own power.
* Loving a friend, even when she refuses to love me back.
* Being willing to participate in good conflict.
* Spanking my child when she needs it.
* Accepting grace when she needs a spanking and I fail to give it.
* Loving another when I disagree with them.
* Sometimes being willing to say I disagree.
* X-ing out of facebook sooner.
* Forgiving.
* Basking in the giftedness of all my friends (instead of wallowing in my own insecurity).
* Purging those closets and bookcases one more time.
* Kissing whiskers.
* Reaching out.
* Moving on.

He is He, and I, I am only I.

"Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it." Matt. 10:39

Can it be?

I didn't pay attention when G-Love planted those perennial mums last year at the edge of the deck, right beside the large zinnia patch. But I walked outside a couple of days ago, sad that the zinnias were dying back, and the mums were suddenly in full bloom. They're not your typical mums. Look what little surprise was awaiting me ...



They look an awful lot like Michaelmas Daisies, don't you think?

Ode to an artist

I have an artsy-ish streak, but the real artist in my family was my mother. Today, were she living, would have been her 63rd birthday.

After the age of 4, I never again lived with my mother. But she was always present in my life -- always Momma. And one of the things I remember most about her was her art. She was particularly gifted with pen and ink. Highly detailed. Jaw-droppingly impressive.

She was especially fond of science fiction, so her art often had a sci-fi appearance. It was wildly imaginative.

When I was a little girl, my mother would sit with colored markers and optical illusion coloring books (the very ones I still see today in homeschool magazines), and she would color for what seemed like hours. Her vision of those geometric designs -- well, let me just tell you, she could work magic with those markers.

Over the course of time and some extremely difficulty circumstances, most everything that once belonged to my Momma has been lost. As to her art, I have only two examples that I can think of -- a set of paperdolls she made for Emma, and a card she sent to me when I was on Summer Beach Project in 1987. I pulled the latter one down out of my little scrapbook desk, where I keep it for inspiration, and took a few photos of it. That's what you've been viewing as you read this post -- a little gift of art, from my Momma: Betty Irene Russell, October 1945-August 1997.

You can read more about my mom on last year's birthday post.

And thanks for reading. I wanted the world to see her art.

Hello, October!

"Then comes October, full of merry glee." Spenser

Ahhh ... October! My favorite month of the year. I love everything about it!

The world is so beautiful in October! October comes at the beginning of my favorite season -- Autumn -- when the world's aglow with the richest hues of red, gold, orange, and brown. Throw in deep blue and earthy green, and I could look at this color palette all day long.

Have you ever noticed the angle of the sun toward our little corner of the world in Autumn. There's a warm softeness to it. Like ambient lighting. I find it so calming.

And the air -- the air is so crisp in October. Not too cold, but oh so fresh! Makes me want to close my eyes and breathe deep.

Yes, I love everything about October.

The trees, and every individual leaf on the trees. I could collect the fallen ones all day long and bask in their variety. So many shapes, so many colors.

The calm, cool evenings, and the first crackling fire of the season.

The harvest, and all things associated with the harvest. Pumpkins and squashes in all shapes and sizes (Cottage Living has a particularly informative article on pumpkins this month); I'd buy one of every variety if I could. And beans of every color! Inspired by a friend, I have an ongoing habit (tradition) of displaying beans in little woven baskets during the months of October and November.

Little hands -- and big ones -- can't resist the urge to play in them a bit. (I still have to buy the lentils for this year -- my kids have asked me where the "green" ones are -- they are the most enticing to play with -- my kids' opinion, and mine, too.) The beans are a great inexpensive way to bring the harvest indoors. Several years ago I made several little signs to display with them; this year, I could only find this one. (Sorry for the bad photo. Couldn't seem to get the camera to focus on the words. )

Autumn -- it's so rich with the symbolism of redemption -- the harvest of all things sown (ah, joy!), and then the beginning of the cycle again -- things die, only to return to new life. (This redemptive "dying" -- it's a theme in my life right now. Watch for a post on that in a couple of days.)

Did you know that Steven asked me to marry him during the month of October -- 21 years ago. We were sitting on a large boulder atop a mountain, overlooking a valley during one of the most colorful autumns I can ever remember. It was a postcard-worthy scene. Truly.

