Rebel

  “His purpose was for the nations to seek after God and perhaps feel their way toward Him and find Him—although He is not far from any one of us. For in Him we live and move and have our being.” Acts 17:27-28

 

  I commented to a friend yesterday how my kitchen table, the sketchbook and the laptop are my altar: a humble place to come before God. I gave thanks (what an inadequate word!) that He has provided a way to seek Him and share of His work in my language, the one He taught me right from the beginning of our journey together.

  There’s constant mental chatter going on while the lady is painted with a fine paintbrush. My dad called me “Cricket” when I was little because I would do the same out loud. My inner child is part of this journey, too. She needs to be.

  The thoughts range far and wide, travelling through history, visiting current events, asking questions-s-s-s-s-s, sharing the burdens that are weighing me down and celebrate the good things, too. I can hear His voice and He answers in ways I can understand: through the keyboard and through the art. Even though it’s been a difficult journey at times, my heart swells with awestruck, wide-eyed amazement for all of it.

  Inspiration for this image, number seven, came differently. During yesterday’s staff meeting, my thoughts drifted. You know how it is in long staff meetings; it’s hard to stay focused. As I stopped paying attention, the Spirit quietly inserted the word, “Rebel” into my heart. The accent was clearly on the first syllable.

  Cricket got me into trouble frequently, especially early on when the most important thing is to NOT TALK IN SCHOOL. There was a trip to the corner in grade one for telling the girl in front of me where her eraser had fallen. She couldn’t see it. I could. The teacher pounced on my disobedience. My attempts to explain fell on deaf ears. (The teacher’s name was Mrs. Hagar.) Facing that awful corner was mortifying, humiliating and gravely unjust. What had meant to be helpful was treated as out and out rebellion and disobedience. It wasn’t just my voice that was punished, it was my heart.

  Eventually, Cricket got the idea. One day she simply stopped talking.

  While painting yesterday, I pondered the idea of changing the image by replacing the dragon surrounding the woman. I wondered if having it there was an invitation to the forces that are extremely unhappy with all the change God is unlocking. The dragon ended up staying and will stay because, while it has teeth and claws, they don’t touch her. They can’t. She’s kneeling before God.

  That’s not saying it isn’t trying to take hold.

  Cricket has started talking again, tentatively, and with a great deal of fear. It’s hard. Very hard. Her voice is very rusty. She, I, have begun the difficult task of learning to set boundaries and voice our needs. It takes me (yah, I am Cricket) days to find the words and gather up the courage. Just thinking about it sets the butterflies loose in my stomach and my hands shake.

  There’s been terrible pushback. Nobody likes a rebel.

  But is it really rebellion?

  Nope.

  It is my right to change how I interact with others especially if the dynamics are unhealthy; especially if the relationship is one of control and subservience. Subservience is not serving. Subservience is a joy sucking vampire.

  Dear readers, you know well which role I wear. It doesn’t fit any more and I am trying to take it off.

  It’s sad that this is treated as a bad thing instead of being celebrated.

  But then, I’ve also read some of the comments aimed at the women who are also finding their voice. It’s brutal to see how angry people get at them.

  Compliancy’s voice is also rebelling against the changes. She goes on and on and on and on with the usual recital that fills me with guilt, shame, disbelief, and second guessing. She’s mostly unhappy with me having the nerve to even think about changing the status quo.

  Maybe I’ll send her to the corner for talking when there’s NO TALKING IN SCHOOL!!  (LOL…Boy, it’s good to laugh!)

 

  The painting of the woman’s face entitled “Courage” sits on the table, leaning up against the wall. I look at her frequently and give thanks that God drew her out of the shadows, literally and metaphorically. I give thanks for the women who came out of the shadows before me. Their courage overflowed and enabled me to do the same.

  I will end today by giving more thanks. It’s that sort of day. What better way to start and to wrap things up!

  God has placed people in my life who bolster my courage; who lovingly affirm the value of all that is being shared so publicly. They instill a deep resolve to continue along the path God has called me to walk, regardless of the resistance. They rebuild me when I fall apart after rebelling against the awful, life-long prison called A Comfort Zone. I do, you know, fall apart.

  I’ve never been a rebel before. (Smile, if only my hands would stop shaking….)