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Yearly Archives: 2012

“The artist, if he is not to forget how to listen, must retain the vision which includes angels and dragons and unicorns, and all the lovely creatures which our world would put in a box marked CHILDREN ONLY.” – Madeleine L’Engle in Walking on Water

You can find the first half of this session here. We met for dinner and I photographed this lovely Mama and her boys in a tiny upstairs room of an old house around a big wooden table with evening light streaming in through little windows on every side. That’s where the boys looked at me with their souls and I played with capturing her hair in golden light. On our way out to the cars I had visions of trying to get some rad shots in front of old walls, everyone lined up looking cool and disinterested. But there was a Koi pond on the way out and alleys are for running and brothers are for being silly. On this my first attempt I have learned I am not one to take those stylish images, but to grab what they give me and play with it as much as they enjoy the moment.

She and I live in the world of children, homeschooling our kids. It is a wild and ridiculously fabulous world. Sometimes I have to remind myself of this after a long week of containing the chaos enough to teach a few lessons. But these moments always come, such as Saturday morning coffee in hand, editing photos of little boys all lit up with life. I’m reminded how my little men keep that box wide open with dragons and such spilling all over every inch of our lives.

 

I’m rereading a favorite book. More than a book, as my eyes fall on it’s pages like an old friend, I’m reconnecting with who I forget that I am. Falling back in love, committing to the dangerous life that is the artist’s. Maybe just to the life that is real, that we all can reach for and loose ourselves in the pursuit of. The kind of loss that gives you back what you most desire and never even dared dreamed of. So as I hear these words again you may find many of them shared as I bring them in and try to give them a home . . .

“Obedience is an unpopular word nowadays, but the artist must be obedient to the work, wether it be a symphony, a painting, or a story for a small child. I believe that each work of art, wether it is a work of great genius, or something very small, comes to the artist and says, “Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.” . . . But one does not have to understand to be obedient. Instead of understanding – that intellectual understanding which we are so fond of – there is a feeling of rightness, of knowing, knowing things which we are not yet able to understand. . . When the artist is truly the servant of the work, the work is better than the artist . . . When the work takes over the artist is enabled to get out of the way, not to interfere. When the work takes over, then the artist listens. But, before he can listen paradoxically, he must work. Getting out of the way and listening is not something that comes easily, either in art or prayer. Before I can listen to God in prayer, I must fumble through the prayers of words, of willful demands . . . until I have worked through self I will not be enabled to get out of the way . . . We must work every day, wether we feel like it or not, otherwise when it comes to get out of the way and listen to the work we will not be able to heed it.” – from Walking on Water : Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeleine L’Engle

To be a servant is humbling, but it makes clear your duty. To give birth is incredible pain, danger and fear but it brings the glories of new life. If my role is birth giver and servant then confusion melts away. If the work knows more than I, there is no room for ego and neither is there a place for insecurity. I can have confidence in the work, my trust lies in He who is all truth and beauty. The most I can do is put down what He opens my eyes to. That is the least I can do in this magnificent story He has written. Rest is found in the fact of His authorship and I must be diligent to put pen to paper or whatever He spurs my heart to do. It is my duty and I may not understand where I will be led. All I know is that window light is calling and I must attempt capturing it’s loveliness on a friend’s deep tresses. Or that there are words inside my heart that need a place to be scrawled down and seen. And even humbler, there are socks which must be arranged in clean piles, an installation of the art of everyday. To birth the moment of a child’s head on your breast even when a million other tasks are clamoring. To let God’s grace wash over all the mistakes, when the brush goes wild and crazy and only His love can wipe the canvas beautiful clean. That is the realest kind of art.

And we all are artists, His children created to take after our Father. His creativity bursting wild with joy to make this world and still careful to craft the handiwork of each atom beyond what we can fathom. Him placing us here to love with the mad intensity that knows loss and betrayal and can choose to cling to the one they adore. We cannot breath without this love and in this story painted with the bold colors of life and death, our Father is all Goodness. Tears and laughter, houses built, babies born and lovers held testify to the truth of our story. Each act, another mark made in what is truly art. And so I search out, I learn . . . how to hold the light in a box . . . how to place the artifacts of life on a screen . . . and I try to step out of the way and let it be more than I know

(Thank you to my friend and her lovely boys for having dinner with me in the upstairs room of a favorite restaurant, around a big wooden table with evening light streaming in and my camera clicking away! Her boys are so sweet and fun. They were so into interacting with the camera and can go from really deep to super silly and back again which was so interesting for me to explore with me lens. I see the beautiful art of her family she is creating. I don’t know how to portray that, all I know is how to grab a glimpse of boys so in love, climbing on their mama’s lap and dancing round her as we walk to the car. I will share the photos I took as we left in another blog post soon! 4-5-12 . 85mm . LR + VSCO . evening window light)

These are the glorious days and the best are yet to come

Glorious all bathed in light and rolling in His love. New feet trod light the grass and find all there is to be delighted in. Ah, these days of roaming far and wide and cuddling close at home . . . they are filled with work but need not hold worry for the best is always ahead of us. His glory is to come. When they are no longer babies carried in my arms and dangled on my knee then they will be boys running off to adventure as his brothers did this weekend. Off to learn the ways of men  with fishing poles and sleeping bags in the classroom of the wilderness. And when they no longer need us to drive and teach and pack their bags, when their lips no longer quiver at the fearful dark – then they will be men and we will experience who they have been created to become. When I can no longer fit them inside my embrace, they will wrap strong arms around for a quick hug and I will wonder at the wonder of it all. This miracle God has employed me in.