Well, and my birthday falls on the 29th of October. These birthdays -- they're maybe a little less fun than they used to be (42 seems VERY old) -- but there's just something so satisfying about celebrating the day you were born -- the gift of life given, the memories that linger and the blessings life holds.

Blessings even as ordinary as the month of October.

In honor of Michaelmas Day ...

I'm a fan of British literature. Not just the old "classics," but even more recent literature set in England (and surrounding areas) -- books by Elizabeth Goudge from the mid-20th century, for example. Often, I've encountered references to Michaelmas -- Michaelmas Day, Michaelmas flowers, Michaelmas term -- in this literature. So I noticed, at the start of this month on a lovely little nature diary I keep in my kitchen, that today, September 29, would be Michaelmas Day. Time to put vague associations aside, I decided, and find out what this was all about.

Michaelmas (pronounced Mick-ul-mus) Day is a traditional celebration of the early Christian church (the church of Rome and the Church of England). Like many other holidays, it has both religious and secular associations.

Tribute to a valiant archangel
First and foremost, Michealmas Day was a celebration of the archangel Micheal, who is mentioned five times in scripture. The most well-known of these mentions, probably, is in the book of John (I think) where Micheal fought against Satan and forever earned a reputation as protector from the evil one. The British poet, Milton, eulogized the encounter in some of his most famous poetry.

Honoring a daisy-ish flower
Michaelmas Day is also associated with Michaelmas daisies, a type of aster that grows well in the coldest of weather. The flower is reported to sprout its first bloom just at Michaelmas Day, and continue blooming clear through to the next summer.

Yesterday, I went to Walmart, and I think perhaps I saw some Michealmas daisies disguised as mums -- purple, with a bright yellow center. (If I'd done even more research, which I don't have time to do, I might have learned that these mums are, in fact, a type of aster.)

Cicely Mary Barker, a favorite illustrator, was most known for her poems and illustrations of flowers posing as fairies -- the flower fairies, she called them. Here is a picture of her Michealmas Fairy.
(Cicely Mary Barker poems and illustrations are suddenly in fashion, and you can find them in books everywhere. If you love gardening, or you have a little girl, you might want to check some out from the library. Delightful, they are. She so cleverly draws these little fairies adorned in dresses and caps that resemble the flower after which the fairy is named.

End of the Harvest, Goose Day, and other folklore:
Michaelmas celebrations traditionally signaled the end of the harvest season in the British Isles.

In Ireland and northern England, it was thought that if you ate goose at Michaelmas, you would have good luck for the rest of the year. Thus, it remains a custom on the holiday (also known as Goose Day) to have goose for dinner. (Supposedly, it had something to do with a legend about Queen Elizabeth eating goose after the defeat of the Armada.)

In Ireland, finding a ring hidden in a Michaelmas pie meant that one would soon be married.

Craftsy journal project, and a mental picture of C.S. Lewis

The Journal
Thanks to inspiration from scrappy artist extraordinaire, Virginia, I altered a little antique primer (which belonged to someone in my family, though I can't remember whom), into this scrappy journal, ready for writing.


Pages in the journal are a combination of the original primer pates (complete with charming illustrations),


and two other books (to stabilize the journal, as the primer pages are fairly fragile).


I'll either paint over the text on some of the pages (and then write over the paint), or write on scrappy paper and paste it in -- haven't worked out all the details of that yet. But I've wanted to create one of these little altered books for some time now, and am happy to see the project finally done.

A Mental Picture of C.S. Lewis

As I mentioned in my previous post, I'm reading a book by a man (Vanauken) who was a friend of C.S. Lewis. At one point in the book, Vanauken describes the man Lewis. It's a first-hand account of a real man -- heretofore seemingly unreal in my mind (an ethereal presence whose name appeared as author on profoundly written publications -- but not a real, living, breathing man). I appreciated so much the human element portrayed in Vanauken's description -- it made Lewis present in my mind. Thought you might enjoy it too.

