From My Living Room Fireplace — Too Cold for the Swing!

From My Front Porch Swing — Too Cold so,

From My Roaring Fireplace!

By Marilyn Fain

I know that many of my friends are “done” with Christmas…my own mother couldn’t get that dead tree undecorated and onto the neutral ground in front of our house soon enough!   But NOT this Christmas gal!   Those of you who know me well know that my tree and front porch lights will likely not come down until the middle of January.  I so dislike letting go…of the sweetness and light that is the BEST of the Christmas Season for me.  It seems that is when I observe more overt kindness in myself, in families (including mine), and in the world in general.  Somehow I wish that spirit would/could prevail everyday of the year in human interactions.  But imperfect creatures that we are, we evolve too quickly back into self-absorption, even self-centeredness…forgetting how good it felt when we were absorbed with ways to make others happy.

This after Christmas cocoon is especially sweet because most of the pressures we put on ourselves in order to “pull off” the perfect holiday celebration are completed, successfully or not.  So sitting back to bask in the glow of tree lights, the gleam of glass balls and contemplate the new memories made without that stress seems perfectly appropriate for this time to me.  Honestly, this year I am surprised to feel the same reticence to let go that I have felt after other Christmases.  This Christmas has been for me and mine particularly difficult, in some cases incredibly sad…involving letting go of dearly loved ones and being unable to ease the suffering of some others.  But…well…there it is.  What Christmas truly IS facilitates the hope – THE HOPE – that springs eternal in this breast.  And I aim year after year to get to the core of it…to celebrate JESUS’ Birthday in a way pleasing, honoring to Him.  In fact, that is why He came, that is why His Father sent Him:  to give folks like me…and you…HOPE that there is a day coming when we will be able to live Christmas in all of its richness and texture and LOVE more fully than ever we imagined as we struggle and strain to celebrate with our awkward attempts and mis-emphasized efforts here and now…for then we will celebrate with Him in His Presence.

And so today, the day after Christmas, I sit before this roaring fire (too cold out on that porch swing), enjoying the reflection of my Christmas tree’s little, white lights in the living and dining room windows, observing a winter world still tinged with leftover autumn color, continuing to Rejoice…

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given:  and the government will be on His shoulders, and He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  Of the increase of His government and peace there will be no end…establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever.  The zeal of the Lord Almighty will accomplish this.”  Isaiah 9:6-7

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat!  Come buy wine and milk without money and without cost.  Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?  Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.  Give ear and come to me; hear me, that your soul may live.  I will make an everlasting covenant with you, my faithful love promised to David.  See, I have made him a witness to the peoples, a leader and commander of the peoples.  Surely you will summon nations that you know not, and nations that do not know you will hasten to you, because of the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, for he has endowed you with splendor.  Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near, Let the wicked forsake his way and the evil man his thoughts.  Let him turn to the Lord, and He will have mercy on him, and to our God, for He will freely pardon. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.  “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.  As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth, and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth:  it will not return to me empty (void), but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.  You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.  Instead of the thornbush will grow the pinetree, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.  This will be for the Lord’s renown, for an everlasting sign, which will not be destroyed.”  Isaiah 55:1-13

Powerful words that renew my spirit and guide me into a new year…resting into, curling up in this reassuring truth that – despite the conditions in our world –  what He has said will be accomplished – “…so is my word that goes out of my mouth:  it will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.” (Declares the Lord – Yes!)  Such comfort on this addled, bewildered, counterfeit, disloyal, fractious – and beautiful in so many ways –  human habitation we refer to as planet earth.  A favorite, old quote by G.K. Chesterton helps me express how I pray to live a new year: 

“You say grace before meals.

All right.

But I say grace before the play and the opera,

And grace before the concert and pantomime,

And grace before I open a book,

And grace before sketching or painting,

Swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing;

And grace before I dip the pen in the ink.”

A favorite and effective beginning exercise for guiding children to express themselves in poetry and prose is patterning, using meaningful writings of others as patterns to inspire their own expressive ability.  Often after using this technique for awhile, children gain confidence enough to begin to create their own writings from scratch.  It is a good tool for anyone, including me today, as I rephrase Mr. Chesterton’s ideas with my own:

“You say grace before you eat…

Okay.

