Beyond Art

 

  “Give justice to the poor and the orphan; uphold the rights of the oppressed and the destitute. Rescue the poor and helpless; deliver them from the grasp of evil people.” Ps 82:3-4

 

  “Dear children of the world

 

   It’s not supposed to be like this.”  Darnell Harris

 

  Twenty-one. Nineteen children, two teachers gone. Just. Like. That.

  Seventeen others were injured.

  The injuries to the minds and souls of the survivors could last a lifetime.

  The gunman, an eighteen year old boy, has been killed.

 

  Former pastor of The Meeting House, Tim Day, is facing allegations of sexual misconduct and abuse.

 

  The missing and murdered indigenous children have been forgotten by Canadian mainstream media. So have the missing and murdered indigenous women.

 

  A teenage boy died by suicide while being treated for depression in an institution.

 

  MILLIONS of children are trapped in the sex trade around the world. It’s called a tourist attraction.

 

  She came out from behind the stage curtain, walking like the dead. A grade eight teacher had just put his hand down her shirt.

 

  Some of this has a personal connection.

  Some of these facts are found on the internet where it’s possible to buy a pair of shoes. It’s just as easy to find and purchase the services of child prostitutes involved in sex tourism.

  I could probably write forever about how the abuse of power has destroyed lives. I could probably write forever about where the weak and the helpless have been robbed of dignity and worth and even life itself and nobody noticed or cared.

  I could probably write forever and never come to the end of the grief I am feeling for the children.

  I’ve mentioned adults in this sad commentary. They are or were somebody’s child. Or maybe they were nobody’s child. Maybe parents sold them, their children being a commodity for cash.

 

  And I am blessed to teach my granddaughter how to paint via internet. I look forward to our weekly session and the chance to connect when physical distance is too far to travel for an hour long lesson. These precious moments help me know there is some good in all this awful.

  God, save the children.

Featherweight

   “He will cover you with His feathers. He will shelter you with His wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection. Do not be afraid of the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies in the day.” Ps 91:4-5

 

  I went to a staff meeting yesterday to get the lay of the land about our reopening after the fire. A temporary location has been found. There is much to be done. My part is to make two new signs. One sign is for the temporary location, the other to tell everyone where we are hanging our hats until the repairs have been made to the original building. We hope to be open the first week in June.

  I am still struggling but that’s okay. I told everyone I would help where I could. I can't help but be thankful to work for an organization that is willing to work with limitations.

  Last night was the first night for the Healing Care Group.

  So here’s the thing, I picked up this feather from the side of the driveway earlier in the day. I’d never seen one like it. It’s a wing feather about seven inches long. Definitely doesn’t belong to a song bird.

  I wondered if it was an eagle feather.

  My friend and I had spent quite a while watching a Pileated Woodpecker tackle the rotting tree stump in my neighbour’s front yard; long enough she was able to capture it on video. They are a big bird and usually rather shy. To see one up close, tossing chunks of bark aside as he hunted for crawly delights was amazing. The sun hit his huge, red crest and turned it to fire.

  He eventually flew off, heading south over my driveway, dropping a feather in his passing.

  Thanks to Google, the feather has been confirmed it was his.

  The group was given homework: find an object that depicts what we want to see happen during the group.

  God sent a bird and gave me a feather in exactly the right colour before I even knew I needed it! You see, I am the black part, the colour of grief and mourning. He is the white part, the shaft, the base of the feather that will support me during the next several weeks.

  The feather affirms I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

  I am in awe of everything that had to happen to get it into my hands at exactly the right moment in the entire history of mankind. I am comforted to know God is close beside, behind and in front of this next journey, no matter where it may lead. And peace floods my soul.

 

Loss

 “The Lord is like a father to his children, tender and compassionate to those who fear Him. For He knows how weak we are; He remembers we are only dust.” Ps 103:13-14

 

  The opening line for today’s post came to me in the small hours of the morning. It was beautiful and said everything. I should have gotten up and started writing because now, with the sun well above the horizon and a few more hours of sleep behind me, I don’t remember what it was.