"... I got a card from [Lewis] inviting me to dine with him at Magdalen College. I had never so much as seen a photograph of him, and in reading his books and letters I had vaguely pictured him as slender, perhaps somewhat emaciated, and slightly stooped with a lean, near-sighted face. What I met, when I turned up at his rooms, was John Bull himself. Portly, jolly, a wonderful grin, a big voice, a quizzical gaze -- and no nonsense. He was as simple and unaffected as a man could be, yet never was there a man who could so swiftly cut through anything that even approached fuzzy thinking. Withal, the most friendly, the most genial of companions. ... I therefore saw and heard, both at table and in the semi-circle by the fire in the common room as the port went round, the Lewis who, in brilliance, in wit, and in incisiveness, could hold his own with any man that ever lived."

A Severe Mercy

After devoting myself to the Twilight Saga for weeks, I haven't felt as though I could devote myself to any extra-curricular reading. With school in full gear, support-raising opportunities, Bible study responsibilities, etc., reading seemed like a guilty pleasure. But I came across a book in the thrift store, read through the first page, and knew the book to be, in the words of Adria Ellis, "a gift from God" -- something I am meant to read.

I had heard of this book before, in two vague sorts of contexts -- one associated with C.S. Lewis, the other with an author named Sheldon Vanauken. I wondered, in fact, if there were two books by the same title.

But now I know that there is only one book. And it is something of a memoir by Vanauken, an agnostic (or, arguably, atheist) graduate of both Yale and Oxford who became a Christian during the years when C.S. Lewis was at Oxford.

But it's not Vanauken's story alone. Titled A Severe Mercy, it's the memoir of Vanauken's (almost surreal) relationship with his wife, Davy, their joint search for truth, and the influence of Lewis in their conversion. Shortly after becoming a Christian, Davy is struck with a mysterious illness, and dies young, and Vanauken turns to Lewis for guidance and comfort. What follows is a series of 18 letters through which Lewis, in effect, pastors Vanauken through his grief.

I'm only about halfway through the book, but it is both compellingly narrative and deeply intense. The cover bills it as "A Real-Life Love Story, Full of Wonder and Hope." And Adria tells me that, while heartwrenching, it will be encouraging and challenging and I will love it (which I do).

Here are a few of my favorite quotes from the book, so far.

On beauty:
He remembered as though it were but a few days ago that winter night, himself too young even to know the meaning of beauty, when he had looked up at a delicate tracery of bare black branches against the icy glittering stars: suddenly something that was, all at once, pain and longing and adoring had welled up in him, almost choking him. He wanted to tell someone, but he had no words, inarticulate in the pain and glory. It was long afterwards that he realised that it had been his first aesthetic experience. That nameless something that had stopped his heart was Beauty.

On marriage:
The killer of love is creeping separateness. Inloveness is a gift of the gods, but then it is up to the lovers to cherish or to ruin. Taking love for granted, especially after marriage. Ceasing to do things together. Finding separate interests. "We" turning into "I." Self-regard: what I want to do. Actual selfishness only a hop away. This was the way of creeping separateness.
(note: this portion written of his thoughts before He became a believer, hence "the gods")

On faith:
I suspected that all the yearnings for I knew not what that I had ever felt -- when autumn leaves were burning in the twilight, when wild geese flew crying overhead, when I looked up at bare branches against the stars, when spring arrived on an April morning -- were in truth yearnings for him. For God.

New Website

Thanks to my absolutely brilliant hubby, we now have a new Morgan Journey website. I know you're just DYING to check it out here!

This has been an encouraging week, as we have had at least one financial supporter sign on, discussions with three local pastors (one who just recently returned from a trip to Ireland) and encouraging conversations with several other people. And Steven has a meeting with another pastor tomorrow. (Pray, please.)

I have LOTS of things to blog about, but that'll have to wait til tomorrow. Toodles, til then.

A new take on clothing tags, and wisdom from the pen of Luther

Take a look at the photo below, and tell me what you see:


If you said "clothing tags," take a look again! Those, my friend, are art supplies! And I need more of them. So as you purchase clothing for the change of seasons, for yourself or other family members, collect up those little promotional tags attached to the price tags and send them my way. I'm also in need of Scrabble pieces, by the way, so you can send those as well. (If you're one of the few people who read this blog who don't know how to contact me, leave a comment with your e-mail address and I'll send you my address!)

