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Faith Life

Weeds Or Wildflowers? The Gardener Decides

What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I can’t tell if these are weeds or wildflowers.

Each year they appear, uninvited. Unlike the practical perennials I favor, these intruders sprawl, indifferent to edges and hedges and less assertive flowers they smother.

I try to ignore their cheerful yellow greeting–weeds are tricky.  Am I gazing at a toxic invasion, or a brief but harmless grace?

Weeds And Wildflowers Surprise

I thought I knew what my life would look like by now. It used to seem so simple. The journey to success and happiness was laid out like a flagstone path, a well-trimmed route across life’s meadow. Clean up your toys, get the grades, make wise choices, interview well, choose your battles, invest wisely, exercise and eat right, say your prayers.

No one mentioned how far seeds scatter at the whim of a breeze, and of roots sent deep when you’re not watching. A landscape artist of a different sort is sowing mischief, or is it kindness? Either way, weeds happen, both nettle and nice, and we’re not sure which they’ll turn out to be.

Some of you are nodding–you’re looking at a weed right now. A pink slip, a lab result, a moving van, a phone call, an interruption, a disruption, the corruption or correction of your finest dreams. You didn’t plant it. You are caught by surprise.

Weeds Or Weeded?

I take a second look at the buttery blooms filling my front garden. Maybe all along I’ve been mistaken. What if I’m not the gardener here but the soil, and someone else decides what grows?

What if the path doesn’t lead to somewhere I want to be, but to someone I’m meant to be? What if I don’t weed, but I am weeded? What if wildflowers appear and perennials prosper, or both shrivel for a time in the heat, but a successful crop of my own design was never the point of it all?

The results I use to define my life are only fading glory. The disruptions and detours I’m tempted to root up may have been sown there for a reason. In the moment, I can’t tell if what I see are wildflowers or weeds. Can I trust the Gardener to know?

But as for the good soil, these are the ones who, when they hear the word, hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patient endurance. Luke 8:15

Are you surprised by weeds and wildflowers too?

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Culture Faith Life

When Being Female Is Hazardous To Your Health

So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them. ~Genesis 1:27

female tears

Their faces haunt me. For their gender alone they’ve endured pain no one should bear, and every day there’s another story, another news update or atrocity uncovered.

When has it ever been so hazardous to be female?

Cleveland and Oxford, New Delhi and Saratoga make headlines, but all over the world infants are aborted for lack of a Y chromosome, elderly women and tiny girls raped for no reason.

Just one story should be enough. Just one child trafficked or passed around at parties should make us shake with rage, and disturb our sleep until every female is safe.

I’m tired of excuses, the ones kept handy to explain it away–she asked for it, she dressed that way, she drank too much, she ran away and into danger, and well, boys will be boys, and always have been. 

I’m angry at Victoria’s Secret, Maxim, and Abercrombie, at The Bachelor and 50 Shades of Grey. I’m tired of the fiction, Christian or otherwise, that a woman is defined by the man at her side. I’m tired of seeing shame in female glances due to dress size or dress downs or someone’s cold sneer.

I’m angry when women play the games we despise, when with gossip and mean-girl strategies we diminish each other. When we stay silent and dumb ourselves down, I’m sad for us all, for

  • doors firmly shut,
  • ministry divided,
  • mutual encouragement that never happens due to jealousy or fear.

God Sees His Reflection In Both Male And Female,

and too often we forget it. What kind of world do I long for? A world where every female knows herself first as a beloved child, as a human being made in the image of God. A world where we all remember: to hurt her, shame her, exploit her, or ignore her is to despise her Creator, to deny His worth.

And the worth of every human male as well.

Do you ever get angry for these vulnerable ones?

[Thank you Dave, Jeff, and Scott for valuing me as the human being I am.]

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Faith Life

A Minor Character In Someone Else’s Plot

All the world’s a stage. ~William Shakespeare

DSC01113

Last weekend I drove north to see Phantom of the Opera with my High School teacher son. The plot was stunning, the talent impressive–the students earned the thunderous applause.

