I read a beautiful little book on Henri Matisse to my six year old last Sunday. The Iridescence of Birds by Patricia Maclachlan describes Henri's childhood.  His mother painted plates to hang on the wall with pictures of meadows, trees, rivers, and birds.  He gets to mix the colors.  He arranges fruit, flowers, and vegetables from the market on pleasing patterns on their kitchen table.  His mother hangs red carpets on the walls to give their home color.  And Henri raises pigeons.  Of course, he notices their colors as they move, fly, and flutter about.  

I imagine painters see, feel, breathe bursts of color. That pigments of every hue run through their veins, pulse in their chests. I imagine there are days they can’t not paint. Moments when their minds are a blur of brushstrokes waiting to break free, yearning to pour out a message through paint and canvas. That there is an image or emotion, landscape or lesson that must leak out in artistic expression before it is lost.

Musicians see, feel, breathe chords and melodies. Those notes and lyrics course through their bodies, syncopated rhythms dictate their hearts’ very beat. I imagine there are days they can’t not sing, compose, or play. Moments when their minds buzz with musical phrases, magical verses, harmonies, interludes, or stylistic attitudes. That there is a song that must be birthed through voice or instrument, inspiration that must move from conceptual feeling to tangible expression lest something in them be lost.

I don’t know these things to be true. I’m not a painter or composer. I’m not singer, songwriter, print maker, or piano player.

But if I had to put my money where my imagination is, I wouldn’t hesitate because of what I do know as an artist.

Yes, I am an artist.

I’m a writer.

My medium isn’t soft pastels or rhythmic runs; I don’t create with acrylics or arching melodies.

My art is made of words. Nouns, adjectives, and verbs strung together to tell the stories that vibrate across my heartstrings. I see the world not through color or song, but through description and analysis.

My mind begins to craft the retelling even as I’m in the middle of the living. It’s not contrived—it’s how I’m wired. It makes me come alive.

Surely writing, like all artistry, requires discipline and intentional focus. It’s not all creative inspiration just floating by. But one way I know I’m an artist is when I’m not trying to make art, but art is trying to make me.

The art I can’t not create.

The words can’t not write.

(The ESL teacher in me cringes at my repeated use of a double negative, but sometimes the incorrect is just plain right. There’s no truer way to say it.)

But there was an invitation to art I can't ignore.  Every week I try to create something.  Sometimes I can exhale the deep satisfaction of doing the thing God gave me to do. To make art. Not perfect masterpieces—no, messy blog posts, yes—but to get to know Him through the messy, mundane, beautiful process of making it.

God calls to me through my art.  The Word lived out calls to me.

Through my art I respond, and invite others to join with me.

*******

How has God used art in your life?  What does making art mean to you?

I am once again reminded of my age, that I am not thinking or moving as quickly as I used to, and that it is all going to come together anyway.  

The most hilarious thing about this piece I have been working on is the sheer amount of time it is taking me to finish. Oh, you’re talking about slow? I’ll. Show. You. Slow. Sometimes. My. Blog. Talks. Back. To. Me.

Dear Anyone Who Thinks I Sit Down And Write A Blog Post In Fifteen Minutes,

Absolutely not true!

Love, Virginia.

I’m certain the world is moving a little faster around me everyday and I’m also certain every generation has said that as they grow older since Adam and Eve. I imagine Noah on the deck of the ark telling his children of the days when he was their age and how they did not have new-fangled contraptions like boats and things of that nature.

I imagine Pa Ingalls playing the fiddle and then sitting with Half-Pint by the fire, weaving stories of a childhood where they played music with nothing more than spit, a blade of grass, and a piece of dirt.

You know my grandparents rolled their eyes at our Atari and our MTV.

My declaration that the world is moving faster than ever before is not new. But seriously, Pa. We have the internet.

It seems my soul is slowing at the same rate the world is speeding. When I try to keep up, I feel like a kite in a hurricane.

In some ways it’s incongruent – I talk fast, I walk fast, I can finish tasks quickly when I need to.

