The Art of Suffering

My family knows I don't suffer gracefully. In fact, the day I broke my little toe has become a favorite teasing point. Bethany will still cry out, "my toe, my toe" with gales of giggles whenever I bump my foot against something and start to make a face.

Occasional broken toes aside, I think I had gotten to a point that I didn't believe in suffering. In fact, I once stood before a young woman at a conference and told her I wasn't afraid of anything because I knew God would walk beside me through anything. What I meant--though I didn't realize it at the time--was I believed God would insulate me from whatever terrible circumstances might come into my life. I've since learned that isn't always the case.

Pain is an incredibly powerful tool for burning out the dross in your life. It's amazing what you become comfortable with...little work-arounds here and there to patch things together and make them look nice. Pain has the power to separate metal from wood in short order. It can show you who your friends are, rearrange your priorities, and rob you of every arrogance you didn't even know you had.

Dr. Bill Gillham once told me that the problem with a lot of Christian counseling was that it centered on trying to build back all the things God was trying to tear down in a person's life...all the wood, hay and straw that Paul talks about being burned up in the fire.

I think the hardest part about suffering is in acknowledging that it is God-allowed. If the one who made the universe has the power to stop pain, it can be bewildering when He doesn't. Maybe we really are insulated until God needs to bring about major renovation in our life. The irony is that pain often touches us in the area we expect it the least and winds up exposing the things we wanted to hide the most.

Maybe the art of suffering is in letting pain do its work and allowing it to burn away the things it was meant to. In having the grace to walk through it when everything inside wants to anesthetize, flee or reach for another wooden board and a hammer.

Second Honeymoon in Jamaica

We’re back! It was romantic, beautiful, adventurous and everything a second honeymoon should be. We played in the bluest ocean I’ve ever seen, saw crocodiles on the Black River; swam in a waterfall, laid on rafts and looked up at the stars, watched an ocean sunset from a cliff, went snorkeling over a coral reef and had to leave a store because the marijuana smoke was so heavy that I started to get dizzy.

The resort was perfect. Small, intimate and all together lovely. Sunset at the Palms in Jamaica consists of about 30 bungalows in a garden, a huge pool, and outdoor eating areas. Just watching the birds that flew by was incredible. The culture of hospitality among the Jamaican people was very welcoming. Everyone introduced themselves by name, and was genuinely friendly.

I titled this “second honeymoon”, but the reality is that this is our first one. We had a weekend at a lovely hotel in Dallas when we got married, but this is the first time we have ever taken a whole week for just the two of us. When we booked it, we justified the expense because it was our twentieth wedding anniversary. The reality is that we should have prioritized it just because every couple needs that kind of time together. So, if you are one of our married friends and you are reading this, I highly recommend jumping off this blog and checking out your favorite travel site.

Elsa, the poet

My friend, Elsa, is a poet. Not only does she write beautiful lines of prose, but she thinks in them.

One day, she told me the story of an incident at her daughter’s apartment complex. A wife had come home to find her husband inside their apartment with another woman. As Elsa told it…“She ran down the stairs, but couldn’t outrun what she saw. She unlocked her husband’s truck and pulled out the tire iron. As her heart was breaking, the glass was breaking. As tears ran down her face, beads of glass slipped down the sides of the truck.”

Everyone else I know would have told the story like an Enquirer article. Apparently poets are hard wired.

Elsa was married for twenty years until her husband began using meth. He took a job as a truck driver and began using to stay awake. In the end, it completely messed up his wiring.

She fled the violent, paranoid stranger her husband became and has been living with her daughter for the past year. Saturday, she went to put down a deposit on her own apartment. For the first time since her days at university, she will be living on her own.

All the people who know and love her are chipping in. Furniture and household items are being stored in my garage until moving day.

The last time we went for coffee, Elsa confessed she hasn’t written in two years. Existing in “survival mode” has kept her poetry in prison. “La vida es dificil,” she said sadly. Life is hard.

I’m currently reading the book, God on Mute. It is full of stories of unanswered prayer, and dares to explore why. I can’t think of a single person I know—including myself—who hasn’t lived through God’s silence. Life is hard.

I don’t know where Elsa’s path is going to take her. This isn’t the life she thought she would be living. I do know that whether or not she writes doesn’t change who she is. She’s still the woman who thinks in beautiful stanzas. Stanzas I hope get put to paper again.

Discovering Steampunk

Jason McKelvey just introduced me to the concept of steampunk. The idea is one of high technology, but in a world where steam power is still widely used. In terms of look, think 19th Century and the works of H. G. Wells.