So enough with the craftsy stuff. Onto more serious topics:

Last week, as Steven and I met for Bible Study (via telephone) with our World Harvest friend and mentor, Meredith Elder, I mentioned to him how frustrated I get with myself over my sin. My trouble, Meredith said, is that I expect myself to be different than I actually am. I expect myself not to sin, because I don't really realize just how pervasive the sin nature is. And, hence, I don't grasp at all the pervasiveness of God's forgiveness and love toward me. I have the same ailment as a friend of Martin Luther, to whom he wrote the following in a letter:

" ... my faithful request and admonition is that you join our company and associate with us, who are real, great and hard-boiled sinners.

You must by no means make Christ to seem paltry and trifling to us, as though He could be our Helper only when we want to be rid from imaginary, nominal and childish sins. No, no! That would not be good for us.

He must rather be a saviour and Redeemer from real, great, grievous and damnable transgressions and iniquities, yea, from the very greatest and most shocking sins; to be brief, from all sins added together in a grand total....

[Luther, quoting another]
Aha! you want to be a painted sinner and, accordingly, expect to have in Christ a painted Savior. You will have to get used to the belief that Christ is a real Savior and you a real sinner. For God is neither jesting nor dealing in imaginary affairs, but He was greatly and most assuredly in earnest when He sent His own Son into the world and sacrificed Him for our sakes."

O, that I might know more fully both the depth of my need and the depth of his love. May I kneel in awe and wonder at this very Real Jesus, who lived, died and reigns for this very Real Sinner.

How I spent my afternoon with (almost) no kids in the house

Can it really have been five days since I posted? I thought a day or two, perhaps, but not five!

All children except Eli were out of the house yesterday, and I had planned to write a post and work on an e-mail we send to our prayer/financial supporters ... but, alas, the Internet was down all afternoon. I was forced instead to clean out my scrapbooking/crafting desk, which has been an untouched wreck for six months at least. I'm itching to work on some projects, and organizing the materials was a necessary first step. (Let's be realistic, if I can't even see the top of the desk, how in the world am I going to use the top of the desk?)

Much to my dismay, I opened the drawers only to discover -- prepare yourself -- mouse poop in every drawer. Aaaacccchhhh! Eeeeeeekkkkk!

We noticed the little critter several weeks ago living under the desk. So Steven, being the humane hub that he is (and at the prodding at the tender-hearted scientific type, Aden) purchased a live trap, put some peanut butter in it, and nabbed the unwanted guest. The children were all amazed to look at the "cute" little mouse, and we put trap-and-all on the porch until Steven could get home and take it town to the woods by the lake to release it. Drove the cat absolutely CRAZY!

Ah, but I digress.

Never occurred to me that said mousling had been living not only under the desk, but in it as well! Not a welcome discovery. So I spent the afternoon taking everything out of every drawer, then vacuuming (and, needless to say, washing my hands about 10 times at various intervals because we were out of the gloves I buy for cleaning toilets).

Now, the desk is all clean and organized, but I did discover five clear letter stamps missing -- don't know if that's the result of some craft-loving rodent (you have read/seen The Borrowers haven't you) or, more likely, a craft-loving six-year-old (Isabella, of course). Probably the latter, don't you think?

Except for the loss of those stamps, I'm ready to go. I'm going to work on the aforementioned e-mail first, then allow myself the reward of working on a little craft project. Some certain friend -- she knows who she is -- ordered a decorated initial from me last November (I hate even admitting that), so today's craft time belongs to her. I'll be filling the order before the weekend is out!

Must get to the e-mail first, though. Pray for our support-raising activity, ok?

This young man, my son

A photo of Eli smiling -- rare treat indeed. (He seems to think smiling in photos isn't cool.) Melissa Holmes nabbed the shot while Eli was at the beach with them this summer, and (being the thoughtful -- and organized friend -- she is) forwarded a copy along to me. I was stunned when I saw the picture. He is so grown!

Happy Place

This home we live in -- this place I spend my days teaching and crying and laughing and praying and dreaming and hoping and loving and entertaining -- this place has soothing little spots which seem to reach out to me and draw me close.