But I say grace before the sermon and the show,

And grace before the concert and the game,

And grace before I begin to teach the lesson,

And grace before sculpting the flower bed or designing the scrapbook page,

Baking, sweeping, scrubbing, folding, conversing, singing, walking, reading,

And as I observe the world going by and think the thoughts that Scripture inspires;

And grace before I begin to write.”

My daily living – my very life - as prayer.   Thank You, Lord, for Christmas Seasons where we come to know you more and more, for forgiveness, for fresh beginnings, for a world of wonder, for your Hope, for Grace.  In the name of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Amen.

From My Front Porch Swing #6

From My Front Porch Swing . . .

By Marilyn Fain

“But they that hope in the Lord will renew their strength, they will soar on wings like eagles;  they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”  Isaiah 40:31

 

 

It’s cold and crisp out here on the front porch swing this mid-morning…I’ve come to let go of this beautiful month of November and ease myself – body and soul – into exhilarating (and exhausting) December.

He – God - did it again.  Surprised me with JOY…deep JOY.  I love when that happens, and these days it seems to happen frequently.  Because of some shifts in our family structure, some unknown days ahead, I dreaded celebrating my favorite family holiday that has become so comfortable in its familiarity – contemplated making rather drastic modifications in the way we do the day.  Oh, there are always slight alterations in schedule and sometimes even menu for Thanksgiving, and comings and goings of guests from year to year.

Like last year when my daughter and son-in-law brought a couple, close friends of theirs, to add to our group.  Far from family, physically and emotionally, they were obviously grateful to be included in someone else’s celebration.  We were amplified in our “family-ness” by their presence.  But the essentials, our traditions, remain unchanged from year to year for good reason…they feel right to us, sweet and simple comforts in a fickle, shifting culture.  Like my mother’s big, cream colored bowl with the wide blue band that sits sideways, high atop a kitchen cabinet throughout the year.  We bring it carefully down for this holiday.  For so many years of my life she used it to make her wonderful cornbread dressing.  I use it now in the same way, following that treasured recipe – for forty…no matter the number of guests.  The distinctive fragrance of sautéing onion, celery and bell pepper fills my home, reminding me of so many Thanksgivings past, the preparation involved, the persons who helped and the love and laughter shared at those times…from initial preparation through to “leftover” sharing following those glorious meals together.  Polishing her silver before setting a seasonal table was my assignment for as long as I can remember.  She taught me as a very young child the proper way to polish silver and how to set a festive table.  That tradition continues as I perform those same tasks today.  Always I write my menu and an order to go by so that everything is done – nothing left to chance…just as she did.

 

Eventually, I decided that “the show must go on” for the sake of all involved and that the comfort of those aforementioned traditions were more needed this year than usual.  So I did with gusto all that I could think to do to prepare for our time together, hoping to insure it would be happy, at least pleasant.  But to be honest, I feared our time would be more painful than joyous.  Not so!  My Heavenly Father showed me over and over in large and small and timely ways during the week leading up to Thanksgiving and especially on The Day that He is with us In It All…His process is teaching each of us and working us through.  We were family in the truest sense of His idea of that word.

 

There was a beautiful, heartfelt prayer of thanks as we held hands around the table, lots of laughter (small group though we were this year), some moist eyes as we remembered those not with us, wonderful food – if I do say so myself - with leftovers aplenty.  (And plenty of food in this day and time is blessing we too often take for granted.)   We shared music we love and table conversation, and of course, eventually FOOTBALL!  When all was said and done (and eaten) and the day came to an end, our bond of support for each other despite trying circumstances was reinforced, not with words so much as with physical presence and rightfully assumed acceptance.  We were family, we were thankful, and there was abiding, deep heart JOY for me as my little group went their ways.

 

As I think back on that week and that day, as the lack of time pressure allows after-holiday spontaneous thought, my gratitude knows no bounds.  I see more clearly than before, from the perspective of hindsight, how  family traditions can be strong threads to tie us together even…and especially…during difficult periods of our living and being and relating to each other.  Going through those traditional motions, modeling the example of my forbears, renewed my strength as I trusted our Lord to carry us through…and He did!   Focusing on God, on our wealth of memories, on present blessings and the importance of NOW…investing ourselves and BEING intentional in those moments together…wove rich color into this family’s tapestry on Thanksgiving this year.   Thank You, Father, for your plan of Family and for the commitment of those who have gone on but left a binding of worthy traditions to bind us.