Just like some artists are into altered imagery or books, steampunkers are into altered technology.

There are a number of artists who are doing unbelievable things. Jake Hildebrandt hosts steampunkworkshop.com which serves as sort of a Steampunk for Dummies. The how-to site includes all the steps he used to transform day-to-day technology into functional steampunked works of art.

Another favorite of steampunkers is the transformation of electric guitars. On Google Images, type in “steampunk guitar” and it will bring up photos that make you wonder how someone conceived of them in the first place.

The concept of art based on transformation rather than creation is new to me. Fun to watch common items get morphed into things of beauty.

Okay Big Tea, now that you've tried your hand at windows, think you might be up for this?

Your white plastic flat screen has always looked out of place in your office. I bet we could fix that. In fact, maybe we could make a trip to Home Depot now...

The Comic Strip Pantyhose Epiphany

Once upon a time, Ned Flanders was my idea of what a Christian was supposed to be. Homer Simpson’s eternally optimistic neighbor went to church every day, always did the right thing, and except for the occasional “gosh-diddly-arn”—he didn’t swear.

On one episode of The Simpsons, Ned’s sons, Rod and Todd (in case you’ve forgotten), show Bart their “Bible Blasters” video game. The object of the game was to shoot all the people walking down the street with a powerful beam that comes from the Bible. People of varying culture, gender, age and shape travel down the street. Each time Bart hits one with a blast they transform into middle-aged white men in suits carrying Bibles.

It’s a staggering concept.

When I was sitting in Sociology 101 at the small Baptist university I attended, I was part of a very homogenous group of Christian college students. Rhonda Robinson came in and sat among us. She was the most original person I’d ever met. You never knew what Rhonda was going to wear to class. Maybe a long gauzy skirt with her "Jerusalem cruisers" (brown leather sandals like Jesus might have worn), wildly colored leggings and a funky sweatshirt, a peasant blouse and well…whatever she wore, it was never the standard-issue for the rest of Baptist College America.

That particular day, Rhonda sat in my sociology class wearing a miniskirt and pantyhose with comic strips printed all over them as the professor began his lecture on social mores. We pulled out our pens and paper to take notes.

"Societies have unwritten rules that people follow," Dr. Rowe explained. The lecture covered acceptable forms of social behavior and interaction. He stressed how the public at large followed the mores without anything being written or expressly taught. Then he casually mentioned that there always seemed to be one person who would refuse to follow the socially accepted dress code.

At that moment, everyone in the class looked at Rhonda.

Of course, all of us had the good grace to look quickly back at the professor. I don't know if Rhonda ever noticed, but I sure did. It made me start to wonder why Rhonda didn’t dress like everyone else; then to wonder why I did. After all, Rhonda always looked like Rhonda. Why did the rest of us all look the same?

Now, I'd love to say that upon that revelation I immediately went out and dyed my hair two-toned like the lead singer in Berlin. But, the fact is that unlearning years of “sameness” programming takes time. Still, I began to notice that there seemed to be a certain Christian way to dress, talk and act, and I began to wonder why.

A few weeks later, I was sitting in the coed with some of the international students. I asked a Peruvian girl named Clelia what the biggest difference was between living in her country and living in the United States. She said, “I've learned how much of my Christianity is cultural.”
Have you ever had a sentence strike you in such a way that the conversation seems to stop? The group continued talking, but in my mind I hung on to Clelia’s commentary. It stood out in big capital letters in front of me. My immediate question was, “How much of my Christianity is cultural?” As I wrestled with the concept over the weeks that followed, I realized that the answer was, “All of it.”

Very little of the thousands of hours which encompassed my Christian education dealt with the character of God. There were endless lessons of whom I should be and how I should act, but no one really taught about the personal presence of God. Oh sure, God was someone I prayed to and studied about, but I always felt like I didn’t quite fit in His world. Sort of like the plastic yellow star trying to go into the oval hole in the Fisher-Price shape-sorter toy. Still, I wanted to belong, so I worked at being as “oval” as possible. It would take years for me to unlearn this.

Debbie Handler--the educational consultant I worked for--began every seminar with a slide that said, "It takes courage to grow up and be who you really are." I think that is particularly true of Christians. If God created everything in infinitely unique design, (ie. gorillas aren't giraffes and roses aren't daisies) why there is expectation for homogeny among people?

After all, wouldn't it be boring if we all were just like Ned? Gosh-diddly-arn.

