More than It Seems

Going thousands of miles away from a people I have come to love was a difficult step for me to take as I came home. It's easy to feel helpless here. But isn't prayer where all of the real work happens anyway?

More than It Seems

            Shadowy gorges crisscrossed the woman’s face as her eyes closed in concentration. A book lay open in her lap. A cat leapt on top of it, purring and unabashed by the heavy scent of mothballs around the rocking chair. The woman’s eyes remained closed, her lips twitching as she stroked the cat’s back and rocked, rocked, rocked.

He threw down the cigarette and ground it with his foot. His neon skater shoes scuffed the cold cement floor. Light slanted in through the high windows of the abandoned warehouse, highlighting the streams of dust flowing in the air. The letter crinkled in his pocket. He felt it and muttered, “Pop will always hate me.”
            He picked up the rope he had brought and jerked it with both hands to test its strength. The rough bristles scraped them. He winced.
            “Feels good.” He squinted up at the rafters, “See if I can remember those Boy Scout knots.”

            

             “You can’t have him, Snakeson,” the warrior said, his eyes locked on his opponent. He held a drawn sword which gleamed blood red in the predawn light.
             “Really? And what makes you the noble one?” Snakeson gripped his hooked blade, a sound like rusty chains erupting from his throat as he laughed.
            The warrior nodded at his red sword, “Only this.”
            Another rasp of rusty chains. “So I should cower before you because of a little sword?” His eyes flickered toward a gap in the heaving bodies around them. Metal clanked and fighters swore as the sweat of battle poured on every side, but they faced each other as if alone.
          “No,” the warrior replied, “you should cower before the One who gave it to me. You can’t have him, Snakeson.”
          “And why not?” Snakeson clenched his weapon more tightly, ready to spring. “I’ve worked hard to get him to this point.”
         “He has been bought.”
         “Oh?”
         “He has been paid for.”
          “Is that so?”
          “Yes.”
          “He doesn’t seem to think so,” Snakeson jeered. “If you’re so confident, why don’t you just come and take me down? You know you want to. Or have you lost your courage because nobody on Earth cares for your pitiful human?”
          The warrior’s eyes flashed, but he did not move. “May I?” he said to the air. He nodded, and a shield materialized at his side. A smile broke his face while Snakeson’s disappeared.
          “She cares!” he declared. He leapt forward, red sword swinging.

            

             His phone had been ringing, but he ignored it. He hunched his shoulders and tightened the rope around the rafter, not daring to look down. His phone beeped a text in—maybe he would look before he did it. He slid it open and read three words: Pop: I’m sorry.

            

             The gorges flattened on her face as the woman opened her eyes, nodded, and smiled. She shooed the cat away, closed the book in her lap, and eased out of her rocking chair. Setting the Bible on the kitchen table, she put the kettle on to boil. Tea sounded nice after a morning’s work.

Found and Lost

I was told to write two aprox. 500 word stories, and this is one of them. I had already done a dialogue exercise and a description of one of the characters from two points of view, so I was too fond of them to let them go. My dialogue exercise was between these two cousins (in a culture where marriage between cousins is appropriate and even preferable because you can get to know them more ahead of time), but I left it hanging at the first two lines of this story. This story is the continuation. I'm posting it alone because hopefully you can understand it without the background--although I may post the background at another time.                                                        