  It has blown away like dust.

  The image of the abandoned and falling down house was the best way for me to encapsulate the idea of loss.

  It was a home, once upon a time, which held a young couple’s dreams. This humble fairy tale castle kept a child safe from dragons. The kitchen was where Gramma baked her delicious cookies, the ones someone always asked her to share the recipe for. It held a puppy, too, at one point or was it a kitten? It was a place where booboos were made better and birthday’s celebrated. The walls witnessed its share of life, like when Gramma had to go live in a place where others did the baking.

  But now, the home is only a house. The windows where a welcoming light once pierced the night are broken. Shards of glass feebly glint under the light of stars. The flower gardens have long disappeared including the special one where the puppy was lovingly laid to rest. The essence of home has blown away like dust.

 

  Maybe this is the hardest loss of all, realizing everything we perceive as safe, as home, is really only a passing illusion, an artificial construct fed by culture, the media, and lies. Or maybe this is only me in this place of grief.

  The young couple got divorced, the child wasn’t safe from dragons, Gramma never baked…

  Why do I grieve the loss of things I never had?

  Why do I find myself feeling a deep sense of loss for other people who never had a home that was a haven, a safe place where the roof barely contained the love within?

  Why do I find myself feeling the loss because so many pastors, priests and people of God turned God’s home into a house with broken stained glass windows?

  Why do I mourn the loss of illusion? I should be celebrating that truth is finally coming into the light; that the blanket of dust has blown away.

  Maybe I am not there yet. Maybe there’s been far too much truth coming my way over that last few months and I am not sure what to make of it all. I am not sure what to do with the sorrow the truth causes.

  It is better than the pain secrets cause.

  It hurts to realize I, too, fell far short of fulfilling the hopes and dreams encompassed in the ideas of home, family, Mom, daughter, and friend. My failures taste like dust. It hurts to realize I have caused others tremendous harm because my compliant nature made it impossible to do otherwise.  

  The Lord is washing the dust from my eyes with tears as I face the consequences, the losses caused by brokenness in myself and in others. I have no idea how to forgive them, me or even where to start.

 

  “I need Thee, oh, I need Thee. Every hour I need Thee. Bless me now, my Saviour, I come to Thee.”  Annie Sherwood Hawks 

 

Yeast

 

  ”He also asked, ‘What else is the Kingdom of God like? It is like the yeast a woman used in making bread. Even though she put only a little yeast in three measures of flour, it permeates ever part of the dough.” Luke 13:29

 

  The Healing Care group was postponed until next week to give the facilitators a chance to meet everyone. It was disappointing but, having run groups, I recognize it’s important to know the lay of the land before starting. My meeting with them happened Tuesday afternoon. I confess to being very nervous in the beginning, not knowing what to expect.

  There are three facilitators to six group members. Intercessory prayer is a huge piece of what they do. They also take turns teaching and leading. Good practices because it changes things up but also spreads the responsibility of leading.

  I had a sense they are trauma informed, meaning they have learned about the devastating impact traumatic events can have on every aspect of our lives. This is a good thing, too.

  During the interview, I was happy to realize there is an element of peer support in this group, too. While faith makes us peers, knowing they have personal understanding of some of the challenges their group members struggle with puts my mind at ease.

  No one gets it like someone who’s been there.

  This is the first faith based healing group I’ve ever been involved with. Secular programs like WRAP (Wellness Recovery Action Plan) and Pathways to Recovery have been part of my journey already. Because faith is very important to me, I was able to incorporate this into the process.

  WRAP is an amazing program. It’s been adapted for various purposes above and beyond mental health recovery. First responders were the first to adapt it to job specific needs. It teaches some fundamental life skills we all need.

  I was trained to be a WRAP facilitator but have never needed to run a group. The Krasman Centre has a core group of WRAP facilitators who offer it all over York/Simcoe and online. Running an art group is more my speed.

  I’ve missed doing the group but with Covid...

  It will be nice to have it resurrected. Things are still up in the air because of the fire.

