The Power of Words
"Every creative endeavor becomes a realization of both how limited and how unlimited we are." — Erwin Raphael McManus
There are words posted all over my home. BIG words, little words, words over door frames and stuck on mirrors, scriptures and prayers, reminders and encouragements, even subtle warnings. I'm talking everywhere. Every room. Nearly every wall and bookshelf.
Words have power. The words we say, the words we read, the music we listen to, even (maybe especially) the television we choose to watch. Pretty sure I've made that clear here before — words mean a LOT to me (I was an English major, after all). So I do not take lightly this task of posting content worthy of your time. But as each day of each month ticks away, I am overwhelmed and paralyzed by the ideas and topics swirling through my mind like a mobile over an infant's crib — fascinating, mesmerizing, yet lulling me into lethargy. Where do I begin? So. Many. Words. I can't do this. Zzzzzzzzzzz.
In order to keep MY word, my "promise" to God, as it were, to post at least one (positive, life-giving) entry per month here on this blog, I have been contemplating and struggling, procrastinating and stewing, beginning the process and stopping, hating what I've come up with and ready to throw in the towel altogether because does it really matter anyway? It's not like I've got a production manager tapping her foot behind my desk warning that my first draft is overdue and I'd better get crackin'. It's not like I've got a massive following on Instagram or Facebook (both of which I feel like quitting because of what a colossal distraction they are) eyeing the calendar in breathless anticipation of my next post. It's not even like God is "expecting" me to come through, urging me to get some content published by my self-imposed deadline. Or is He? Did God really say . . . ?
I fully believe that God speaks to us not simply through His living, active, Holy Word, but also through the Spirit-filled words of those around us. It is no coincidence that on March 24th and 25th, Emily P. Freeman's links on Facebook (ministering directly to my procrastination and fear) were titled "For When You Feel Behind" and "When You're Not Cut Out for This." God figuratively winked as I realized that Emily originally published these entries to her blog in 2011 and 2012. Seriously, they were reposted just last week solely for my benefit (said every other struggling writer out there). I can (and have) come up with a million excuses why I don't really have the energy or focus to keep at this, fueled by self-doubt and the rationalization that I have "better" things to do with my time. Get to work, Laura. Write it down. You CAN.
And then of course yesterday, I happened upon the chapter in The Artisan Soul entitled "Canvas," wherein Erwin Raphael McManus brilliantly proposes the idea that even God, in creating the universe and all its goodness, including me and you, had to work within certain contextual constraints. He may not have had a deadline per se, but He had a specific plan, a mission, and wow did He nail it. This excerpt is lengthy, but because it blew my mind, I am compelled to share it all (emphasis mine):
"The culminating act in Genesis 1 is the creation of humanity. In a very real sense, the earlier creative acts were far less limiting than God's final act. When energy is transformed into matter, there are endless possibilities of how that could play out. But in this final creative act, the creation of the first man, there is far more context and thus the creative process is more complex. The canvas is smaller, so the work of art has to be even more detailed. The creation of man could not be based on whim or boundless imagination. The man had to fit the material already created. God took clay from the earth, material that already existed, and created a living being who had to fit the detailed intricacies of the living system he had already created. Creating man was for more complex than creating light. Creating humanity in the image of himself was a far greater creative act than even creating the universe with all its complexity and wonder.
In some ways, we could say that God painted himself into a corner. When God created us, he didn't have a lot of options. We had to be able to breathe oxygen; we had to be able to drink water; we had to be able to eat what the earth provided; we had to fit the canvas. A lesser artist would have felt paralyzed, incapable of completing this masterpiece. For God, though, the opposite was true. He reveled in the challenge. He took great pleasure in creating a creature whose material is the substance of the earth and whose essence is the image of God. And yes, this is a wonderful reminder that we are a work of art, and the limitations that often lead us to conclude that we're only human should move us to celebrate that we are in fact incredibly human."