If I squinted my eyes I could see my much younger self, watching the lead actors take their bows.

Every year of high school I tried out for a main role. Every year, my shaking finger traced the posted list until, somewhere at the bottom of the typewritten page, I found my modest part.

“There are no small parts, only small actors,” every cast is told. But lesser characters get fewer lines, and seldom get a solo. The message is clear right from the start–the plot’s about somebody else.

Do you ever feel like a minor character in everyone else’s plot?

No one notices me, I have no voice, I’m never heard, I’m overlooked, I’m not appreciated, the spotlight never turns towards me. I thought by now I’d be playing the lead, and I’m still just part of the crowd.

Searching For A Better Plot

You’d settle for even a nod from the audience, a note in the mail that says, “well done.”

  • But the same person has hogged the attention again and you leave the party, annoyed.
  • In your work or ministry setting you are often ignored and you wonder if you should move on.
  • You are surrounded by people of lesser talent, but it’s you who is overlooked.
  • You dream of the big break–an agent or angel–someone willing to trumpet your worth.

The truth is, whether you are a main character or an unnoticed extra depends on only one thing–who gets to tell the story.

I think Jesus meant what he promised, “the last will be first and the first will be last” (Matthew 20:16). Someday the stars of the stage will be silent, enthralled by the tales of unknowns. And those who travelled on a third class ticket will walk the red carpet in style.

Then both lead and bit player will lay down their scripts at the feet of the only true Star. The credits will roll, unnoticed. No one will care anymore.

Are you embracing your bit parts, your eyes on a better plot?

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What Dallas Willard Knew: Our God-Bathed World

Until our thoughts of God have found every visible thing and event glorious with his presence, the word of Jesus has not yet fully seized us. ~Dallas Willard

_butterfly

Dallas Willard, renowned theologian and scholar, breathed his last mortal breath on Wednesday and woke up to beauty no words can describe.

And he was a man of words.

Dallas Willard’s writing, like strong lenses for lazy spiritual eyes, sharpened and shaped my view of God and the Bible in ways few authors have. His thoughts were not easy to follow–Willard wrote like the brilliant professor he was. But his books are worth a wade. In tribute to this great saint, I give you a taste of the joy Dallas Willard glimpsed from afar and now feasts upon forever. From The Divine Conspiracy:

Dallas Willard: Our God-Bathed World

“God leads a very interesting life, and he is full of joy. Undoubtedly he is the most joyous being in the universe. The abundance of his love and generosity is inseparable from his infinite joy. All of the good and beautiful things from which we occasionally drink tiny droplets of soul-exhilarating joy, God continuously experiences in all their breadth and depth and richness.

“While I was teaching in South Africa some time ago, a young man took me out to see the beaches near his home in Port Elizabeth. I was totally unprepared for the experience. I had seen beaches, or so I thought. But when we came over the rise where the sea and land opened up to us, I stood in stunned silence and then slowly walked toward the waves. Words cannot capture the view that confronted me. I saw space and light and texture and color and power…that seemed hardly of this earth.

“Gradually there crept into my mind the realization that God sees this all the time. He sees it, experiences it, knows it from every possible point of view, this and billions of other scenes like and unlike it, in this and billions of other worlds. Great tidal waves of joy must constantly wash through his being.

“It is perhaps strange to say, but suddenly I was extremely happy for God and thought I had some sense of what an infinitely joyous consciousness he is and of what it might have meant for him to look at his creation and find it ‘very good’ (p. 62-63).”

There was no room in Dallas Willard’s theology for a miserly, vindictive or petty kind of god. His hope was anchored in Jesus Christ, who demonstrated once and for all, “the fondness, the endearment, the unstintingly affectionate regard of God toward all his creatures.” Including you.

Is there one particular author who has shaped your understanding of God?

Photograph by Melanie Hunt

 

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Practice Seeing Every Day

Vous, au contraire, vous êtes heureux, vos yeux voient et vos oreilles entendent!