Peace abounds while I consider what has passed and begin to contemplate the lovely December days ahead.  The two special celebrations seem to blend from one to the other.  Colder weather still, substantial, much needed rain is on the way again.  My Christmas cards and address books are stacked on the dining table with a colorful choice of pens to use and there is much decorating to be done…tomorrow.  And the baking to begin too.  

Another thought occurs to me as I sit here.  My mother said and more often lived, “When you are down, do something for someone else!  Sure way to obey God and guaranteed to lift your own spirits.”  That certainly proved true for my Thanksgiving holiday.  The focus of December days  for me will be on the precious gift of our Savior by the God of this universe, His Father.  What better way to honor The Giver of all good and perfect gifts than to love His creation in the name of His Son, Jesus.  So many needs, so much hurt, such loneliness, even in my little world.  Show me, Father, how You would have me love…in Jesus’ name.

A Visit With Mary

A Visit With Mary

By Bruce Hennigan

 

 

Mary is sitting on a stool that looks hand made. She is sitting beside a table that appears hand carved or hand made. She picks up a hand carved animal and seems to study it.

No parent should ever have to bury their child. Ever. When you hold your newborn baby, you never imagine the end. You only think of the beginning. All is fresh and new and tomorrow is forever.

She puts the animal back on the table.

I heard about my new baby from an angel. Really! You don’t believe me, but that is just fine. An angel told me I was going to have a baby boy and even told me what to name him. I couldn’t tell just anybody. They would think I was crazy. After all, I was so young, so innocent and already engaged to be married. Yeah, engaged.

My husband was a good man. Hard working. Dedicated. Loved the Lord. He didn’t tell me about his angel until he was dying. Told me an angel visited him and told him to marry me no matter what. He listened to the angel and he listened to his heart. He loved me. And, I loved him. He was such a good father.

She picks up the animal again and paces as she talks.

There was that time we lost my son. We were traveling and you know how you always have this fear that your child will wander away and get lost. I mean he was 12! And granted a 12 year old should be responsible but for days we thought he was playing with the other guys only to discover we had left him behind in the city! I should have known he would be different. What kind of child comes with the birth announcement of an angel? He wasn’t hanging out with the other guys or hitting on the girls. He was in the church talking to the heavy thinkers; you know, the philosophers, the historians, the theologians and here I’m going to have to be a little proud and not so angry when I tell you that he was more than carrying his own weight. Some of these very intelligent men were astonished at what my son knew.

Mary goes back to the stool and sits down. She places the animal on the table and becomes very thoughtful.

Of course, his brothers and sisters never really liked him that well. They all knew he was different. That’s why that time at the feast I tried to stop them. They thought he was crazy. I tried to explain that their brother was not crazy; he was not delusional; he was special. God had His hand on my son but they insisted on going and the words they spoke about their brother! I can’t tell you how many times since then they wished they could take those words back. When you’ve said something so hurtful to someone you love and then they die . . . well, you can never find peace again.

Mary suddenly grows very proud of her son and motions to the table

I have this table, right here, see? It is small and not exactly perfect but my son built this for me right after he turned thirteen. And, this stool I’m sitting on he made when he turned twenty. But, all of his glorious skill with working with wood ended when he turned thirty. He stopped shaping the hearts of trees and began to shape the hearts of men.

My husband once told me that a man should be happy if he has raised someone smarter than himself or more successful than himself. He never had the opportunity to here our son speak. Such words! I once watched him carving a limb — an old, gnarled piece of driftwood from the sea of Galilee.

 He started out just looking at it and studying it. And then, he began to cut away the dead twigs and strip away the rotten flesh. And, then he exposed the beautiful swirling pattern of the heart of the wood. He polished it and sanded it and coated it with oil and wax until the limb became a beautiful walking stick for my father. How did he see what was inside that broken, gnarled and discarded piece of wood? Only the Lord could show him the potential of what lay inside. He is that way with words. He sees into the hearts and minds of men and women and the words that cut to the quick; that expose the hurt; that sooth the pain; that heal the wound; or that prick the recalcitrant heart and those words are sharper than a two edged sword. He is the word. Yes, the very word of God.