I love discovering things about God that make me feel closer TO God. McManus's words, for me, are powerfully inspiring, and so I offer them up to you with prayerful expectation you might be equally moved and encouraged. While fully aware that this is simply one author's take on creation history, I find his ideas to be revelatory and incredibly insightful. To ponder the God of the universe as a "struggling" artist (albeit an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent one) brings His presence directly to my fingers on this keyboard, right into the very heart of what I am attempting at this moment. It makes Him human and relational, contemplative and purposeful. I feel camaraderie in the struggle. God did it. We are one. I can do all things through Him.
Infinitely more incredible than God's creative finale (humanity), is His culminating act of redemption — our Lord Himself, in human form, sacrificed on a cross for our sins. McManus artistically asserts, "For the singular act that brought salvation to the world, God chose what for him must have seemed the smallest of canvases and the most common of materials. To do his greatest work, he embraced his greatest limitations." Seriously alters my contemplation of Good Friday in the most remarkable way.
You do not have to work as an artist or even consider yourself creative to appreciate the fact that you are an incredible work of art. You are inherently creative, in whatever way, shape or form is uniquely yours, because you were created by the master artisan, whose image you bear. Let's continue to celebrate this Easter season embracing our limitations while doing the work God has called us to do, whatever that work happens to be, no matter the effort in doing it. Press on. Fit YOUR canvas. You CAN because He did.
For further inspiration on limitless creativity and the power of words, I highly encourage you to check out Jeremy Cowart's "I'm Possible" video on Youtube. Best 25 minutes you will spend today. Trust me.
The Art of Conversation
"If you'd like to identify a person, don't ask them what they do or like to eat or where they live or have studied. Ask them instead what they're living for, what they crave to read and learn about, what is the drive that keeps them going, or what calls to them most when they're close to their edge or just before they slip into sleep." — Victoria Erikson
I've spent the first two weeks of Lent on an atypical journey - the road to Emmaus. Atypical because we usually associate Lent with the desert, with sacrifice and barrenness, spirituality basically stripped down to its core (much like the sanctuary during this season with its twigs in lieu of flowers and somber music). Equally unusual because a post-resurrection reading is not customary Lenten material, but it just so happens that Luke 24:13-32 was where my Abide study landed as our Lenten journey began. So I've been walking and praying with these two followers of Jesus along the seven-mile dusty road, pondering what their conversation must have entailed, and simply cherishing the value of conversation in general. It has been fruitful and lush, in a dead-of-winter sorta way.
I don't know about you, but I really love a good heart-to-heart — over lunch with a girlfriend; sunk deep into my couch cushions with a fuzzy blanket, glass of wine and my husband; out on a trail run with my sister (although she does more talking and I mostly gasp for air/listen). For me there's nothing like connecting with somebody one-on-one. The more the merrier? Not in my book. I'm not ANTI-social; just your classic INFP (Google it). My energy is depleted in large group settings, and restored after personal encounter. So within this context, consider my latest retreat experience . . .
This past weekend I escaped (along with 80 other women) to the North Georgia mountains to attend a retreat given by two of my favorite priests. The "agenda" included silence from 9:00 a.m. Saturday to 9:00 a.m. Sunday. Yes, that's right. Eighty women (plus a bevy of stray cats, no lie), silent for 24 hours (your LOL is highly appropriate). I understood the intent behind it when I signed up — get away from the literal and figurative noise of daily life and afford yourself the opportunity to really hear from God. Check. I'm all in. What I failed to consider was the absurdity of sitting elbow-to-elbow with friends and strangers over a meal in SILENCE. For me, it was the ultimate in uncomfortable — think middle-school-cafeteria-kind-of-awkward. You stand (sheepishly grinning) in the buffet line avoiding eye contact, take your meal to the table and open a book so you don't have to acknowledge the human across from you, reinforcing all the negative behaviors we work to extinguish from our nightly dinner tables at home ("put your phone away and engage please"). Not to mention becoming hyper aware of ALL the clanking of dishes and chewing of food and doe-si-doeing around each other trying (in silent desperation) to obtain your morning coffee or lunchtime Diet Coke. Just plain weird.