  It’s funny, but not in a laughing way, how the word, “fire,” stirs up a bucketful of grief. I guess my resiliency bucket is still rather empty. The thought of the chaos and decision making involved in setting up a temporary location sends waves of anxiety through my body. I am not sure I am ready to return.

  I hadn’t done a painting for this post but an idea just came to mind. Stay tuned.

  The frequency of the posts may fluctuate over the summer. The gardens already need weeding. There’s seeds to be planted, grass to cut, a shed to finish…I am thankful it’s raining today.

  You know something? I don’t think God means for me to feel guilty about taking the time to write or paint instead of taking care of the yard. I don’t think He means for me to feel guilty for taking the time to work in the yard and not write or paint. But it’s there.

  Someone needs to give me a Godly slap upside the head.

  The art and writing have been a full time job over the last few months. I could cut myself some slack. Nobody works 24/7 without taking a break.

  I need to hang onto the excitement that comes when a painting is inspired by God. It is okay there isn’t one a day; that kind of pace would cause terrible burnout. God knows.

  I’ll trust Him to take the lead.

  If I hadn’t been outside yesterday I wouldn’t have witnessed one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. I am sorry I didn’t film it.

  There was a chipmunk sized hole at the side of the driveway, handy to the bird feeder. I noticed it the other day and figured a chippy made a burrow as close as possible to the free meal restaurant.

  A half inch long bumblebee was working hard to cover up the opening.

  She had put bits of grass in the hole and was shoving dirt over it. Watching a bumblebee work like a bull dozer where grains of sand were mountains of earth was utterly fascinating. She made a furrow about eight inches long where she’d scrambled to find adequate dirt for her purposes. What those purposes are, or why she was doing this is beyond me.

  A grain of sand was a handful for her but she kept at it for a long time. The hole has been completely hidden from sight. The bee is nowhere to be seen. Google has no information about this type of behaviour. I guess it’s not something easily witnessed. It’s tempting to undo her work to see if she does it again but, there’s a reason she covered it and with all bees in such trouble it’s best to leave well enough alone.

  I plan on watching it to see what happens next.

  Anticipation is a wonderful thing.

Four

“ 'Am I a God who is only close at hand?' says the Lord. 'No, I am far away at the same time. Can anyone hide from me in a secret place? Am I not everywhere in all the heavens and earth?' says the Lord.' ”  Jer 23:23-24

 

  “I don’t just like women, I love them!”  Bruxy Cavey

 

  The Lord opened my Bible to Jeremiah 23. Chapter 9 and onward is the Lord’s judgments on false prophets and priests. He comes down really hard on them. I was tempted to write the whole thing out because of this:

  An email came through this morning from the Meeting House Board of Overseers. Another woman has come forward with allegations against Bruxy. That makes four.

  The quote from Bruxy has been on my mind a lot. He said this long before Covid happened during a series entitled, Her Story. TMH has removed his teaching from their website, understandably so. I hope my quoting him hasn’t caused anyone any more pain but, as I said, it’s been on my mind.

  It has me thinking about how men love women. I’ll admit there’s a severe lack of personal experience with any sort of love not related to power and control. But that’s not really love, is it?

  When I first became a Christian, the woman who mentored me told me to get a concordance and look up every scripture with the word love in it. When I was finished reading though them, I was to keep starting over until I “got it,” to use her words. I had to give up because the word study drove home the fact I only knew what love wasn’t. It made me terribly sad.

  God knew. That’s why He started me in Ephesians instead of the Book of John, the Gospel of Love. It takes time to tame a feral animal. He gave me meat instead of cuddles.

  I think back to the old cartoon, the single pane, “Love is…” usually followed by something like “a puppy, a warm blanket,” ad nauseum. (Smile. It would appear I still don’t have much patience for the mushy, corny stuff.)

  What is love?

  Now there’s a question that has stumped philosophers and poets for eons. A few paragraphs probably won’t even come close to understanding love.

  Isn’t love about being seen? Having lived as the incredible invisible woman for so much of my life means this is important to me. I’m not talking about being cognizant of the physical space my body takes up by wanting to “do me.” It’s more than that, this being seen.