And, yes, it would be His words that brought about his downfall. The wrong words were spoken by his brothers and they hurt him. But, the right words were spoken by my son and they killed him.

Mary looks up as if looking at Christ on the cross and hugs herself in pain.

I was there when he hung on the tree — irony of ironies he should die on the very wood he spent his life shaping. My heart was broken and I remembered the first night I held him; cold, wet; crying and hungry as angels filled the night and shepherds bowed at our feet and the skies sang with a thousand hosannas.

She unfolds her arms and gestures to the “cross”.

But, where were they now? Where were the angels as he bled on the cross? Where were the lowly shepherds who fell at his feet? Where were the songs of praise and triumph?

They were gone. The angels, like his heavenly Father, turned their backs to him in his hour of greatest need. The shepherds did not bow at his feet but hurled insults and bitter hatred and cried “Crucify Him.” And the songs of praise were replaced with a silence so profound, so deep it covered the earth with its sorrow.

Mary stumbles back in pain and sorrow and sits roughly on the stool. She mimes the action of them placing Chris in her lap. As she talks, she touches the wounds on his head, touches the wound in his side, touches the wounds on his hands.

 I held him in my lap just as I had as a baby. He was cold; wet; but he no longer cried and he no longer hungered. His lifeless body sucked the very life out of the universe; the creator born of my womb; drinking from my body now limp and helpless in my arms. God had been born. God had died. And, I had been the bookends of His life.

Mary relaxes and turns back to the table. She picks up the carved animal again.

I am waiting now. Waiting for a great and glorious reunion. I was at the empty tomb! I saw my Son reborn; in new flesh still marred with the scars of his atonement. He walked among us for days and then bid us goodbye to become one with his Father. I miss him greatly whenever I touch this table or hear this stool scrape across the stones.

She closes her eyes, holds the toy animal to her face and inhales as if remembering. She opens her eyes and begins to talk.

Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of Him out of the corner of my eye or smell his fragrance on a chance breeze for His is the breath of life; His is the everlasting water; His is the Life eternal to give to us all. I have had a good life. I have had a life no mother could ever have imagined. It all started with an angel visit and it will end with my Son coming for me. He will welcome me into His arms only I will not embrace Him.

Mary falls to her knees and kneels as if at the feet of Christ, looking up in wonder.

No, I will fall at His feet in worship and praise for my son who was born to die, died so that we might liver forever!

“The Realms Thereunder” by Ross Lawhead, a Book Review

A Book Review

By Bruce Hennigan

 

“The Realms Thereunder” is an exciting and fascinating book of inspirational fantasy by the son of Stephen Lawhead, Ross Lawhead. The story centers around two young adults who vanished several years prior to the present only to resurface to a world that is now filled with danger. Daniel lives as a homeless waif, wandering the streets of Oxford looking out for the reappearance of vile creatures who inhabit an underground world filled with gnomes and trolls and “yfelgopes”.

Freya is trying her best to put the past behind her and her obsession with doorways and portals underscores her bad experiences from the past. For, both young adults disappeared into an underground labyrinth with ageless knights who battle a growing evil that threatens to destroy the world. And they did so simply by walking through the wrong opening!

Daniel and Freya traveled with the knights to the underground kingdom of Nidergeard. There, they meet the almost immortal sage, Ealdstan the Ancient who revealed that they alone could stop the coming war with his nemesis, Gad. The book weaves back and forth from the present to Daniel and Freya’s experiences in the past.

Freya is soon fooled into thinking she has joined a band of fighters preparing for the coming invasion and thus is neutralized. Daniel falls through another portal into a fairy land where he must commit a vile crime in order to return to our world in time to stop the coming evil forces.

“The Realms Thereunder” is well written and its fantasy worlds well realized and developed. The inspirational elements are toned down and, frankly, I would not call this book “Christian Fiction”. It functions well as a book in the secular world as well in the Christian fiction world. The reader will not be disappointed at the travails, trials, and triumphs of its two young adults. I can’t wait for book two!

Here is the author’s website.

Awake My Soul

Awake My Soul

By Bruce Hennigan

A Short Story based on a storypraxis prompt.

 

I do not move.

I am quiescent and still.