They run off into the wild and I enjoy quiet enough to hear my own thoughts and time to soak my baby in. We dilly and we dally, ride bikes and take long baths. We sleep in and eat our favorite food and we go to the garden. The garden on a cloudy day with no plan and no timeline and we walk in circles and inspect the dirt. He finds a fig tree, dignified in its stance, roots spread out like gnarled fingers, sweet fruit dropped round. He picks up dried figs, too big treasure clasped in his little fists. He drops and gathers, climbs and trips, wanders and wonders through the beauty of it all. This earth given for us to cultivate, this moment given for me to cherish.

A fountain is found, statues covered with succulents dancing round the water running. A wonderland we circle and circle, staring through the drops cascading. And on he runs to a field of green, exploring on and on . . . a shady spot, a lovely day, still he wants to see more, know more, do more. I walk by his side and let him explore, surprised to find no sadness in the loss of his helpless days but joy in meeting who he is become.

He wants to help the gardeners, but he is not yet grown enough to hold the tools and trim the lawn. They give him a flower, his consolation prize. He runs, brings it me, his offering of love. Is there anything ever that I could need more? No this is all, ever, always enough and will be even in its changing state. In this knowledge I am. Content.

3-31-12 . 24-70 . LR + VSCO . cloudy afternoon in the garden

I don’t know if this will make much sense, but I have to get it out, put it down in words – this is a bit of my journey with what is called “church”

It rings in my head – “Bone Dry.”

You’ve heard it said – “Dry as a Bone.”

But bones aren’t dry . . . unless they are dead.   Dead Dry Bones.

Alive and they are strong – giving life, cleansing the body, not dry at all.

So when did I become bone dry? Dead? Forgetting, dying . . . Old and grey I wonder how a mind can fail to realize what they have forgotten, children fading into nameless faces. Watched my grandmother’s mind fade into oblivion as her spirit held onto her Lord. Those bits of pain they fade, the grief’s crazy edge dulls, like how I can’t remember quite how my breasts burst for him. The mad raging howl inside has subsided. What I am left with is Love and all the good.

I flip back through pages of memory and find the beautiful writing unfaded, I still know the feel of my babe’s silky forehead, the only kisses I would ever give him. I can trace his button nose like it was yesterday that I held him those few moments. Glad that I have come out of the coma of grief, no longer a wounded animal lashing out in fear and pain.

Good God, He walks us through the steps, each stage faithful to bring you to the next even when all feels lost in the uncharted madness of loss. Aren’t we all grieving and aren’t we all blessed? What do you do when you step out into that wide space of healing though? When you can’t blame your stumblings on a disabling hurt, when it’s no longer time to wait to start living again – what do you do then?  Praise, a sacrifice lifted from lips free of bitterness, from a heart purged by pain. If I mumble my thanks amidst petty gripes and complaints I fall back into the walking death of apathy, numb to this riotous beauty that is life truly.

No  – Wake up! Remember your first love, See where you have fallen from! Raise your hands in His freedom, Revel in his grace! The dead bones will Rise, they will Dance in the Desert! Giddy on the wine of His ever giving, all quenching water.

Long ago, not much more than a child, I stumbled into the circle of friends, sons and daughters in the flower of their youth. I thought I was grown, thought I knew life. We had no idea what we were doing, but we knew Him and we gathered round, to sing and to receive. Kneeling on that worn carpet, cross legged, holes in our jeans, flannels wrapped round, we hurt each other and we gave each other grace. I tiptoed in after parties and the wrong guys had kept me from their fellowship. My heart aching, my soul searching, I wondered if I would still be welcome. Gap toothed grin from behind his guitar let me know I was in the right place among brothers and sisters. Afterwards he said, “Come to the cornfields, pitch a tent, listen to the music, He will bless you, join us.” That was the last time I saw him. Driving to the festival, dark road and a semi, and we gathered round a hospital bed to whisper goodbye to his broken body. We prayed and cried, kids hit by life, didn’t know how, didn’t know, just didn’t know anything – but God . . . and we drove and we pitched our tents and we listened to music and punk rock and Jesus held our broken hearts together. Met at the skate ramp, black haired boy with his flesh pierced reminded me Who had been pierced for me. Reminded me Christ didn’t care what I had done, just loved me that was all, and knew I would need Him before I ever did. Said “Just Stop, Just Follow Jesus.”