                                                                         Found and Lost

            “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your father. I don’t wish to shame our families.”
            “Tell me what?” a voice rumbled. Asma’s breath caught. Her pulse pounded a war drum, and she tucked a midnight strand of hair into her purple hijab, or headscarf, as she turned. Check-out scanners cheeped in the distance, and a huddle of women in black abayas brushed past them, leaving behind a scented trail of incense.
            “Alsalamalakum, Abi,” Asma murmured. She examined the cracks in the mall’s tiled floor.
           “Tell me what?” her father’s voice hardened. Asma forced her eyes up the length of his white dishdasha, past his beard and into his eyes. They steamed like burning wet asphalt.
           She glanced at her cousin Ahmed standing in the doorway of his pharmacy s yhop. His face was smooth, untroubled by the storm his words had caused. He would be calm, Asma thought. He’s not the one about to lose everything that matters to him. He returned her gaze, his eyes murky ponds.
             “Tell—me—what?”
             “Well,” she said. Two little boys shied past, hand in hand. One wore shoes that squeaked like rubber ducks.
             “She means to say that we have been meeting in secret—at night,” Ahmed said.
             “What? Is this true?” The steam intensified.
            Asma did not answer. She stared at Ahmed.
           “Oh yes,” Ahmed nodded, straightening the embroidered kumah on his head. “We have managed to keep it hidden until now.”
           “Asma, I’m surprised at you! You know our ways. This is not how it is done,” her father sighed. “It must be that American English teacher.”
           “No, actually, she told Asma to stop seeing me. She’s the only one who knows. Asma would have listened to her long ago, but I am very—insistent. It’s over though,” Ahmed shook his head, “she told me last night that she’d stop meeting me. She has principles. She must study hard in English class if she’s going to get that scholarship to study in university in the U.S.A.”
            “Is this true?” her father asked. The asphalt had cooled.
            Asma kept staring at Ahmed. “Why—” she stopped as he nodded at her, “yes.”
            “You know what this means, don’t you? You may not see my daughter.”
            Ahmed bowed his head. “I understand.”
            “Come, Asma,” taking her elbow, her father steered her away. The floor blurred past.
            What just happened? She had never met Ahmed alone before today. She had been meeting another boy—from English class; Ahmed had seen them together last night. If her father had known, he would have removed her from the class immediately, and her dreams to attend university in the U.S.A. would have disappeared forever. But why did Ahmed take the blame?
           Last week, when she brought in coffee and dates for both of their fathers, they stopped talking. There could only be one reason Ahmed had lied. Now that all of her dreams remained open to her, she glanced back toward a lone figure in the doorway of a pharmacy shop. One dream was lost forever. A dream she never even knew she had. 

A Second Chance at Wonderland

For my first assignment, I had to sit somewhere where I could observe people and invent a life for them based on my observations. I chose the town square of a nearby town. It's a typical New England spot, with a fountain, an austere soldier statue, park benches, and a white pavilion. Cars circle the roundabout continuously, but there are just enough trees to make one feel apart from them. 

Anyway, this is what I "saw."                                                   