Places like my kitchen window ...


... where I bring a bit of the outdoors in. Visually. And literally. I think the "look" of the window soothes me because the "do" of the window soothes me: those stolen moments of time, when I slip away into the garden to snip the cuttings and then tenderly arrange them, those moments are sweet and nourishing ... and I feel the "doing" of it anew with every look.

The zinnias (oh, perfect cutting flowers) delight me ...

... with their reds, yellows, oranges, pinks and fuschias. Have you ever noticed the little yellow stamen at their center. Delicate, detailed. I love them.

I also love the rosemary, earthy and fragrant. The aroma lingers.

The containers are simple, undistracting -- a sturdy sqaurish bottle which once housed who knows what (olive oil, maybe), and simple antique medicine bottles. But the large one is adorned with a tag, beautifully scripted (not by me), which reminds -- twice over -- Celebrate. Celebrate.

And so celebrate, I do. Life. Love. Redemption.

Even kitchen windows.

Thoughts on God's glory

Tonight in Maja's Wednesday night class, we talked about God's glory. It reminded me of this excerpt from a Frederick Buechner book.

Glory
Glory is to God what style is to an artist. A painting by Vermeer, a sonnet by Donne, a Mozart aria -- each is so rich with the style of the one who made it that to the connoisseur it couldn't have been made by anybody else, and the effect is staggering. The style of an artist brings you as close to the sound of his voice and the light in his eye as it is possible to get this side of actually shaking hands with him.

God's glory. Uniquely His. Staggering. As close to the sound of Him, as close to the appearance of Him as I can be this side of actually embracing Him.

The analogy falls short, of course, but there's something I love about it. To "see" God as supremely all things -- supremely loving, supremely holy, supremely faithful, supremely gentle, supremely grace-lavishing, supremely forgiving, supremely sacrificing, supremely good, supremely wise, supremely understanding, supremely protective, supremely compassionate, supremely supreme -- makes His intangibility tangible to me. What I'm saying is, it enables me to see that I will never be able to grasp just how infinitely glorious He is. And so, in his glorious intangibility, he becomes breathtaking.

Unique. Staggering. Breathtaking. Like a Van Gogh painting or a John Donne sonnet.

Only infinitely exponentially moreso.

I bought a book with the sole purpose of ruining It

There's a part of me that yearns to be an artist. To make something beautiful, imaginative, unique. So I've decided to unleash my creativity. I bought this book:

Here's a photo of the title page:


Inside, the pages offer simple instructions.
Tame ones, such as:
* Add your own page numbers,
* Poke holes in this page using a pencil,
* Draw fat lines and thin,
* Press leaves and other found things, and
* Do some rubbings with a pencil.
And wilder ones, such as:
* Burn this page, and
* Eat some colorful candy and lick this page (um, excuse me, not so sure).

I'm not sure I ever could have allowed myself to buy this book, if not for the love (a.k.a. Amazon gift card) of a friend. And I still worry that it's a frivolous way to spend my time. (Responsibilities, you know.) But the longing to create is powerful and compelling.

So I remind myself that the Ultimate Creator made me in His very own image, and my creating can bring Him honor, if only in its representation of his Nature. So I'm allowing myself a few minutes every day to, ahem, WRECK this journal.

My hope is that I'll begin to see the world -- His world -- in new ways. And that somehow, that will translate itself into artistic abandon.

I'll keep you posted.

God woos

I wish I could say I live this life of faith heroically. I don't.

Often, the struggle far outweighs the faith. I wrestle with God.

Usually, it's when I'm at this hard place, in the midst of the fight, that He offers the strongest glimpses of Himself.

Grace, that's what it is. Grace, that He would love me enough to woo me back into His presence.

Last Friday, I did some wrestling with God. Angry, bitter and confused. The boil of unbelief was festering into a wretched, sickening wound. And I was weeping and wailing and (yes) wrestling. Until I walked outside and saw this:

And this:

And this:

The world all around had a golden cast. It was glowing.

The sky was positively radiant. It was breathtaking.

And I was stunned. Awed by a glimpse, given by grace.

The heavens declare the glory of God, the skies proclaim the works of His hands. Psalm 19: 1