And my path was never the same, I turned from the dark road I had stumbled down but I did not become what I had hoped. I hoped for perfection and a person I could be proud of. That I am not. I am a mess, always wandering off, hurting others, failing and fearing, holding not even a handful of the faith I long for.

But my Lord brings me back in brokenness. I stumble hesitant, fearful off to College. After more boys and way too much of my own way, He leads me to another circle of friends gathered every Monday night for Koinenea – Fellowship. Singing and telling each other what He had saved us from. Another smile, this one with curls and a young wife, leads us into worship and we grow together in His Presence. Undeserving I am graced with a husband, strong man with a  dream to fly. As he learns to soar, we move and move again till I begin to loose track of where I am. Graced again, the babies come and I am terrified. I just don’t know what I am doing, too young, too small, feeling more than a little alone. We cling together and search for fellowship. A small church and we find another circle to worship amidst and then we move and we move, on and on it feels . . .

more babies, and separation and loss and suddenly I am older, and tired and finding it hard to see my way. Unable to remember just how much I am forgetting. I struggle to worship amidst a sea of faces, I sneak out of services and begin to stiffen at the mere thought of Sunday morning. I know perfection is lost, unattainable and that true fellowship, friendship takes living life together and still I LONG for more. I yearn for more and heap the guilt on myself – I am too picky, unrealistic, difficult. Frustration builds, angry at an undefined enemy. Yet hope still flickers deep within. There is something, something . . . though I have forgotten what it is. I know I need it and that it does exist. I tell Him I don’t know how to find it but I will wait for Him to give. I will not give up.

Then I meet them. Surfers overflowing with joy and it sparks in me, remembering a time when I had that crazy uncontainable taste for Him, living just to be full of His spirit. They tell me of a time when believers gather – and worship. Then I meet her. A photographer whose images and words have moved me. Her full of life and honesty and telling me of a time when friends meet – to worship. I know He is leading me and despite every hurdle rising up we go. Children in our arms and at our sides . . .

We step into the room and are bathed in His presence. We come tired but His joy rushes in fast and strong. I come ashamed and He lifts my head, breathing forgiveness overwhelming. We laugh and cry, raise our hands and hold our babies. We kiss and look at each other afresh – in His love. We do not know anyone in the room but they carry us on the shoulders of their praise and prayers. Their spirits magnify the Lord and infinite God grows larger to our myopic eyes. We know not a soul but see Him through His people, His body broken for us, His church.

We enter into worship and I remember.   I remember what I must have to live.   I drink the water, slurp it up, splash and play.   I revive enough to realize how dry I was.   We in our brokenness, a vessel to be filled and we hold each other.

I still don’t know what comes next, how to live this season of healing. But it is no longer forgotten that I need the places of oasis. In a land of walking dead, we all traveling to the grave – I am dry bones dancing. Crucified in Christ it IS no longer I who live, but He lives in me and He has a body – my brother, my sister, my husband, my children. I am not my own. And He lives in the praises of His people – Not in programs or buildings, churches or “Christians” but in His children. The broken believing sinners, forever failing, bought with His blood, filled with His spirit, saved only by His amazing grace.

In that grace, in this world – I am dry bones dancing.

dry bones Dancing

 

“It’s foolishness I know but when the world has seen the light, they will dance with joy, like we’re dancing now.”

“And He will say dance, dance, children dance, dance forevermore. Hold hands and sing of your freedom as you dance around my throne.” – worship songs

“Tenderness and grace – How you’ve come this place  – However dangerous or safe – I will find you – I will find you” – Avett Brothers

 

5D . VSCO 800Z+ . Grampa’s Polaroid 420 Land Camera . need to figure out how to fix the bellows so they don’t leave dark shadow across bottom . . .

I don’t have enough love to give him and still he gives me more. my little bear

He was my baby allie, curled up on my tummy, squeaking little sounds. I slung him on me, nursed him at my breast, but I wish I had done more, worn him until my back broke, ‘nuggled every nap with him. But then came deployments, tragedies, broken hearts, exhausted bodies, everyday hassles and time slips by.

Time slips by and regrets pile up till they block the view of now. The beautiful view of NOW.

I hold him now, grown long and lean, his head heavy on my chest. David always generous with his heart, never tiring to be held close. Yet I fear to open my eyes to how much love he needs because I don’t know if I have given enough or ever can.

I can’t, never will be able to give any of them all they need – but He will. He gives Forgiveness and Love abundant. Forgiveness and I can see today in all it’s radiant glory. The mess is still there. We have fallen a thousand times today and more tomorrow. The dishes are still stacked high and a hundred more tasks it seems before bed, but the sun streams down and clothes us all in beauty. Glorious miracle just to breathe and be together, covered all over in the light of His love.

the light of His love, and it is enough. My little man and I raise up hands to our Lord, we hold each other and sing, sing of His love forever . . .

Not a moment is lost, only ugliness washed away, the beauty can not fade. He holds each second safe in His strong hands, and my eyes can open to now with no regrets for He has planned my path and redeemed my missteps. What mystery and miracle!

 

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