                                                           A Second Chance at Wonderland

           “S---.” He was out of cigarettes. Again. Why did that keep happening? He figured it was because he didn’t like sitting still for long. He’d had that problem ever since he was a kid; that’s how he’d managed to become the neighborhood King of the Road on his trick bike. But tricks on bikes were kid stuff. He used his bike to get around town now, but he knew that tricks wouldn’t earn him a job or good points with the police. Or even with Karen, for that matter.
            He ran his fingers over his blond stubbly head and fingered the tail of his mullet. Smoking was good for him. It lulled all of that frantic energy inside of him until he became as calm as the caterpillar in Alice and Wonderland. Not that he knew much about Wonderland. His druggie pals had tried to introduce him to it, but after two years of guilty bliss, the cops had discovered his little business and he’d enjoyed the hospitality of a jail cell for five years. So much for Wonderland. At least smoking was legal. With the help of the state’s hospitality, he’d been clean for six years now, and he’d even given up drinking, except for very special occasions. But he wasn’t ready to give up smoking, and even Karen had been okay with that.
            “Ray, is that you?”
            He squinted up at the voice. “Yeah, it’s me,” he grunted. He took in the woman’s appearance with an unhurried glance. She was about his age, maybe thirty-two, with pronounced laugh lines on her face. She wore tight pink capris and a gray tank top, and the sunglasses on her head glinted against the ginger brown of her hair. Trailing her was a curious black dolly on wheels which held her purse and a bright blue plastic bag.
            “Come on, Ray, don’t tell me you don’t remember me,” she said.
            “Like h— I do. Kristen, right?” He wished he could have a smoke!
            The laugh lines became more pronounced. “You got it!” Kristen watched the shirtless man sitting on the grass in front of her suddenly uncoil and leap to his feet. Maybe the Five Finger shoes he was wearing had springs loaded in them. He had a farmer’s tan around his neck, and on his chest and arms he had tattoo symbols she didn’t recognize. A brown braided belt hugged his camouflage shorts to his lean frame. She didn’t flinch as his bare inked arms reached around her and gave her an awkward hug.
            “It’s wicked awesome to see you!” she exclaimed. “It’s been what—eight years? Last I heard you had finished your time in the Army and moved on to—other things. Whatcha up to?”
            Ray smiled wryly. “Look, Kris, it’s no secret where I’ve been, I know. Keene isn’t that big, and word gets around. But lately I’ve been working at the bowling alley. I’m clean, I’m straight, and it’s all been good. Or it was until I lost my job last week.”
            “No way! Why?”
            Ray shifted from one foot to another, wondering what he should say. He hadn’t seen Kristen for a while, but they’d been great friends the one year he went to Keene State. She was the one who had introduced him to Karen. Karen—what was she thinking right now? What he would give for a smoke!
            “Bad economy,” he answered. “At least that’s what they said.” But when you’ve had jail time, you never really know if that’s the real reason. Sometimes Ray thought that having a criminal record was like being branded as a foreigner in a racist community; if people don’t like the color of your resume, they avoid you like you’re against their religion. Not that too many New Englanders held to much religion these days. Sunday was football day and the churches at every town center were for postcards and charity workers. But those who don’t have a religion often cling to their religion-less beliefs more fiercely than those who do, and Ray suspected that his employers had let him go first because they held to the religion of pure-bred resumes.
            “What, you didn’t sweet talk your way into keeping the job?” Kristen teased. “I know you started college thinking you’d like to be a politician. You’ve always had strong ideas.”
            “Yeah, but then I realized that I’d probably offend half of my voters before I even started campaigning. I don’t need them throwing rotten pumpkins at me.”
            She laughed then. Her voice was raspy, and he grinned ruefully.
            “You still living with Karen?” she asked.
            His face contracted into shadows. “Nah, she kicked me out last week. She’s convinced that I got let go because I’m doing drugs again. But I’m not! I’ve been clean, and I’m not going back!” No more Wonderland. He’d found one of his own—but even that seemed to have crumbled a week ago.
            Kristen glanced at the bike in the dappled shadows of the grassy town square. A computer bag and black duffel bag rested next to it. “Where’ve you been staying?”
            “Here and there. Trying to stay clear of the police and not be too creepy. I can’t stand people thinking I’m a creep.” He glanced at a girl sitting on a park bench just out of ear shot and took a step further away. “All I want is to hold my head high without having to change myself, but once you’ve blown it once, the whole world is down on you. Sure, they say when you get out of prison that you’ve got a second chance, but it’s only a second chance if your nose doesn’t drip. If it does, you’re out!” He gestured emphatically and started jumping up and down. “At least, that’s the way the police around here think. The other day the police tried to come and take my s---- and put it on a bus, and I was like, ‘Psycho!’ He was trying to take my random s---! This is New Hampshire—live free or die!”
            “Yeah, live free or die but don’t get arrested!” Kristen replied with a chuckle. When Ray didn’t laugh, she grew serious and nodded toward the Pour House. “Want a drink?”
            A drink sounded great. He imagined the rich burning flavor and the alluring smell of liquor. Then he thought of Karen. “No thanks, I’ve taken up drinking lemonade.”
            “Lemonade?” Kristen laughed. “Why not coffee?”
            Ray shrugged. “Caffeine makes me jittery.”
            “You look jittery anyway. Want a smoke?”
            “Yeah, please,” he moved the dolly out of the path so an older lady had more room to walk past. “No wait—what the! I have a pipe right here.”
            After they lit up, he grew calmer. Kristen nodded at him, “I’d let you sleep on our couch, but I’m pretty sure my husband would scream bloody murder. Besides, Karen will come round. She’s probably just tired from working long hours at the hospital.”
            “Yeah, I hope you’re right.” But he didn’t know. Karen paid her taxes two months early every year, and he wasn’t sure if she’d come round if she really thought he was doing drugs again. It had taken her a long time to forgive him for going to prison, but like a faithful fruit fly she had been inexplicably drawn to him like rotten fruit. Still, he was tired. He was tired of false second chances that branded him as a loser. He was tired of feeling like a loser. And he was tired of fearing that Karen might finally believe it too.
            “You know what the funniest part is?” he said, breathing smoke like a sleepy dragon. “The day I got let go, Karen asked me to show her my final check, and I couldn’t. You know why? I’d spent it all on a ring. But she doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t know.” 