Make no mistake, I am NOT discounting the value of silence (or this blessed retreat), especially when it comes to listening for God's voice. I embrace silence. I'm certain we could all benefit from more of it. But in light of my time spent considering the mysteries of Luke 24, the wordless meals seemed untimely, even slightly ironic. If you recall, the two followers of Jesus encounter him on the road to Emmaus, but fail to recognize who He is. In fact, verse 16 says, "they were kept from recognizing him." So Jesus walks along with them until dark, explaining all that had been written about him in the Scriptures (while they remain clueless). It is only when they reach their destination, invite their traveling companion to stay, and He breaks bread with them, that they are "allowed to recognize Jesus" (v.31). I've often imagined this to be one of those sunbeams-from-heaven, angelic-choirs-singing kind of lightbulb moments. But perhaps it was more like one of those crying with your friend over their impending divorce moments. Or leaning in to the hard questions to get to the root of a tough issue with your child moments. Or rejoicing with a catch in your throat as your stoic dad shares happy news with you moments. Recognition, true recognition, of another comes in the sharing of brokenness, in the courage to be vulnerable and fully present, in the meeting of needs, in the art of engaging conversation. In my simple mind and heart, mealtime = fellowship, which includes WORDS. Thus my angst. Sometimes angst can be a catalyst for insight.
In The Gifts of Imperfection, Brene Brown says, "If connection is the energy that surges between people, we have to remember that those surges must travel in both directions." Good conversation involves give and take, intent listening, and a desire to learn. This is never more true than in prayer. Opening our retreat on Friday night, Father Josh announced his goal for the weekend — "I want to teach you how to REALLY pray." He carefully warned that if our conversation with God solely consists of "I want, I need, please help with . . ." then we will never get to know our Lord more intimately (and if we do all the talking with zero listening, well then, duh). He dove into the spiritual exercises of Saint Ignatius, encouraging us to not just read Scripture but truly enter into it, using our imaginations to place ourselves into the events of Christ's life. He spoke of "making memories with Jesus," which I found beautifully enlightening. Father Michael spoke eloquently and passionately about the Eucharist - no coincidence I'm sure. The parallels to Luke 24 are worthy of an entire separate blogpost. Maybe next month?
A few of the probing questions from the Luke 24 chapter in Abide include: "What is it that blocks my heart? What prevents me from seeing? What are the obstacles in my life that serve to extinguish my moments of recognition?" Go ahead and discuss those with God at your leisure (*wink*). I feel compelled to answer the questions posed in the quotation at the beginning of this post: What am I living for? an ever-deepening relationship with God (with the ultimate goal of heaven). What do I crave to read? The Artisan Soul by Erwin Raphael McManus. What do I desire to learn more about? the intricate workings of my camera. What is the drive that keeps me going? creativity, in its countless forms. What calls to me most when I'm close to my edge? my conscience. What calls to me just before I slip into sleep? my flannel sheets.
Wishing I could sit with you over a cup of coffee or glass of wine and hear your answers. If you feel compelled, include them in the comments section below. I pray God's tangible presence over the rest of your Lenten journey. Thanks for walking with me a step or two.
Just in case you're new here, a footnote: Abide - Keeping Vigil with the Word of God by Macrina Wiederkehr was introduced in my January post. Go back and check it out if you're curious. And thanks for visiting!
My New Year's Declaration
At some point over the Christmas break in December my daughter asked me what her New Year's Resolution should be. As tempted as I was to say, "No more visiting abandoned buildings or train yards in search of adventure photos," I simply told her it was not my place to decide that for her. Resolutions are very personal decisions — requiring introspection, followed by the discipline to then carry them out. Plain and simple, a resolution is "a firm decision to do or not do something." Which is probably why I stopped making them years ago (there's not a whole lot of "firm" left in me *wink/cough*). I've made the same ones everyone else has — exercise more regularly, eat more healthily, memorize a scripture verse or two — the usual. But all too quickly resolution turns to resignation, and I choose the couch over the running shoes, the chocolate mousse cheesecake over the quinoa, or the mind-numbing Candy Crush over Romans 8:37, and end up sighing, "Oh well, maybe next year."
