While we were in Australia, I started taking an art class. I have always wanted to, and it is the biggest regret of my life that I never studied art in college. Having misplaced so much of "me" during our first 3 years on Thailand, I thought perhaps bits of "me" could be recovered by returning to my long latent love of art. (I had always wanted to be a missionary, and was also sure that art was never going to be of any use, and so never pursued it.)
I found a class not far from me, and enrolled, just for the pure hedonistic joy of learning something as frivolous as art. In that room surrounded by the incredible talent of the other students and teacher, the scent of turpentine, colors, canvas, paper and pencils I found a window into myself. God used the art to show me so many things.
He showed me, that anything, anything given to Him can be useful. I don't have to be the most amazing artist on the planet to paint. I learned that it is so so hard to see a whole flower when you have been focusing on one petal. I learned, a little bit, to swallow my fear and TRY. An to keep on trying. I learned that art can be a safe voice to have a conversation or to tell a story. I learned that we worship God by creating, and even if my paintings don't change the world, I spent time creating like our Almighty Creator.
And now I am learning to loosen my grip on my paintings. To not let fear of them not being any good, or people thinking I'm bragging, to keep me from sharing them. Recently, I decided to paint several little paintings for people to use as postcards. I thought it was a most excellent idea, and I assumed that God would imbue me with great ideas and extra skill. Sadly, He did no such thing, and so I ended up with 4 blah paintings. I had decided not to use them, but then it occurred to me that I needed to exercise humility. I needed to offer up what I had as it was, both as an act of worship to God, but also as an act of love to my community.
I think pursuing art has taught me so much grace. I HAVE to be willing to make mistakes. Some can be erased, some have to be scrapped. But I have to try. And acknowledge that I will never "arrive" as an artist. I will never be the best. But I am learning to do something I love. I hope I can use it, such as it is, to encourage others, and maybe even turn their eyes to God. This is my hope.
Friday, September 30, 2016
I took the kids in my carpool to McDonalds for an after school ice cream a few days ago. It was MEANT to be a treat. It was MEANT to be a special GIFT in which they would delight. It was MEANT to bring them happiness.
But, the ice creams only come in vanilla. And they weren’t the originally discussed icy-poles (popsicles). They weren’t quite “cool” enough. Or special enough.
They didn’t really make my car-full of ingrates delighted or sated.
They were a disappointment.
Lately, I’ve been wrestling with what feels very much like a “calling” to art. Daily, I wrestle with my own artistic limitations, lack of knowledge, and natural skill. A lack of natural “eye”. My composition is poor. My technique is lacking. I can’t achieve what is in my mind, if indeed it was in my mind to begin with. I feel too late to the game to ever learn all there is to learn.
I always thought that if God gifted someone to do something, that it meant that they did it easily. And really well. That gifts from God made things easy. Phlbt. Yes, phblt. Not so.
This “gift” of art that God has given me is HARD. There have been no supernaturally imbued skills. No super natural images magically creating themselves before me. Nope. And, along with it, there hasn’t been any life-changing going on either. Art is notorious for being unhelpful…
As I’m wrestling with feeling like such a fake as I identify more and more as an artist, but still feeling the burden to continue to paint, the compulsion to create, and weight of needing to capture the “feeling” of a sunset, or a face, or a bird… And, once again, I am comparing myself against people I see ACTUALLY changing their world. People with sweet admin skills starting up NGOs, people with people skills fearlessly building relationships, people who are fearless leaders full of wisdom and spiritual drive. People with gifts that are different than mine. More... shall we say, "chocolatey"? And I feel like “Hey GOD! What? Only Crappy Ol VANILLA Ice Cream!? That’s all I GET!?” And I see my face reflected in the (much loved) ingrates in my car… And I know I’m them. And I’m sure God rolls His eyes like I did when they complained. And I suspect that maybe He wishes, just ONCE I would be grateful. Just ONCE SOMETHING would be enough for me…
SO, I am trying to offer up to Him what I’ve got. Little and small and “blobbity” though it is. Trying to remember that it’s not about my awesome skills, (or desperate lack there of) but about trying. That trying to paint and draw as I’ve been “gifted” to is all I need to offer Him. He doesn’t demand a masterpiece. He doesn’t need me to be “super awesome”… but only to TRY… and perhaps a little danged gratitude wouldn’t go astray…
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
“What if you gave Me your story? What if you surrendered that story to Me? Couldn’t I use it then? If you gave it up?”