Overcoming Inertia

Do you ever feel like you have so much you could say that you feel overwhelmed? I do. This past summer I went on an adventure that opened my eyes to some things I had only imagined. But the magnitude of all of it is so great in my little life that I don't dare to chip at the mountain. Still, one has to overcome inertia somehow. I think I'll do it by inundating you with random papers and stories I have written for my college creative writing class recently. That will get me started anyway. And maybe then I can tell you more. Though perhaps some of my experiences have leaked into my writing so by then I won't need to. We'll see.

It's tough being an optimist

 

 

Folks, it's tough being an optimist.

 

For one thing, I have never met a true optimist. Some people say that I'm the kind of person who always notices the silver lining in a cloud, but let me tell you . . .

 

I size up that cloud for a long time first.

 

If I were a true optimist, I suspect I wouldn't even notice that the silver lining had a cloud attached to it.

 

But as I said, it's tough being an optimist, especially when you're not a true optimist. I mean, how are you supposed to act when you feel terrible? How are you supposed to act when other people feel terrible? Especially if you're like me, who notices other people's emotions and tends to absorb them like a sponge.

 

If feelings were like fish, my life would look like this pretty regularly:



 

 

First, I wake up to another crumby morning.

 

Sometimes I feel like laughing when somebody tells me that I'm a cheerful person. They don't realize that I go through this process in one form or other. Every. Single. Day.

 

Thankfulness is the key to optimism.

 

Another key is singing. And faith. But especially singing.

 

 

The toughest part of being a pseudo-optimist like me is determining how to respond to the pessimists of the world. I have some really good friends (whom I love to death!) who tend to live on the darker side of life.

 

 

 

 

 Too late, you realize that perhaps you need to be a little more sensitive to the hardships of people around you. Perhaps your gratitude isn't as contagious as you had hoped.

The problem is that the non-optimists seem to assume that just because your fish are alive, it must mean that they were never dead. So what if my fish were dead for only five minutes when theirs have been dead for five days? My fish were still quite dead. But of course, they don't think of that. All they know is that once fish are dead, they don't come back to life again. Mine are alive, so they must have never been dead.

 

 

 I guess in the "real" world, they'd be right.

 

But I don't live in the "real" world. I live in the super-real world.

"Jesus said to her,

"I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live."

John 11:25

 

 

 

But THEN people tend to treat "Optimist" like it's a BAD word. Or at least I assume that the "O" word stands for "optimist." I was so sheltered that I only know like four bad words, and none of them start with "O."

 

What's wrong with being an optimist anyway?

 

I would rather be a pseudo-optimist than a genuine pessimist.

At this point, you
can't figure out whether to be more annoyed at yourself or at them. Of course, everybody hates it when someone is too cheerful. But pseudo-optimists hate it when they've won the victory over their dead fish and no one else seems to understand that fish tend to come alive when you at least pretend to be cheerful--by being thankful.

 

But I know that some people really do have it hard. They have perfectly good reasons to feel depressed, so I do my best to tone myself down, sit with them, and understand.

 

The problem is, even though I can't possibly understand someone else's depression completely, I absorb it better than they think. I am very sympathetic.



 

And so there you have it. I lose when I'm cheerful with these people, and I lose when I'm sympathetic.

 

 

 

It's tough being an optimist.

 

 

 

 

BUT (because I cannot possibly end on a depressing note!), I am thankful that, by the grace of God, I am one.

 

Even if I'm only a pseudo-optimist.