But you, on the other hand, are blessed. Your eyes see and your ears hear! ~ Jesus (Matthew 13:16)

French flag

In a month, I travel to France! Meanwhile, I’ve opened my own practice. I practice packing, I practice sketching, I practice with paints, I practice my French. Je pratique.

Practice French

We sit at a table in the shade, the bouteille d’eau I sip from sweats moisture as the day warms. Un cahier rests by my elbow, its lined pages covered in scribbled notes written with le stylo I grip in my hand.

Right now my brain is cooking. The discussion is en français and my tutor has a lot to say. His paint stained hands gesture with the eloquence of a Parisienne, his grammar is foreign, yet familiar to my heart. Earnest and intelligent, this twenty-something will change the world.

We speak of a time in the past, when culture was not macdonaldized and our souls weren’t numbed by  TV. He waves a finger to remind himself–we can’t just go backwards in time. Desperate times are listed on every decade’s page. I chime in, “Les Miserables,” and he nods, “Exactement.”

He tells me his generation cannot be the hope, l’espoir d’humanitie, alone, but his children will complete the task. I recognize his vision, it mirrors my own longing for the world to be made new.

Quand j’etais une jeune fille, when I was young, my generation dreamed of change. Long-haired and starry-eyed we sang of  peace and justice and a world filled with love. We would be different, we would not conform. Je suis triste, I tell my tutor. I am sad. My generation is just as greedy and indifferent as those who lived before.

I quote a french expression, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Though a native of France, he has never heard the saying. Bon. Good. It’s a proverb for cynics, for those who’ve given up.

Our time has ended and I look across at this young man, his eyes filled with hope and the pain of the world. With hesitant French I compliment him. Vos yeux viorent…your eyes see.

Practice Seeing Every Day

Later I turn to Romans 8, a chapter filled with groaning. Creation groans to be set free from decay, God’s people groan for redemption, and the Spirit groans along. Unhampered by any pain of his own, the Spirit enters ours. He prays for us, for the world, with sighs too deep for words.

Do I pray along with the Spirit or close my eyes and reach for the remote control? My hope is no longer found in human solutions, but I’m a human God can use. An instrument of change in the Spirit’s hand, I must practice every day.

Jesus, help me share your light and hope with the open-eyed I encounter today. Amen

Where are you called to be the eyes that see?

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The Silence Of God Has Its Reasons

Music is the silence between the notes. ~Claude Debussy

Night silence 2

Writers connect the dots with a pencil of silence; words without white space will never be read.

Artists consider the “negative spaces.” The area around the important subject is painted with great care.

Musicians are as faithful in counting the rests and the pauses as they are in playing the notes.

The prophet Elijah stood on a mountain, discouraged and alone, and waited for God as the “sound of sheer silence” beat in his ears (1 Kings 19:12).

Are you waiting like Elijah to hear from God–in the spaces, in the rests, in the silence?

God’s Silence

I don’t remember how long it was, it seemed to last forever. As far as I could tell, God had checked out of my world.

My prayers fizzled and fell unheard to the ground, my Bible-reading was as refreshing as chalk. No hope, no encouragement, no sense of peace, I cried out each day, “God, I need feel your presence, to know you care, and answer prayer!” No reassurance came–no miraculous answer, no uplifting card arrived in the mail, my Bible refused to fall open to a verse meant just for me. Even God’s creation seemed indifferent.

Dusk is my favorite time to pray, when the boundary between earth and heaven seems thin. So I went for a walk one evening, certain I’d be given a sign–a shooting star, the benediction of a songbird, a rush of warmth for my long-chilled heart. By the end of the walk, my gut ached with sadness, “I matter so little to God, even a crumb of encouragement is too much to ask.”

As I neared my home, I was startled to hear a soft voice, singing a hymn I’d learned as a child. Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side.

The voice, I discovered, was my own.