Movement for me is pain. Life is pain.

The trees outside are harsh and bare. Winter has stripped them of vigor and life. Gray fingers claw at the even grayer sky. Even the clouds do not move. The air is still. No wind. No breeze. No life. My daughter has placed me here on the porch. I feel the sting of cold on my cheeks but I can ignore it. I have ignored all feeling for months now. Since Tom died, I have had no reason to move; no reason to feel.

My daughter has wrapped a scarf around my neck and tucked it into the woolen sweater Tom gave me last year for Christmas. I can still smell him on it when I choose to acknowledge my sense of smell.

“Why is she out there on the porch?” That is my son-in-law inside the warm house.

“I’m tired of her, Richard. I can’t take this anymore.” My daughter has tears in her voice. I cannot feel them. I cannot touch them. The tears mean nothing to me.

“She’ll freeze to death.” Richard says.

“That’s the idea.”

There is a profound silence. And then, subdued sobbing; quiet, subtle. A white flake shimmies down the still air and lands on my nose. I choose not to feel it melt. So intricate, so beautiful in its design — one of a kind — it dies on my cold skin. It dies on the already dead. For, she has left me to die out here alone; cold; still; frozen.

The sliding door opens behind me and a waft of warm air bathes the back of my head. I cannot feel it on my neck for the scarf. Richard’s shadow falls over me from the lights inside the house; lights that try in vain to chase away the gray.

“You’ll have to forgive your daughter, Mom.” He says behind me. “She is very frustrated and wants to leave you out here to die.”

“I’m already frozen.” I whisper and he leans over me. His breath touches my forehead.

“Did you say something?”

“I’m already frozen.” I say more strongly. “Let me finish dying.”

My lips pull apart and I realize they have frozen together. I feel the pain as the first real sensation I have experienced in months. Richard squats beside my wheelchair and for a second, I choose to notice the strong profile of his face; his angular cheekbones; his gently stubbled chin; his clear eyes. He is watching the trees.

“Winter is hard for all of us, Mom. Spring is coming. I want to tell you a secret. It is a deep and abiding secret that no one can know.”

More flakes are falling now and caressing my cheeks. I choose not to feel their gentle touch. One lands on my cornea and I blink involuntarily. I must not do that again. But, try as I might to ignore his statement, the attraction is there. What secret is he talking about? “What secret?” My voice is a bare whisper.

“Virginia is stressed out because we have chosen to take a journey. It is a long and tedious journey and we will be gone for weeks. She doesn’t know what to do with you during that time. She can’t leave you alone. And, she isn’t going to leave you out here to die.” His breath streams away from him, a living thing full of warmth and moisture and the snowflakes eddy and swirl.

“Journey?”

“Rawanda. In Africa. There is a little girl. She needs a family.” He turns his head to me and his gaze is full and hot on my face. Tears mingle with the snowflakes. “She needs to know her grandfather. She needs to know what he was like. Only you can tell her that.”

Another snowflake hits my eye and melts. The moisture runs along my eyelid and I feel a hot tear trickle down my cheek. No! I cannot let this happen! I cannot feel!

“Will you come with us to Rawanda? Will you come with us to get your granddaughter?” His eyes are full and round and wet and the snow is covering his bare head, peppering his shoulders.

I feel something deep within stir from a slumber of unforgiving anger and frustration. The black dregs of my depression begin to drift away as the warmth stokes itself in my heart. No! I want to scream. No! I want to hold onto the stillness; the inertia; the coming of winter’s death. I try to ignore Richard’s gleaming eyes and his warm breath and when I subtly avert my gaze a flash of bright red burns my retinas. A lone flower dares to challenge the grayness from my camellia bush. The snowflakes are covering it now and it wants to be seen; it wants to look upward to the hidden sun for life and warmth; it wants to live.

The chair creaks; the ice breaks across my knees and I push, push, push up and out of the heaviness of my crypt of sorrow and I stumble to the flower. I brush away the snow with shaking hands and my tears anoint the petals with life. With life!

Awake my soul!

Awake!

I turn to my son-in-law who is standing with his mouth wide open and the snow covering his head and my daughter stumbles through the open door with her hands pressed to her tear streaked face and I feel the ice crack as I smile. “When do we leave?”