  Is that why God is Love?

  Because He sees us? Psalm 139 says it all.

  This could be why I am so angry about Bruxy. He saw Hagar, a woman in a vulnerable time of her life, and took advantage. He didn’t see her at all, just the space she took up. If he had truly loved her, he never would have done what he did. He wouldn’t have (allegedly) done this with Two, Three or Four. I have to write allegedly because the results from the investigations have not been released.

  How did things go so terribly wrong?

  How does the idea of love give us permission to hurt one another in terrible ways?

  Maybe because we have no idea what it really is.

  Every once in a while I catch a glimpse. Maybe I am ready to accept being loved, the kind that comes without strings.

  Maybe I finally believe I am worthy of the type of love God has to offer.

 

  Today is a question day.

  The Healing group starts tomorrow night. Maybe I’ll find the answers I am looking for during the next few months. We are supposed to journal so, dear readers, the blog will be mine. That’s not to say the art will stop. It might change. It might include the lady. The art and writing have become united in ways I never imagined possible.

   God knew.

   God knows.

   Maybe that’s enough of a lesson in love for today.

   As for all the maybe’s? That’s hope speaking.

 

Plans

 

  “Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the Lord: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; He is my God, and I trust Him.” Ps 91:1-2

 

  The last couple of weeks in particular have left me struggling. My pastor was on holiday. My psychiatrist cancelled our appointment. I reached out to two of those call in prayer lines but they were only there to lead people to Jesus. It left me feeling resentful, neglected and despairing that, like always, I was going to have to get through this storm all by myself. Self pity had a party going on.

 

  I reached out to the Meeting House for counseling, something they offered to support anyone struggling with the circumstances around Bruxy. Compounded by what was happening in my own life, it seemed to be the logical thing to utilize.

  The first person I reached out to and spoke with became ill. Five days later, she apologized for not having been in touch then informed me she was fully booked and unable to work with me.

  See what I mean? More of the same, “Sorry, no help here.” Yah, self pity was having a party in my soul.

  She apologized again for having taken so long to reconnect and referred me to someone else on the team. It took a couple of days to connect with this counselor for the first time.

  When we are in crises, help is needed NOW!

  My “NOW,” and God’s “now,” are not the same thing.

  I said to my friend that maybe all these doors have been closed for a reason I know nothing about. The bath in self pity lasted a little bit longer.

  While talking with the second counselor, she told me this: The Meeting House has a program called Healing Care. One of the group’s leaders had reached out to her that morning, saying they had an opening for one more in a women’s group starting on Tuesday night. Did she know of anyone who might be interested? This is unusual because normally there is a wait time to attend the sixteen week course.

  The counselor thought it might be exactly what I needed. Her excitement about the timing blasted away any last shreds of self pity.

  Do I believe in coincidence?

  Nope.

  Do I believe in divine intervention?

  Absolutely!

  Do I know what I am in for?

  Nope.

  Does it matter?

  Nope.

  God saw fit to slam a pile of doors shut then opened this one. Curiosity urges me to see what’s on the other side. (Forgive me, Lord, for the pity party.) It’s going to be done online so there’s no travelling. I can sit at my kitchen table, my place of coming before God, and wait with anticipation and excitement to see what He has in store.

  The group helps believers get closer to Jesus. As I filled out the required personal information form, I shared how the song, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” has been at the forefront of my mind for a couple of weeks now.

  It dawned on me that God put it there, not for me to sing, not only as protection against the dark stuff in my brain, but for me to do.

  I’ve often shared how I have no issue with relating to my Abba Father but found it difficult to connect with Jesus: God as man, as Bridegroom, brother and friend. I understand why it’s hard. My personal history with men has a grave impact on any sort of ability to connect with and relate to God’s Son. He's more like an acquaintance, someone you'd say, "Hi!" to as you pass on the street.

  My life and faith feels incomplete because of it.

  Two thirds of a whole isn’t enough.

  As Ariel in Disney’s Little Mermaid sings, “I want more!”