 

At least I know that my fish will come alive again--eventually. And that's not because I'm that great, but because God gives me overcoming power to resurrect my dead-for-five-minutes-or-more fish.

"As it is written, 'For your sake we [our fish] are being killed all day long; we are regarded as sheep [fish] to be slaughtered.'
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us."
Romans 8:36-37 



An open door

I suppose I may as well officially tell you.

I'm going to the Middle East this summer to teach English for six weeks.

Ever since I realized that I'd be doing on-line learning this past year with an English teaching certificate in my pocket, I've been checking to see if God had any open doors for me to travel through. Like a monster searching for Boo's door in the movie Monsters Inc., I've been watching the doors flash by, and I've been asking God, "Is it that one? Is it that one?"

No.

No.

No.

Wait until Christmas at least--you're directing a play for the Dessert Banquet. (That was a great adventure all on its own!)

Wait until a few weeks into January when you know what your class load is like.

"Is it that one?"

Not yet. Stay. You are needed here.

And then I heard of another door that would come around in the summer.

"Is it that one?"

And all I felt was peace.

For a month or two, I just held it before the Lord to see if it was really His idea. Then I mentioned it to my parents. More peace. Then I asked God for the money to buy my plane ticket. We sought God specifically on our annual church Fast Day to provide the money if He wanted me to go.

A couple of days later, I had the money I needed.

I bought my ticket, and my sister bought me an abaya.

Am I excited? Of course. Am I terrified? Of course. Am I worried? Not one bit!

The funny thing is, I have no idea how I'm going to teach English to Muslims in another country! I don't have it in me. But this isn't the first time that God has led me to do something beyond myself. He's called me outside of my comfort zone multiple times before to join Him in walking on the waves. And that's half of the excitement: I'm joining Him!

You see, I've started realizing that being outside of my comfort zone is often the most comfortable place to be. It's where Jesus is. So that's why I'm not worried: I get to walk on water with the Master of the waves. And relying on Him for every single step is one of the most exciting adventures ever.

Yes, the Middle East is a great stage for such an adventure. But couldn't we all be living this adventure of trust here and now, every day?

I feel challenged to walk on water even in the small things. That's a door that's always open.

Love is a good thing

When some people think of love, they think of sappy romance. They think of a feeling. A fluffy feeling. If they're a follower of Christ (or even if they're not), they might think of sacrifice--of blood.

I bought a song last summer by Andrew Peterson called "Love is a Good Thing." It seemed like a nice song, but I only partially understood it. However, it wasn't until about a month ago that I realized how profound and pertinent this song really is. Looking back, I feel like I can specifically relate to almost every phrase in this song. It's all happened to me. And it's probably all happened to you. Maybe even worse.

But I can tell you right now, after everything I've been through, that Love is a good thing. It is not always a fluffy thing. It is not always an easy thing. It is not always a gentle thing.

But it is always a good thing.

Awhile ago, I was talking about a great traveling opportunity and someone said, "Maybe that's why God didn't want you to go to Hillsdale."

I blinked in surprise. I really appreciated their thoughtfulness in trying to find the "good" out of what seemed last summer like a bad thing, but did they think I still needed that? I already know why God didn't send me to Hillsdale. It's complicated to explain, but I can say now that not going to my dream college was one of the best things that's ever happened to me.

And I'm pretty sure that one of the reasons God didn't send me there is so that I could discover for myself that Love is a good thing.

So I thought I'd share the words to Andrew Peterson's song, partly because they tell my story, and partly because they're practically a sermon all on their own:

It knocked me down, it dragged me out, it left me there for dead.
It took all the freedom I wanted and gave me something else instead.
It blew my mind, it bled me dry, it hit me like a long goodbye,
And nobody here knows better than I that it's a good thing.

Love is a good thing.
It'll fall like rain on your parade,
Laugh at the plans that you tried to make,
It'll wear you down till your heart just breaks
And it's a good thing.
Love is a good thing.

It'll wake you up in the middle of the night, it'll take just a little too much.
It'll burn you like a cinder till you're tender to the touch.
It'll chase you down, and swallow you whole, it'll make your blood run hot and cold.
Like a thief in the night it'll steal your soul, and that's a good thing.
Love is a good thing.