 

 

. . . . from my front porch swing

 

. . . . from my front porch swing #6

by Marilyn Fain

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men…” Colossians 3:23

“Be still, and know that I am God…” Psalms 46:10

I’ve come here to my front porch swing early, bundled in a favorite afghan against the chilly morning air.  After several dreary, drizzly, “too warm for the season” days in a row, the neighborhood birds are singing their hearts out…grateful, as am I, for the turn to seemingly proper seasonal temperatures.  The crisp air helps to clarify my thoughts…about blessings.  Blessings (mine in particular) have played on/stayed on my mind since the arrival of November.  

Blessings…thinking about blessings…  The sweetest ones seem to be the simplest things.  In fact, desire for simplicity tracks round and round in my mind these days.  I treasure the quiet of early mornings – a simple breakfast of wheat toast & peach preserves, a boiled egg, milk in blue crystal and the changing autumn view toward the bayou out my window…accompanied by a devotional thought or two (Max Lucado or Beth Moore or Calvin Miller or Sarah Young or even C.S. Lewis), Holy Scripture and contemplation with a second cup of coffee.  Just that…the simple pleasure of a second cup of coffee before beginning the tasks of the day.

Sharing listening pleasure with my son, appreciating a favorite jazz artist.  He does not allow me to dust or straighten or fold…just simply listen.  He listens with such focus, so is savant-like in his grasp of music’s innuendo, teaching me the simple beauty of being in the moment.  The years of compilation living in our frantic culture has trained me to multi-task…to multi-task even pleasure.  My mind jumps and slides and rushes from activity to activity, often going to “the next thing” while still physically present with what I’m doing now.  Such frenetic living robs the blessing inherent in each.  Unlearning bad habits is very difficult…but as I am blessed by simplicity’s tranquility, I discover the reward is worth the work.

Ordering my living becomes blessing in and of itself…not so much the getting to that point, but the resulting, workable arrangement of things.  My daughter, between jobs and at one of life’s turning points with free time, comes to orchestrate the rearranging/reordering – simplifying - of my pantries and kitchen.  As a teacher, summers were for, among other things, clearing out clutter throughout my home.  Once my illness set in with gusto, I could no longer do what I had always done.  Thus, clutter upon clutter in those places that are the hubs of this house, pressing down on my spirit, depleting even more my compromised energy level.  The weight of that confusing disorder has bound me down for months.  Stubbornly, I have refused all offers of help, preferring to “do it myself” when I am once again able.  Finally, desperate for a return to simpler transactions within my most intimate confines, I allowed help.  She knows me well and loves me still.  The certainty of that simple blessing eased my vulnerability.  She lets me assist as I am able.  After she left last night. I found myself wandering into those places over and over, marveling at the order there…feeling the release in my physical and spiritual self.  Simple pleasure, hard won.

Sweet time in the sanctuary of our bedroom…simple pleasure.  I love to wander there of an evening as night comes on and chores are done.  My eyes linger on the carefully chosen objects and pictures that represent so many good times we have shared together.  Fragrances gently assail my senses – my husband’s cologne, a gardenia in a cut glass vase from the bush by the swing, almond lotion reminding me of my mother, a cinnamon candle.   My fingers caress soft, silky fabrics and touch polished wood glowing in the lamplight.  I relax for a few private moments into the familiar, old, wingback recliner and read for awhile.  The simplicity of those moments bless my soul.

 

Other simple things…a child’s perfect pitch – purely simple - singing unaffectedly a cappella strains of a loved old hymn…a handwritten note to a cousin, addressed and stamped, saying to her precisely the gratitude I feel for who she is in my life…in return, the pleasure of a letter from someone loved and faraway – read over and over again…a pot of soup bubbling on the stove top early in the day, ready for a simple family supper later…a meditative walk up and down a hilly street or two of my neighborhood, appreciating this season’s particular beauty…snapshots of granddaughters, reminding of summer days we shared…folding towels and tee shirts fresh and warm from the dryer…a trusting pet sleeping contentedly beside me in the chair…the subdued snore of my weary husband, comforting in its way at the end of a day…sweeping the porches, waving at a neighbor…an uninterrupted conversation with a friend…whispering a prayer need as the Holy Spirit brings that need to mind…a greeting hug from folks I love…a tedious task completed to the best of my ability…a porch swing, the time spent there…practicing sitting quietly in the presence of my Heavenly Father, just being with Him, and finally beginning to understand how precious is that privilege – being quiet in His Presence.