But when it comes to my inner life, experiences have to sink fully in before I have an opinion on them. Lines in books I read have to be read over and over before I can figure out why they made me cry. Conversations have to be sifted through over a period of days, even a week, before I’m certain if I was fully myself in them or not.

Lately I am noticing I’m taking even longer than usual to process events and experiences, requiring broader margins and more white space to consider their impact and my desire.

I am a hard worker who meets deadlines and can usually finish tasks when they need finishing. I am also a slow processor who has to allow conversations, ideas, and other influences to marinate before I can grab hold of them.

These two true statements fight.

What is good for my inner health is often frustrating for my work.

But I haven’t always been accepting of this pace. I have tried to discipline the slow out of me. I have read blog posts and books on how to be productive, how to write even faster, and how to do other things I’m not naturally great at. I have learned to do more in less amount of time, to focus in less than ideal situations, to finish, ship, and deliver. Sometimes I have succeeded, at what cost I’m not yet sure.

Productivity skills have helped me meet important deadlines and release unnecessary perfectionism.

The problems come when I foolishly try to apply these same skills to my inner life. The soul and the schedule don’t follow the same rules.

Today I’m preaching myself the Gospel, remembering my slowness is not a fault or a sin, but fighting it might be.

Because once I finally grab hold, I will take the conversation, the idea, and the influence all the way in, allow it all to move and shape my thoughts and my actions. These slow-cooked thoughts will influence how I love, how I think, how I write. They will fill up holes of misunderstanding, smoothing some of the rounded question marks into straight up exclamation points.

As much as I sometimes wish I could post a bulletin to the world, announcing a celestial time out, I know that isn’t the answer. Many are in a season of speed, a time of movement, of action, and go. But that is not where I am now. And I cannot wait for the world to stop to embrace my permission for slow.

So here’s to you, my fellow slow-processors. Take the long way home. Embrace the silence to consider. Give yourself permission to think, to listen, to be sure.

Maybe you are like me and you know you aren’t really listening.  I realize that I rarely listen, really listen, to the stories of the people I love.

I can rattle off plenty of good reasons for this. I don’t have the time or the energy or the attention to focus in 100 percent. I’m distracted, rushed, over-scheduled, under-rested.  My plate is full, my head is cobwebby, my children distract me, I recycled the field trip permission slip, I have problems of my own to solve, thank you very much.

Mostly, though, if I’m honest, I’ll admit that the real reason I don’t listen is fear. I am afraid to sidle up close to such rawness, afraid to enter into a place where words can’t possibly suffice and problems can’t be fixed with a three-step plan. I’m afraid I might see myself –my own vulnerability, loss, loneliness, disappointment, despair — reflected in my friend’s face.

It’s hard. I won’t sugar-coat it. It’s hard to be fully present for another person in their pain, even a person you love, even a person you’ve known for a long time. But I have learned something important: I learned that to listen, really listen, is a gift.

A gift both to give and to receive.

So, here's to waiting before we move, pausing before we speak, and taking a week to cross of our day list.

Here’s to shuffling our feet, playing on the floor, and staring out the window if we need to.

Here’s to listening to our questions, sitting in the darkness, and letting our experiences do their deep work within us.

Here’s to a long, deep breath.

And if you write a post that feels like a ridiculous mess this week? And if that post took you weeks to finish? Go ahead and publish it now. Don’t let your slowness boss you. Embrace it and learn it, but don’t let it force perfection. Let slow do what slow does best: nourish, strengthen, and hold.

Here’s to deep roots, deep listening, strong ties, and slow art.

To say that His birth was opposed is to touch the limits of mortal language.  The mighty one has been hated since the pride of the bright one led many away.  Your world war comes close, but even then, believe me, you have no idea.

We sang that night as we had never sung before.  Those shepherds believed they were the primary audience.  True, they were important — the Mighty One has always favored the lowly.  But there was much going on that night.  The other reason we sang in the fields was to hallow the ground where Rachel would weep over her sons.  There the graves would be dug, the graves for the little boys of Bethlehem. 