It'll follow you down to the ruin of your great divide,
Open the wounds that you tried to hide.
And there in the rubble of the heart that died
You'll find a good thing.
Cause love is a good thing.
Oh love is a good thing.

Ooo, take cover,
Ooo, the end is near.
Ooo, take cover,
But do not fear,
Do not fear.

Cause it'll break your will, it'll change your mind,
Loose all the chains of the ties that bind.
If you're lucky you'll never make it out alive, and that's a good thing.
Love is a good thing.

It can hurt like a blast from a hand grenade
When all that used to matter is blown away.
There in the middle of the mess it made you'll find a good thing.
Yes, it's worth every penny of the price you pay. It's a good thing.

Love is a good thing --(Ooo, take cover,)
Love is a good thing --(Ooo, the end is near,)
Oh love is a good thing --(Ooo, take cover.)
Do not fear.

Spiritual gifts illustrated

I'm amused by the fact that our personalities are not the only motivational factor in our behavior. Spiritual gifts really do have an effect. Now, I'm not going to take the time to explain the personality-type system I use or the spiritual gift system. But I'll tell you that one spiritual gift is Mercy, which basically just wants everybody to be happy and tends to feel for and sympathize with others. Another spiritual gift is Prophet, which is a gift that clearly sees right and wrong in black and white terms and often has no problem saying so.

Classic illustration:

Carlee is a Prophet. She has a lot of Melancholic personality like I do, but she is certainly a prophet.

I am a Mercy.

Mariah, who has a personality quite different from what Carlee and I have, is also a Mercy.

The three of us are sitting in the cold, pitchy church building in the middle of winter. We've just finished playing a game of Sardines in the dark, and we're enjoying the silence, the silvery light gently pouring through the window, and each other's company. Carlee then tells us how creepy it was going up the church stairs in the inky blackness. It was quite scary, and it made her think of demons.

"Awwww," Mariah and I chime in sympathetic unison.

"I don't want your pity," Carlee informs us, "I just want you to tell me how stupid I was."

Spiritual gifts do exist, and this story is classic proof.

Three quotes

In the past few days, I have come across three quotes by my great-great-grandfather that I wish to share. I haven't verified them beyond my notes to make sure that they're completely accurate, but I think you'll still get their message:

"Miracles don't usually happen through people until they've taken place in them."

"'Nobody to stand with you'! Is the Holy Ghost nobody? Is the Son of God nobody? They, both of them, are on the job this minute. Shut up about 'having nobody to stand with you' and stand with Them that Their prayers may be answered."

"You sing 'Thy Will Be Done,' but you practice it when you feel like the very devil and still say 'thank you.'"

Someone knows us

Have you ever had a moment when you're sitting in contented silence with a friend who is working, and just when you're thinking about saying something, he or she turns to you and says, "What?"

What?!?

How did she know? I mean, my own brain had barely even decided to say anything, so how could she tell? Perhaps I inhaled. Perhaps my lips made a slight popping sound as they parted. If I did either of these things, I had no knowledge of it. Perhaps she just knew.

And the funny thing is, this happened twice in one sitting.

Let me tell you, it was uncanny!

But it was the best kind of uncanny ever.

The next day, this same friend was getting ready for an event. A bunch of friends and I were gathered around to provide female support as she prepared. She donned a pair of black boots and looked around for opinions.

"They look good." Friend number one said.

"They look good." Friend number two said.

"They look good." Friend number three said.

I was silent. Honestly, I wasn't sure I liked them. I love black boots, but in this case I thought brown boots might look a little less stark. But I really don't consider myself a fashion expert, and friends rarely seek my advice probably for this very reason. Besides, everyone else who knew better thought the black boots looked splendid, so why should I disagree? What did I know?

So I kept silent. There were enough voices chattering away that I thought my silence would go unnoticed.

But I was wrong.

"Kayla, you haven't said anything," the black-booted friend pointed out. "What do you think?"

