Remembering How it Felt

A long time ago, in a land far far away, someone important to me made an insightful observation. He said that I never really thought about something until I wrote it down and I never really felt anything until I painted it out. I took it as a compliment, and I think that he meant it as such, but over the past few days I have been thinking about this part of me that needs to create. The part of me that finds its voice in the written word and painted image.

In truth it is a part of me that has only been expressed in random bits and pieces. Yes, I write this blog and I journal like it is my last life line to sanity, but it has been years since I have given myself the freedom to paint. There was a time in my life when I could pick up a brush and lose days in front of a canvas. I would stand before the clean white surface and answer its challenge with alternating fury and compassion. I would command the colors to bend and blend to my will. I would fight back the elements of chaos that tried to steal the clarity of the image and I would bring a whole new reality in existence with my finger tips.

I would later awaken, soiled brush in hand, to stare at the marvel I had birthed and wonder how I could have ever created such a thing. Sometimes in blissful amazement, at others in grim acceptance, and still at other times with horror.

But there came a season in my life when my painting became the object of scorn. The time I spent lost in this fabulous and terrifying place was resented by another person very important to me, so I stopped. I packed away all my brushes and tried to ignore the paintings that begged to painted. I visited occasionally, but that is all I allowed myself. A visit, a few hours, a carefully doled out period of time when I thought it was safe, when I knew I was in no danger of losing myself to the process. Eventually, I stopped even this. It was far too painful and never satisfying, merely a bleak reminder of what I had left behind.

As life continued, I had to worry about providing for my children. Survival depended on constant vigilance and every drop of energy had to be poured into making a living, going to school, or some pretense of housekeeping. Painting just demanded too much. So my brushes sat in the cabinet, safely out of sight, but never out of mind.

Today, I am wrestling with if it is time to open that door, like the wardrobe that leads to Narnia will I find a way home? Will I want to find a way home? How many years will pass here and there? Will you know me when I return?

Another friend of mine once asked me how I could write about art and its place in Christian theology if I wasn’t doing art. It’s a valid question. At the time, I had resigned myself to the idea that maybe I just had enough of the artistic bent to give me insight into the situation but was really meant to pursue it beyond that. I still have no desire to be an artistic success. The politics of the art world leave me apathetic, not even caring if I am commercial success, but I am learning to admit that I love the process of creating. I love the feel of the brushes in my hand and how they drag across the canvas. I am finding that my love this act is far less intellectual than I had allowed myself to believe.

It is visceral and elemental. A feeling that springs from somewhere so deep in my gut that I can not determine its source. More than a compulsion, and greater than an appetite, it is truly something that defines me as a person. It defines how I perceive this world and my place in it. It is the medium through which I define my reality and experience this life more fully.

And yet, it is the part of me that I fear the most. It is the part of me that I have yet to fully tame, and paces back and forth in my heart and mind like the lion behind steel bars. I worry when I think of releasing it, and I fear what it shall mean for me and my family. Not because I think there is anything “bad” in it, but rather it is probably the most powerful piece of who I am, lending it strength and infusing every other part of me it touches.

But it is the part of me that knows my Creator the best. It is that little bit of who I am knows the majesty and beauty of a God who decided to create a world of wonders with his voice. It when I am lost in this world of being so completely that it leaks out onto a page or canvas that I understand why he needed to speak the words that gave us life. And I am realizing that hiding from this part of me is just another way of hiding from him.

There is a piece of all of us that reflects our creator beautifully and perfectly. Where we know something about him so intimately that no one else may ever share in that revelation. It is the strongest and purest part of who we are, and it is powerful. Often intimidating the bravest of us, but what greater honor can we give him than offering it up to him?

Dear Jesus, you are cordially invited . . .

I have never been one of those girls who got all mushy over weddings, but there are two weddings that are particularly noteworthy to me: my own and the one at Cana. Call me, if you want to hear more than you could possible want to know or ever will need to know about my and Ty's wedding. As for the wedding in Cana, if you don’t know the story, dig out your Bible and look up John 2:1-12. Go on, we’ll wait, because the rest of this is going to make a lot more sense, if you know the story.

Now, I don’t know how many favorite Bible stories a person is allowed to have, but put this one on my list, too. First of all, it happens at a party. You have to love that, the creator of the universe at a party! That alone gives me hope for a heaven that is way more exciting than any of my Sunday school teachers made it sound. We know that it couldn’t have been too solemn an affair because they drank up all the wine.

This is a major problem, and there are a ton of writings out there about the expected protocols and proper hospitality so I will spare you those details. Let’s just say, this was a major embarrassment to the host, and Mary tries to handle it discreetly by asking Jesus to help. Again, gallons of ink have been spilled over the significance of their conversation, and there are some good things to learn from it but let’s get to the part that makes this so cool for me – the jars.

The host had six stone jars which John explains are for Jewish purification rituals. These things were big, each one holding twenty to thirty gallons. And Jesus has the servants fill them up, to the brim. Now as modern readers, we think no big deal, the guy had stone jars to hold some water, but these jars are important.

A major part of the Jewish religion was purification. We call this washing up. The Torah records the significance of this act, and how God himself commands that his people purify themselves with water before and after certain activities. (See Leviticus and Deuteronomy for more details). We now know that the homes of the wealthy included private mikvahs, or tubs used to wash in, and pools surrounded the Temple so those who were entering could immerse themselves before doing so. Like I said, it was pretty important, but evidently this guy couldn’t afford a mikvah, so he did the best he could. He provided his family and guests with jars of fresh water so they could do what was right and proper before the Lord.

On this auspicious day something amazing happens.

I think we all get that if Jesus had not been there, there would have been no miracle. And Jesus’ very presence tells us something else about the wedding host, he desired to have relationship with Jesus. He wanted Jesus there for this joyful family event. How many times do we take time to consciously invite our Lord to the party? We are pretty good at sending up the bat signal when we are in trouble, but I think that sometimes he would like to have some fun. You know be in a relationship where he wasn’t just being used.

And when this host's desire for relationship collides with the his obedience, he receives a miracle. Because without his obedience, there would have been no stone jars, no place to put the water, and no means for the miracle. Jesus took what this man offered, a willing spirit and an invitation into another’s life and turned it into something amazing.

It was more than just wine. Jesus saved this man from humiliation and disgrace. He to care of the need before the host even realized he had one, and his obedience brought him greater honor than he could provide for himself. And I am learning that with God, our good enough is never enough for him. He always desires to do and give us more than we could imagine possible.

I think it is fitting that Jesus’ first miracle was one of almost whimsy, something that in the light of the rest of his life seems almost inconsequential. But it is such a bold declaration of who he is and what he desires to bring to our lives. He gives them wine, a symbol of God’s presence, his abundant provision, and his desire to bless us with joy through knowing him. In celebrating his nearness this tiny little act becomes so full of promise.

So my prayer for you today is that you honor the Lord with your obedience, you remember to invite him to the party, and when the wine runs out he will be there to bless you with the joy of his presence and provision.