But not today. Today I am embracing and celebrating the power of words, specifically the difference between a resolution and a declaration. By definition, a declaration is "a formal or explicit statement or announcement." The difference between personally resolving to do (or not do) something and explicitly stating or announcing it involves others/community/audience (or in my case sisterhood). You cannot hide from a declaration. It is "out there" for the entire world to see and hear. A declaration has a recipient. A resolution does not.
Two dear friends and I have been journeying our way through Macrina Wiederkehr's book Abide: Keeping Vigil with the Word of God. It is rich, transformative stuff — the kind that urges contemplation, conversation, and conversion. I tried to read and apply it on my own but knew deep down something was missing. I needed community in which to process and pray. Macrina encourages the reader to acknowledge the power of words and invites us to offer the Word of God hospitality in our hearts. Seriously, picture that — God's Word cozied up inside the walls of your heart's bedroom, with a mug of hot coffee and a vase of fresh flowers on the proverbial nightstand (*tranquil exhale here*). Macrina states (emphasis mine):
"Words invite us to feel included, loved, honored. They call us to play and to work. They teach, comfort, praise. They forgive. They ask us to be authentic and true. They summon us to go deeper into the mystery of our lives . . . . When our words are united to the Word of God, the result is a new creation."
I embrace the creative, "organic" (which is artistic code for unorganized) side of me, and I freely acknowledge that my brain works on a 12-hour delay. The perfect answer to that "deep question" asked of me across the lunch table usually surfaces in the middle of the night, occasionally the next day. I hate to admit it, but my heart's delay is even longer. This internal overhaul has been brewing in me for a LONG TIME. But I am just back from a weekend retreat with Transforming Beauty where the question was asked of all attendees, "What is your voice and where do you think God is calling you to use that voice?" My answer is here. I have heard the whisper of God for years saying, "Write it down. Write it down" and I have PILES of journaled thoughts and prayers dating all the way back to 9th grade. But they are all private. Hidden. Personal. . . .
There's something about retreating from the ordinary for a weekend (with a sisterhood of believers, in a dreamy beach house - bonus) that roots up emotionally buried treasure and sheds glorious streaming light on the cloudy corners of our minds. The white space of this house, this weekend, gave me clarity — a blank page or canvas on which to create anew. Words were spoken, prayed, and declared over me - words like "freedom," "new anointing," "worthy," and "door opener." Words that sunk in, took up swift residence, and started fluffing the pillows of my creative couch.
Michelle Benzinger, the creative director/visionary/crazy-in-the-best-way dreamer at the helm of Transforming Beauty urges all of us to live into our baptismal anointing of "priest, prophet, and king." She speaks life to the world, encouraging everyone she encounters to do the same. And so I pledge/declare/proclaim, that this blog is the place I am going to start working on that more intentionally - speaking LIFE. Listen, I am no teacher or theologian. But I CAN be a voice of love and hope in a world that is often deluged with the clamor of hatred and pessimism. Honestly, I believe we can ALL be that voice, in one way or another, if we are open to God working in and through us. (Call me Pollyanna. I'll take it.)
Because photography is so deeply ingrained in the creative me, I will of course incorporate images into each blog post. Photographs speak to me, and the literal/visual sides of my brain are in constant competition for dominance. My goal moving forward (at least for 2016) is for the literal to triumph. So cheers to the New Year. Here's to the Words. I declare that I will write.
Heather
The charm of "downtown" Alpharetta was the perfect backdrop for this senior's incredible beauty. If you believe that the eyes are the window to the soul then it's perfectly clear that Heather is one sweet and delightful young lady. I thoroughly enjoyed exploring the streets and fountains of Alpharetta with her on Wednesday, and the weather was as perfect as her flawless skin! Seriously, no retouching necessary, and nothing better than Fall in the South!
Make Time Stand Still
You'd never know this beauty doesn't really enjoy getting her picture taken. Rebecca has such a sweet and calm nature, and it definitely comes across through the lens in her lovely smile. We had a perfect Tuesday evening in which to highlight her gorgeous ringlets and peaceful demeanor. As I captured these images I couldn't help but reminisce about the days of Summer Kids Camp - how they seem like just yesterday! And now this young lady is preparing for college. Just wow.
Moms, contact me soon to help make time stand still for your senior. Spring will be upon us in the blink of an eye!