What?!? A friend is actually asking me for fashion advice? I was touched that somebody actually cared about my opinion.

Still, I was silent. I just looked at her, and I looked at the boots. I didn't say a word.

"She's not sure she likes them," my friend interpreted. "She thinks the brown boots would be better. I want to try those on."

Off went the black boots. On went the brown.

"Oh, those look really good." Friend number one said.

"Those look really good." Friend number two said.

"Those look really good." Friend number three said.

I nodded, satisfied. "Yes, I like them."

And with a delicious shock, I realized that this friend can now hear me without my saying a word. What's more, she wanted to hear me. Rarely has such an uncanny experience also made me feel so loved.

But then I realized--doesn't the Holy Spirit know us even better? Doesn't He listen to the silent yearnings of our heart every day? Doesn't He long for us to tell Him what we're thinking and feeling? Doesn't He know us better than we know ourselves?

It might be uncanny, but it should also remind us that we are indeed loved.

"There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother." Proverbs 18:24

Glory

"I do not receive glory from people . . . How can you believe, when you receive glory from one another and do not seek the glory that comes from the only God?" John 5:41,44

We pray so often for God to be glorified. However, it wasn't until a couple of months ago that I started wondering where this glory comes from. We have a song in one of our hymn books that says, "If you owe Him any glory, better start that debt to pay." Of course we should give God glory, but it hadn't occurred to me that this glory doesn't actually come from us. In fact, the phrase "give God glory" is rather deceptive. One might as well say, "Here, I am giving you your shirt that you lent to me."

But then, isn't it like that whenever we give God anything? We give Him our money, our babies, and our lives, but weren't they already His?

All glory comes from the Lord Almighty Himself. Humans try to manufacture glory, but it is a cheap counterfeit by comparison. It just doesn't work. All glory comes and must only come from the Throne room itself. The earth and all the creatures in it are merely mirrors that catch a glimpse of the Glory and then toss the reflection back to the Originator of Glory. Only then is He truly glorified.

When I started considering that all glory comes from God and the fact that I am not giving God glory so much as I am returning it to Him, my outlook started to change. I began making it a practice on my morning walks to notice details in the beauty around me. I recognized the imprint of God in the whiteness of snow. In the new life popping from a budding leaf. In the slant of the sunlight on a marshy swamp. And as I put my finger on that imprint, I seized the glory emanating from it and hurled it heavenward--with joy. Back where it belonged.

It's hard to look at the world in the same way when you're searching for God's glory pulsing through it.

". . . I could not see because of the brightness of the light. . ." Acts 22:11

Usually, I think the world is a dark place. And it is. There is so much evil out there that I'm gradually becoming more aware of, and there's so much more that I've been sheltered from even imagining. We also are repeatedly faced with decisions, and we often don't know what to do. Usually, in both cases, we feel like it's dark.

But what if we're wrong?

Yes, it's dark. Or rather, we can't see.

But is that the same thing?

What if we can't see because it's so bright? What if God's glory is all around us, but we're blind to it so that all we see is darkness? Perhaps we're not ready to see that glory. Perhaps it would change our lives more than we'd like. Perhaps we choose not to see it.

Now, I'm not trying to make some heretical theological point or propose that we all become Pollyannas. But I do think that this is worth considering. Maybe God wants us to look for His glory amidst what we perceive as darkness. Maybe He's more alive and glorious in the most desperate darkness than we had supposed. Maybe He wants us to search it out. To find it. To find Him.

His donut is a lot bigger than His hole.

Full

"The glass" is never half full or half empty.

It is always full.

It's full of water and air. And both are needed for survival.

Installation Art

So I made a new friend when I took a visual arts class last semester. It's called installation art. Now, I never really considered myself a modern art fan, and I had never even heard of installation art before I took this class. But I have gained a slightly better understanding of modern art and a great appreciation for this new form of it. Thus, I decided to write my short research paper on this new friend. And, at the risk of boring you with my stiff academic writing, I have decided to share it, partly because I think it's a fascinating subject, partly because I'd like to share my insights on it, and partly as an intro to my own installation art piece.