Silence Has Its Reason

The early church fathers taught what we forget to our sorrow: The silence of God has its reasons, and we will all feel the chill of its touch. The deepest desire of every human being is to draw near to God, and to believe his love without question. Nothing else will satisfy. But how can we know we hunger for God unless he withholds the food we like better?

After one line of that old hymn, I knew:

  • I really do love God, not only what he gives me.
  • I really do trust God, even when my unsteady mind forgets.

My wandering heart is learning faith, and silence is sometimes its tutor.

What have you learned in the silence of God?

 

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Art As A Work Of Life

A l’oevre on reconnâit l’artisan. You can tell an artist by his handiwork. ~French proverb

“You can make art or make a product. The two are very different.”

Edouard Vuillard, The Artist's Paint Box and Moss Roses, French, 1868 - 1940, 1898, oil on cardboard, Ailsa Mellon Bruce Collection
Edouard Vuillard, The Artist’s Paint Box and Moss Roses, French, 1868 – 1940, 1898, oil on cardboard, Ailsa Mellon Bruce Collection

My art teacher, Randy Blasquez, shared the quote on her blog. The context was art and love. “Why doesn’t love come across when you look at a painting? Because it wasn’t put into the painting! The artist was pleasing the gallery or trying to sell.”

How much of your life is spent trying to please the gallery?

The books on writing, the books on art, the books on living life to the full, all agree: Skill matters, but love is essential in any work of art.

I think you would like my writer’s group. Around the word-slinging circle you’ll find a Whitman’s Sampler of styles. We take turns being the discouraged, remind me why I am doing this member, or, less often, the poster child for astounded success. I’ve learned by watching these women wrestle with their art. Things like,

  • A good writer is generous. They bleed their fears, doubts and delights all over the page, with nothing held back for later.
  • A good writer refreshes. They peer into the fog and refuse to blink until they notice a reason for hope.
  • A good writer lights the way. With words gripped by ink-stained fingers they draw us from the dark.

Bad writing may sell books, but readers are left in shadow. A bad life may look successful, but the world is left just as dim.

Art As A Work Of Life

For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago. Ephesians 2:10

Together, we are God’s handiwork. Does your story prove that it’s true? Generous, refreshing, bearer of light, are we changed by the reading of you?

Every day, we’re given a choice–to be just another product, shaped by the world, or let God shape his image in us.

Where have you noticed God’s artistry at work in your life?

 

 

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Looking For Value

Art is collaboration between God and the artist. ~Andre Gide

A11193.jpg

In composing a picture, I’ve been told to “attribute a value” to each space. Light and shadow, highlight and color, your eye will be drawn to what the artist wants you to notice.

Five minutes into the art lesson, and I’m stuck on the question, how do we know what to value? Are we born with a bias toward treasure over trash?

There are some who would claim we learn by artistic interference: By art we are taught what to value, the artist teaches us to see.

Is it true? Do we love a sunflower more because Van Gogh captured its beauty? Would we be indifferent to bird-song if no poem or flute tried to capture its tone? Would a cup of hot tea with lemon seem pointless if British mysteries weren’t solved in its proper company?

Maybe not. But few would deny that scriptwriters and story tellers, pundits and pop-singers influence our values, and not always for good. Yet, yielded and humble, as tools in the hands of the Creator, the same artistry can open our sin-blinded eyes.

For how does God communicate truth to us, but by image, and story and song?

  • The Image of God? Every human being.
  • The Story of God? Redemption through his Son.
  • The Song of God? Joy-filled delight in all he has made.

These are the values the original Artist has assigned, and he calls us to sing, write, labor and dance to what matters to him.

A Vessel Of  Value

Recently a friend turned to me with a puzzled look and said, “I’m surprised! In spite of your being a glass-is-half-empty person, your writing is filled with hope!” I know, I’m startled too. There’s no way I can fake it, no artificial hope-flavor can mask woeful sighs. But every time I wade in gloom, hope bobs to the surface and invites me to play.