  More than anything, I want the whole package a Christian life enables me to lean into.

  This will give me strength. It will refill my rather empty bucket of resiliency. It will enrich my faith and my life. I know this as surely as I knew, despite the pity party, God had a plan.

  That is worth having a party for! 

Grief

  The last couple of days have been spent outside playing in the dirt. The weather was perfect, the mosquitoes non-existent. A birdsong orchestra played as I heaved earth and rocks around to build the two small retaining walls on either side of the new shed. Now I can get the materials to finish it. Not today, though, my muscles, unused to such heavy slogging, need to rest and let the mental ones go to work.

  Today’s image represents grief. It’s a ball of yarn with a whole bunch of ends. Pulling one end unravels another. Pulling it unravels another one, too. There is so much interconnected grief with everything that is coming into the light it’s hard to know where to begin to unravel it all.

  It’s why the lady is dressed in ashes.

  Grief is not something experienced only because of the death of a loved one. Mourning, or grief, happens so often Jesus made it the second beatitude. I wish it was talked about more because any loss can cause grief. Trauma is full of loss. So is abuse. So is betrayal. So is neglect. So is truth.

  Yes, learning the truth can ignite a deep sense of loss.

  Bruxy’s dismissive confession is a huge thread. Waiting for the results of the investigation involving his behaviour with two more women is tough. Knowing where there’s smoke there’s fire only fuels the grief and sorrow. I hold a lot of anger towards him because he chose not to mention them first. But then, based on his confession, he really doesn’t understand the damage his actions caused.

   Or is it denial? Grief is also part of being reconciled with our own unhealthy choices especially when we realize how much harm we left in our wake. Maybe Bruxy isn’t ready to move on just yet; not ready to face the responsibility of his choices. (Thank You, Lord, for allowing me to find a glimmer of grace this morning.)

  There’s corporate grief tied up in the ball, too, for women who have experienced abuse and trauma, for Hagar, for other children who suffered as much as Cricket if not more.

  I think a ball of yarn with multiple ends is a good metaphor for grief itself. I don’t know how many times I’ve read the Five Stages of Grief, hoping when I’d reached acceptance it would be over with. Identifying grief as having stages is misleading. It implies a linear, set pattern to something that is completely un-linear!

  Tugging on the end of acceptance often unravels other emotions especially if acceptance for one thing is tied to other events God hasn’t finished healing yet.

  Being angry while learning not to hate is hard. The hate I sometimes feel ignites its own sorrow. It’s ugly.

  Hate suffocates.

  When yarn is wound too tightly into a ball and left for too long it loses its’ flexibility. It becomes like string, stretched and inflexible. The flexibility is needed for yarn to bind itself to the stitches that came before. Flexibility is needed to unite with the next stitches that will be connected to it.

  Hate is inflexible.

  I tried bargaining a couple of nights ago, telling God I was done. I let Him know I would be more than happy if He would bring me home rather than leaving me to feel all the layers of grief in my heart: for the past, the present and the future. The Black River ran swift and deep in the late hours of the day.

  If He had listened, I wouldn’t be sitting here, typing. The art journey that isn’t finished would be left incomplete. I wouldn’t have been able to look forward to today’s writing session and hearing what God has to say.

  I often think of Judas on days like this. How he hung himself for having betrayed Jesus to the cross. It’s so sad he never got to experience the forgiveness and grace of Christ.

  That’s the good thing about grief. It enables empathy and compassion to wrap their own yarn in the ball of sorrow and anger and depression.

  Poetry, art, and music are full of haunting expressions of mourning.

  Grief drove science to find a cure for polio.

  Grief over white history birthed the beginnings of reconciliation with our Aboriginal peoples.

  I never realized that the pain of grief is often the labour pains experienced before giving to birth something beautiful, wonderful and amazing.

  I just wish it didn’t take so long. I wish it wasn’t so hard to check off the five stages and have them done with, forever.

  I think I’ll knit a soft blanket with this tangled up ball of yarn because, Lord, I could use a bit of comfort.

  "Blessed are those..."