Herod’s rage soon stripped dozens of firstborns from the breasts of their mothers.  Those so fresh from heaven, so quickly silenced.  Slaughtered like animals.  So much blood.

The town had no room for Mary, and Herod’s heart had no room for another king.  He would not share his glory.

Although we do not exist in time, there are moments when the affairs of earth are hard to endure.  Even Angels desire vengeance. 

“Vengeance is Mine,” declared the Mighty One.  “Justice is coming.  I need you to sing.”

And so we sang. What the shepherds heard as an anthem the innocents would hear as a lullaby.  We sang as we had never sang before. A song to bring Him safely into the world, a song to guide them safely from it, and a song to help Mary endure it:

Glory to God in the heavenly heights,                             
Fly, fly to the breast of the Father,                                     
This wrong will be righted,     
Jesus is here,                      
Peace to all men and women on earth                               
who please Him.                   
Rest, rest in the arms of the Father,                                  
His fury remembers,                
His love holds you dear.   

Many do not sing of this horror at Christmas.  That is understandable; it was an unspeakable deed.  But I remind you that His birth was opposed.  You have no idea.

(This version of the Christmas Story has been adapted from Touching Wonder: Recapturing the Awe of Christmas by John Blasé)

A strange, disturbing, and, ultimately mind blowing path to joy.  We have now entered into the Holy of Holies of God's plan, our salvation, the week in which Jesus Christ offered Himself up as the sacrifice for the sins of the world, instituting and giving us His Holy Supper, taking His place in a grave, to take the sting of death away from the grave in which we will one day be. If you haven't been thinking about those precious days, read now, see Him in Scripture, and receive the Gift.

Palm Sunday - Christ rides in on a donkey.  Palm branches are waved in front of him.  People recognize him, crown him.

Monday - Christ overturned tables in the temple.  He was angry.  He cursed a fig tree.

Tuesday - The disciples see the cursed fig tree on their way back to Jerusalem from Bethany.  Christ, unafraid, confronted Jewish leaders.  The plot to kill him begins.

Wednesday - Chief priests, elders, and scribes continue to plot and He continues to teach.  Satan enters Judas.  The darkness of story is about to unfold as Passover and the feast of Unleavened Bread approaches.

Thursday - Christ reinterprets Passover. He breaks bread and shares wine with his disciples.  Communion.  A new ritual.

Friday - A death kiss from Judas early Friday morning.  Peter denied him three times.  Pain, hurt, anger, the weight of it almost unbearable, yet he bears it.  The crucifixion, the hanging of the impossible dead.

Saturday - Confusion, grief, and anger for those who loved Him.  He was laid in the tomb.  A guard was supposed to watch to make sure nobody took the dead body.

Sunday - Glorious Sunday.  Mary found an empty tomb.  Emotionally wrought she speaks to Him, thinking He was someone else.  "Rabbini!"  The shock of seeing the risen Lord.  She ran to tell others, she proclaimed, "He is alive!"

Something new was born that week.  Hope. Love. Peace. Mercy. Joy.  All intermingled, wrapped in sacrificial form.  A loving, sacrificial lamb, echoing a Jewish tradition of God saving you, passing over doors, overcame death.  He is a gift that overcame death.

He brings life at its fullest.  He is the Gift.  He is hope.  He is love.  He is peace.  He is mercy. He is joy.  He is.

Loved this! Has a child ever stumped you with a great question?

Another week has gone by.  I was tired this week, but I laughed a lot! Students are great in creating humor in the classroom.  The highlight this week was a freshmen who asked me, "When was your first kiss?"  This, of course, was his idea of making get-to-know questions a little more interesting! It make the whole class crack up and brings me to another important point on humor.