These words came to me, as I hyperventilated over my bathroom sink, trying desperately to figure out what I was going to say in the Bible study that morning. What did a depressed, failure of a missionary, wife and mother have to say to anyone? What could I possibly say that would benefit anyone?
I had no wise words, no special insight.
Only my own almighty failure.
Failure to thrive as a person living overseas, having accomplished nothing in our three years in Thailand, and returning to Australia now only a whisper of a person. I had barely learned to speak Thai, I was utterly befuddled by the ex-pat community, and to top it all off, I used air conditioning. Every night. Gasp. I realized in our time in Thailand, how little I had to offer anyone. I had no admin skills, no counseling skills, no driving passions, and had pooped out all my compassion reserves.
I had failed.
And worst of all, I couldn’t seem to hide it. I couldn’t fake it. I was even a failure at hiding my failure. And yet, I was being asked to come to Bible studies, and prayer meetings. I was able to wiggle out of most of them, sighting “children at home” duty. But this was a ladies Bible study. In the morning. On a school day. There was no wiggling out of it. And so, I stood hyperventiliating over the bathroom sink, fighting the rising panic, wondering what I could say. How I could get through smiling, and hiding... praying desperately that God would help me fake it.
And then God asked me to give it up. To surrender it all to Him. He pointed out that He didn’t need me to defend Him. He doesn’t even ask that of anyone in the Bible. All the murderers, liars, and people of rather weak character that He calls, and uses, and even esteems. None of them defended God’s perfection by their own. In fact, it almost seems like their imperfections proclaim His perfection all the more. God asked me, like David and Abraham, simply to follow, and to testify.
I really wasn’t sure how I could do that. I was still desperately depressed, and battling anxiety like I have never experienced before. I wasn’t all fixed up. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to be. It was possible at that time, that “Missions” had eaten me alive, and there may not have been anything left. But He assured me that stories surrendered to Him can become what He chooses. That stories sat on and buried, will fester and rot. I endeavoured to unfurl my white knuckle grip on a story that kept leaking out anyway.
My surrendered story was received with much prayer and compassion. It was a safe place to begin. Surrounded by good food and women who cared, my story sat safely in that space. Little by little I felt freer and freer to tell it in other places. It was often met with grace and compassion, and not a few “Oh My Gosh! Me Too!” which I always find a balm.
Slowly I did begin to heal.
I still am healing. Some days I feel so weak and tired and the same words of failure, and worthlessness and unwantedness wash over me. But, then I remember where I have been. And I remember that healing can come, if we hand up our sickness to the only one who can do anything with it.
Monday, March 07, 2016
(This post was written well over a year ago. It doesn't feel any less true now than it did then...)
My kids were singing the popular kids song “Every step I take in You” and I began humming along while flipping apple cinnamon pancakes… and then I burst into tears.
This last term has been a hard one- coming pregnant with our fourth baby, helping the family, especially kids transition into our new life, saying more hellos and goodbyes then I care to count, seeking community, and seeking ways to serve the humanity we interact with. We dove off a cliff, trusting ourselves and children into God’s hand and God’s care. Every step we made, we made in trust. And the way He has provided has been so much different than we expected. It’s sent us reeling, sometimes in sheer disappointment. I think in our faith jump, maybe we expected to float down, and not hit bottom. We weren’t expecting the rug rash of the trampoline we’ve been bouncing on…
We expected finances to be organized by His almighty hand, we expected spiritual support and encouragement, we expected teammates in our various ministries to be here longer than 1-2 years. We expected God to provide for our friend”s finances and health needs. And although He has and IS providing, it is not in the comfortable ways we want. We want money to fly down from heaven, we want friends to stay, we want to stay completely healthy.
And as every step we take, we do take it in faith, trusting to the waves of mercy and waves of grace that knock us off our feet, and roll us head over heels leaving us stunned and confused, not always seeing straight... Because this life of faith is terrifying, and I’m not always sure I wanna do it.