Carl, Sunny and the stained glass windows

John and I made the trip to Lake Texoma to stay with our friends, Carl and Sunny Raschke. Carl is a famous theologian and Sunny is an incredibly talented artist.

They built a retreat for worship, relaxation and study. About a year ago, they moved there. John, Bethany, Bethany’s BFF Alex and I stayed in the guest house. It was a weekend of long walks under trees, fabulous wine (ale & beer for John) and thoughtful conversation.

One of the coolest parts of our time there was being immersed in an environment that so clearly reflects our friends’ personalities. The guest house was filled with interesting books on a wide variety of topics that interest Sunny and Carl. And, the house was filled with Sunny’s art.

Her style is one of color, depth and motion. One of my favorite pieces—Dancing City—clearly communicates Sunny’s depth and joy. She has another one of a tree where it looks like the tree is moving. It was also fun to see her studio which was full of work in varying stages of completion.

Like me, Sunny believes in the power of color. She explained that they had recently repainted the house because it had formerly been…”this color.” (Sunny pointed to a white knob without quite touching it as if it were too distasteful to say the word out loud.)

Knowing I like to paint glass, Sunny gave me two windows she had picked up at an antique market. Though Sunny didn’t know it, lately, I’ve been having difficulty creatively. The inspiration that normally flows through me like a current has been minimized to a trickle. The windows became an opportunity.

John—knowing how much I’ve been struggling—jumped in to help. He ran me to at least three different art stores where we shopped for paints and he came up with a technique to help me implement the design that was in my head. He even helped me paint when the clear parts became a chore. It was fun to sit in our bedroom floor surrounded by bottles of paint. He measured and problem solved while I worked on design and color. This is a new thing for us. Doing art together.

In the end, we completed both sets of windows while we were at home this weekend. The one pictured in this blog entry is destined for my sister, Karen’s, new house, as a gift. (Karen, if you are reading this, “surprise!” If it doesn’t work with your new décor, let me know and I’ll get you a gift certificate somewhere.)

Random Acts of Art

Two years ago, I went to a meeting of the Global Design Alliance in Des Moines, Iowa. Des Moines turned out to be a surprise. I’m not sure what I pictured. (Maybe corn fields and silos?)

As it turns out, Des Moines is an amazing town for art. The galleries are incredible. David Dahlquist Studios produces pottery for large city art installations. The Sticks Gallery distributes whimsical furniture art across the country. The Des Moines Art Center has a security guard who keeps a sketch pad by the stool where he sits and does the most amazing portraits of people whose faces interest him. (I know because I picked up the pad and peeked when he wasn't looking.)

The week I was there, the Des Moines Art Festival set up right outside my hotel. I could hear music and smell roasted corn from my balcony. I was in!

The variety of art and artists was overwhelming. Oils, watercolors, mixed media, sculpture. The thing that struck me the most wasn’t the variety, but what I was drawn to. Some of the most powerful uses of color were by African-American artists, and I found they had the power to pull me through crowds of people carrying cotton candy and turkey legs to see their work up close. I spent an evening browsing through tents, then-- inspired to create--sat at a café table and began to sketch with the watercolor crayons I stole from my friend, Robin-the-Artist.

I went home to our house which had an “old English library” feel, stripped our dining room table and began painting. Poor John, I think he thought I was crazy. Luckily, he also encourages me when I get like this. Little did he know that the table would eventually influence our whole household. In going through the tents of the Des Moines Art Festival, I discovered the power of color and light. I stained the glass on the highest windows in our living room…hung mobiles in our bedroom. John and I spent a day looking for Talavera geckos for the bar. We went on a week-long odyssey to find the multi-colored lamps for the dining room. (Just for the record, John’s office remains a bastion of old-English-librariness. As it should. It has a brown leather love seat, bookshelves, and swords and parchment hang on the walls. It suits him.)

The best part of the transformation in our living space came from something Bethany told me. She was at a youth group meeting and the question was posed, “Have you ever been to a place that just makes you feel good?”

Her friend answered, “Yeah. Bethany’s house."

Okay, so I got inspired....

It shouldn't be this hard. Writers should be able to write. But there is something about putting your journal out on the world wide web that makes me hesitate. After all, didn't diaries used to come with a lock and key?

And, if my sister ever read mine, she definitely didn't scribble a response at the bottom.

Besides, I have a host of half started journals that never really took flight, why would this be any different?

Hmm.....maybe because it has cut and paste.