 

Blessing upon simple blessing – I could go on and on.  Let me notice as I go about my living and not take such simple blessings for granted.  Thank You, Lord.

 

 

You Missed Out Last Night!

The first informal gathering of the ink*well was surprisingly simple. There were two of us. But, where two of us are gathered together, the Lord will be also. Liz and I had a wonderful conversation that ranged from Christians in theater to the need for community. So, to show you what you missed by not sitting around the table sipping spiced tea here is a summary of what we talked about:

 

1– Christian artists NEED community! Most artistic Christians are living out their art in a secular setting and this can be very treacherous. Liz talked quite a bit about the “dangers” of trying to live out your Christian experience in secular, professional theater or film. Where do you draw the line? How far do you go to fulfill the personality of your character without compromising your personal witness? Can a Christian actor, for instance, play a role that requires cursing or nudity and in so doing, portray the character without those actions reflecting on them personally? We didn’t really come up with an answer. Perhaps you might want to comment on this. But, with a community of liked minded artists, we have a forum to discuss these topics; to ask for guidance from fellow Christians; to ask for prayer and counseling.

 

2 — There are two worlds in which Christian artists function. There is the “safe” world of church based productions. Or, in my case, there is the world of the CBA (Christian Booksellers Association) which caters to Christian readers who do not want to have ANY questionable content in their books. And then there is the world we as artists want to influence for Christ — the secular world in which we hope our presence as Christian artists and our work functions to shine light into the darkness for Christ. In the past, our church (Brookwood) had a thriving drama ministry and we developed dozens of productions to bring people INTO the church. And, it worked. But, times have changed. Now, the emphasis is on INFLUENCE, taking our art out into the culture and the community and exposing a Godless culture to the love of Christ. In so doing, through our influence, we hope to reshape culture. This puts a heavy burden on the individual artist who is alone facing such a daunting task. And, that illustrates the necessity of community for support. Liz shared that she is going to give my book, “The 13th Demon” to a friend who loves dark “stuff”. He is a “paganist” as Liz described him and maybe the dark nature of my book will appeal to him. And, in the process, I will have the opportunity to shine Christ’s light into his darkness!

 

3 — Christian artists must practice the highest quality. For too long, Christian art has been viewed as of low quality — as being “preachy” but not of good quality. And, justifiably so. When the message overpowers the story, then the message may get lost. That is hard to believe but it is true. Story drives the message home. This is why Jesus used parables in His teachings. Liz shared how in her experience as an actress she is very upfront about her Christianity and then goes on to prove it will not affect her quality as an actress. I believe this is so important. If we don’t pay attention to the quality of our work, whatever it is, that poor quality reflects directly on our Savior. He demands our best; our utmost and we should deliver nothing less.

 

4 — Our message transcends our medium. No matter what the medium in which we work as Christian artists be it music, art, writing, graphics, photography or just enjoying art the message of the love of Christ brings us a commonality that transcends our individual “art”. When talking and conversing about our missions as purveyors of Christ through our creativity, we find we speak a common language and the challenges are the same in many ways. We are struggling against the tedium of poor quality. We are struggling against an increasingly hostile culture. We are struggling for our own personal identity in Christ — how we express the imageo dei, the image of God that resides within us and drives us to create; to sculpt; to sing; to play instruments; to speak; to act; to write; to bleed all over the artistic canvas and poor out our darkness and His light for the world to see.

 

See what you missed? Imagine if there were more than just two people talking about these things. Imagine if we had a forum, here on line and a personal gathering where we, as Christian artists and consumers of Christian art could actually bond together and make a difference in this world! Imagine that! Imagination! It is one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind. Let’s use it. I hope to see you at the next ink*well gathering and I’ll tell you more about it when I get it scheduled.

 

If you want to contribute something; a poem, a thought, an essay, a story, a devotion , a picture, a tune just drop me an email at inkwellsbc@gmail.com and I’ll try and put it into the schedule. For the month of December, I would like to get a daily post from everyone reflecting on the meaning of Christmas to YOU.

 

Bruce Hennigan