Our audience of One

"I believe God made me fast, and when I run I feel his pleasure." - Eric Liddell

"Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship." - Romans 12:1

We all have things we like to do in the few spare personal and quiet moments in our week. They may not seem to have any real practical usefulness to others, and we may not think they have any significant impact on the world. So when we talk about them we try to minimize them and reduce them as our little hobbies or indulgences that are fun and keep our hands busy. 

But secretly we cherish those activities as sacred, don't we? They bring peace to our frenzied minds and refreshment to our threadbare spirits... they fill our hearts with simple delight and satisfy a piece of our soul that is underused and often hidden away. 

We don't call ourselves athletes, poets, musicians, or artists because the world doesn't recognize us as such - we've not earned money with our gifts nor have we received any great honor or award. And a corner of our rational thinking scolds us and insists that we really have more important things to do with our leftover energy. 

But we are drawn to the garden, the canvas, the instrument, the oven, the journal, the workbench, the yarn bag again, finding comfort as we hold familiar tools in our hands, and suddenly we feel that this is the most important thing that we need to do right now. We're alone, pouring our heart out on a span of black and white keys or a creamy square of card stock or a mixing bowl of dry ingredients. 

And maybe no one will ever see or hear or taste or experience what we create - or if they do, they'll never know the care and tenderness that was generously given to this moment. It may look like we're doing this just for us... but are we really? 

Because it doesn't feel selfish, it feels like an offering - a living sacrifice, even - a gift that we are creating and sharing at the same time. It's a prayer of praise and thanksgiving, an act of worship and our very best childlike attempt to present something special to the Lord. 

He is listening and watching and smelling and enjoying it with us... and He is greatly pleased when we find joy in using the gifts He has given. 

"He wrote His song into everything..."

I finished the three-part picture this week! Here it is: 

The three panels were in different parts of the book, and while I used the same pens, pencils, and crayons throughout, isn't it interesting how different the colors look? Maybe it tells a story of the variations in my strength and mood from day to day...? Anyway, it's far from perfect, but it brought me a lot of joy as I did it.

Here is the original painting, by Thomas Kinkade:

Wow! Isn't that stunning? I have no idea how he made the fireflies glow or the water sparkle like that, but I love it!

My favorite thing about this picture, though, is how musical it is. From the seagull squawking away, to the frogs popping out of the pelicans' bills and riding the boat oar, to the flamingos doing three-part harmony, to the ducks playing on turtles like bongos... not to mention the whistle of the breeze through the willows, the soprano trill of the water cascading down the rocks, and the rippling melody of the waves touching the boat... and anyone who has a romantic nerve in their being can hear that moon sing a lullaby in operatic tenor! The whole image is motion and rhythm and tune and life.

And just as my coloring art is an imperfect imitation of a fabulous painting, so is the painting a dim reflection of the world God has created... where every heart and every thing was truly born with a song it was made to sing. What is the song that you hear?

Listening to: "Sing," by Ellie Holcomb

Dramatic waves of Crayola

My favorite thing about using crayons is the names of the colors! Unlike the unimaginative names given to colors in cross-stitching (see previous post), a Crayola box is full of fun and inspiring names, and sometimes I get distracted by just reading all the labels.

I used five crayons to color the lagoon: pacific blue, sea green, blue-green, cerulean, and indigo. I wanted to give some movement to the water, so I colored in broad strokes that arched in different ways. Then I smoothed over it with short horizontal strokes. I'm not sure it came out the way I thought it would, but I'm happy with it:

Center panel of "The Little Mermaid II"

The thing about broad, arching strokes is that they make me feel very dramatic and I get a bit carried away. If you look closely, you'll see the blue crossed many lines that it probably shouldn't have, and tinted the boat, the hair, the clothes, the flowers in less than professional ways. But I was coloring to the rhythm of the song "How He Loves Us" (linked below), and at the time it felt just fine and even now, I have no regrets.

I was thinking of the love of God, which is like a hurricane on the sea, fierce and awesome... taking our steady hearts and boring lives and stirring them up with such power that we get carried away and turned violently into something new and unrecognizable.

And I was thinking of His grace, which is like an ocean that sinks all of us who dare to enter into it... so much deeper and wider and infinite than we could ever image, and it never runs dry but springs fresh and new every morning to cleanse and restore us, and drown us.

And I was thinking of how heaven meets earth in a "sloppy wet kiss"... when God walked in the garden, when Jesus wrapped himself in baby-soft skin, when the Holy Spirit crash-landed like fire on the heads of the saints, and whenever we slow down enough to observe his hands move and listen to his voice sing over us.

So I color in broad strokes, in arches, and in layers, and I get "pacific ocean water" all over the page, because it reminds me of the incredible and reckless love of God.

Listening to: "How He Loves Us," by John Mark McMillan