Maybe this is a divine side-effect: The vessel will absorb what it carries to others. When we,

  • by pencil or piano,
  • by hammer-stroke or brush-stroke,
  • by conversation or keyboard,
  • by gardening or grading papers,

carry love and redemption, carry beauty and hope, carry truth and trust into the world God loves, we stain our own hands and hearts with our gifts.

How has art pointed you to what God values? Where is he using you as his instrument?

 

Photograph: Claude Monet, Woman With A Parasol–Madam Monet and Her Son, 1875

 

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A Beginner Once Again

The beginnings of all things are small. ~Cicero

IMG_0957

I’m getting used to swimming in the beginner end of the pool.

A year ago, I pushed the Publish button, sending my first blog post flailing into the water, nose-plugs in place, ears ringing with my plea, “Just do your best, that’s all anyone expects!”

This is what I wrote:

“Life is filled with firsts. First days, first attempts, first drafts. And wherever firsts are found, failure lurks nearby.

Most of us don’t like the beginnings of things because competence makes us feel secure. We crave accomplishment, or at least the appearance of having arrived. But few of us get there with the first attempt.”

I had recently attended a Writer’s Conference and came away both terrified and jazzed by the potential of the Internet–that wild, surreal, bazaar of ideas both wretched and redemptive. Could my typing fingers be used by God to offer hope and healing and challenge in such a crowded marketplace?

With little idea of what I would encounter I jumped into the murky water anyway.

An expert told me, “You will only begin to know what you are doing after you’ve written one hundred posts.” This is post number 155 and nothing is easier. But it’s different–I have changed. I don’t dread failure or crave competence in the way I did a year ago. Instead, I fear the fences my cowardice may create, the doors I slam shut that may never re-open.

So, just in time, I’m a beginner again.

A Beginner Once Again

I received an unexpected gift from God’s generous hand. In six weeks I travel to Southern France for a two-week plein air oil painting workshop. This learning curve is steeper than last year’s. I daubed my first oil paint to canvas a few days ago. I’m told I will know what I’m doing after one hundred paintings are complete…

In case you are wondering, the painting above is my teacher’s work-in-progress. My first effort is this far more modest one.IMG_1049

Learning is more fun when it’s shared so I’m taking you, my accommodating readers, along with me on this journey.

Lesson One: It’s safe to be a trembling beginner when you’re held by an unshakeable hand.

“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago” (Ephesians 2:10).

I’d love to hear where you’ve become a beginner again? How is it going?

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So Much To Learn When Learning Is Despised

No one has ever completed their apprenticeship. ~ Goethe

Learning

I love to learn. I’m a glutton at a never depleted feast.

It can’t be helped–I come from a family of learners. Tattered library cards, museum memberships and Time/Life book series were the playthings of my childhood.

Trees, wildflowers, tide-pools, music and books—I enjoyed a casual education in an era when children were benignly ignored, and no afterschool activities or frenetic attempts to polish a child’s resume choked off the creativity of young minds.

The message I was given was unmistakable: It’s good to question. It’s good to test assumptions. It’s good to explore new ideas. It’s good to change your mind.

Of this I am convinced: The desire to learn is God-implanted. The decision to stop learning is sin.

“The illiteracy of the 21st century will not be those who cannot read and write, but those who cannot learn, unlearn, and relearn,” Alvin Toffler wrote over forty years ago. How prophetic he turned out to be.

When we cling to past conclusions, or dig in our heels against the threat of new input, when we put a period next to a person, or a circumstance, or next to life itself and declare we’ve learned all we need to know, we start to die.

So Much To Learn

Life is engraved with the invitation to turn our periods into ellipses and with grace and humility examine our certainty as if there were other opinions besides our own….as if there are worlds we’ll never conquer….as if our dogma will always demand a fresh look.

What are you called to unlearn? Where is God inviting you

  • to rewrite an ending,
  • to re-look at a relationship,
  • to question an assumption,
  • to say out loud, “I may be wrong,”

to embrace a life of learning once more?

 

Photograph by Melanie Hunt

 

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