9) Humor Fosters Good Relations and Builds Community
Humor and community are intimately linked.  In an intuitive way, we get the feeling that jokes are enjoyed only in the company of friends.  We tell them at school, at work, and at home.  They demonstrate intimacy trust, and sense or togetherness among those those who tell jokes and listen to them.  Thus, one of the important elements of humor is the intimate connection it fosters among the members of a community.  Through jokes we also show our affection for the people who are most important in our lives.  By joking with people we are, in effect, taking care of them and simultaneously telling them that we love them.  And in inviting more people to share the same joke, our community expands and becomes more open to the presence of others.

Jokes can affirm a group's identity and, at the same time, make that community far richer.  Yet the important of humor extends farther.  Jokes and humor may also be viewed as evidence of the changes that occur in the community over time.  They point to a shared history, a common past that consists of a litany of dangers, trials, and occasional bouts of real suffering and genuine hardship.  Humor does more than "take the edge off" these rough times.  It literally reverses the sentiment of despair into its opposite: hope.  Humor performs the Janus task of looking backwards and forwards at the same time.  It recalls the past, and it sets it squarely before us.  Humor, the language of hope and joy, turns our eyes more resolutely toward the future.  By telling a joke, we affirm that our relationships are vitally healthy and ongoing, and thus open to change, to development, to continual deepening - in short, jokes open our lives and our communities to God.

10) Humor Opens Our Minds
 Laughing releases endorphins, which helps us to relax.  When we relax and feel less threatened, we more able to listen and to lear.  By relaxing listeners, laughters can help get a message across.  And, it may help us think more broadly or creatively. It may even give us spiritual insight like in the following story.

A pastor is giving spiritual direction to an older man who was practical, hardworking, and efficient.  He was getting older, and he was becoming frustrated.  As aging slowed him down, he felt less "productive."  A big part of the problem, both in prayer and daily life, was an overemphasis on "results."

The pastor asked the older man to pray using the image of Jesus as a young man between the ages of twelve and thirty, before he started his public ministry.  During those years, as far as is know, Jesus was not preaching or performing miracles.  He was simply working in a carpentry shop, plying his trade and living a simple life.

At one point, as the older man imagined watching Jesus working in his carpentry shop, he found himself saying to Jesus, "Why don't you start healing people now?  You're wasting all this time!  You're not very efficient!"

When he recounted this to the pastor, the pastor said, "You told Jesus that he wasn't productive?" The older man smiled and began to laugh.  That moment let him relax, pray in a more relaxed way and led him to see himself and others as a "human being" not a "human doing."

Laughter can be a sign of being freed from old ways of thinking, from being bound to old habits.  It was a sign of God's liberation.

As I continue this little series on humor, I am reminded of the beauty of laughter.  My three year old son went into peals of laughter as I was trying to put him to bed.  "Tuck, tuck," is a tradition that has been handed down over a few generations.  I usually can tuck the blankets in around him until he looks a little like a caterpillar in a cocoon.  Tonight he had the giggles.  Every time I touched him, he would get this wide smile on his face. "Mommy, you're tickling me." What fun it was to put him to bed tonight.

5) Humor shows courage
St. Lawrence showed his courage to his torturers during his martyrdom by saying, "I'm done on this side." It was both a pointed challenge to his executioners and a bold profession of faith.  Similarly, in the 16th century St. Thomas more, the onetime chancellor of England who had refused to accede to King Henry's requests to recognize the king's divorce, was sentenced to death. As he climbed the steps to his beheading, he said to his executioner, "See me safe up; for in my coming down I can shift for myself." This type of wit shows profound courage and conveys deep theological truth.  It says, "I do not fear death," and "I believe in God." It points to something beyond this world.  It is a kind of prophetic humor.

6) Humor deepens our relationship with God
One of the best ways of thinking about a relationship with God is a close, personal relationship or an intimate friendship.  In that light, our relationship to God - like any relationship - can use humor from time to time.  It's okay to be playful with God and accept the idea that God may want to be playful with us.
In Jewish tradition, there is the notion of a playful or loving God.  Many rabbis tell the story of God braiding Eve's hair in the garden, like someone who would help a bride. This is a charming and playful image of a loving God.