(I am going to include all of my citations to be sure I give proper credit.)

New on the Scene: Installation Art and Its Influence
             A new member has officially joined the art family. This member is unconventional, down-to-earth, interactive, independent, and difficult to transport. Who is this new family member? Artists call it “installation art.” What exactly is it and how did it get here? Why is it both popular and controversial? Finally, how can it impact the way people view art today? Understanding installation art and how it has developed can enhance one’s overall understanding of art and its purpose.
            First of all, what is installation art? According to John Kissick, former Chair of Critical Studies at Pennsylvania State’s University of Visual Arts, “Installation art is that which builds a work around a specific site or critical position, rather than making autonomous objects that hang as individual entities on a wall” (475). According to this loose definition, a museum curator could be considered an installation artist, and the inside of a cathedral could be considered an installation (Kissick 475). Kate Mondloch, Associate Professor and Director of Graduate Studies at the University of Oregon, adds that installation art is an arranged environment where the viewer’s senses and experience with the space are meant to be a part of the work itself (xiii). Finally, Films Media Group’s film Installation Art gives this succinct definition: “The artwork takes over the space. It defines the space.”

Fig. 1. Kurt Schwitters. The Hanover Merzbau, Hanover, England.

            How did this art form develop? Installation art developed through changing attitudes, concerns about art, and technology. This change of attitude came as a result of disenchantment with the Modernist view of lofty and heroic art (Kissick 459). Thus, Pop Artists started “embracing the mundane and the commercial and dismissing the heroic and the masterpiece,” thereby creating a “demystification of what was once a sacred, highly personal experience” (Kissick 459-61). One key artist who expanded the old boundaries of art was Marcel Duchamp. With his invention of “ready-mades,” Duchamp presented the artistic significance of everyday objects, giving birth to the idea “that art and life could regularly trade places” (Kissick 455; Getlein 489). Using common items such as a bicycle wheel or a urinal, Duchamp cleverly demonstrated, according to Professor and art curator Faye Ran, “that there are no objects which cannot also be considered signs” (46). This new mindset led to the rise of Postmodern art, which ultimately dissolved the barriers

Fig. 2. Yayoi Kusama, Fireflies on Water,

Whitney Museum of American Art, NY.

between high and low art while questioning the “artistic persona and myth of the sacred object” (Kissick 462). Additionally, art historian Julie Reiss claims that artists El Lissitzky and Kurt Schwitters set important precedents by including whole rooms in their works, Proun Room and Merzbau (xxiii).
            In the midst of these changing attitudes toward art, a new concern rose to the surface of the art world. Art enthusiasts could sell and collect traditional art through the marketplace, but this practice often objectified art and treated it as a commodity (Kissick 463). To some artists, buying and selling art debased its purity and integrity. Additionally, as the idea of Postmodern art grew in strength, this commodification of art seemed to prop up the boundaries between “high” and “low” art because of the price tag placed on each piece. With these concerns in mind, artists breathed Conceptual art into being. This form of art attempted to break free from greed and art commodification by placing an emphasis on the idea of the art rather than the art itself (Kissick 462-63). Unfortunately, however, Conceptualists still ended up giving in to greed and tradition by selling their artistic ideas (Kissick 463). Still, many artists saw the problem with art commodification and sought another solution.             A solution arose in the form of Performance art. Rising to prominence in the 1960s and 1970s, this art form avoided “the easy commodification of the art object (by producing no object at all)” (Kissick 464). This production of art within a space set the stage for installation art.




Fig. 3. Dan Flavin, Untitled,
Dia Center for the Arts, NY.



            Another important aspect of installation art’s development is technology. By the 1960s, the art world had a big competitor: television (Kissick 459). Artists then had to search for new ways to gain the public’s attention: installation art was one solution. Furthermore, Films Media Group claims that the invention of the common video camera in the 1970s accelerated installation art’s popularity as artists integrated videos into their works. With photography, however, installation artists really drove their creations to the center of attention (Reiss xvi). Art professor Monica McTigue of Tufts University says, “Although installation art is often assumed to be an art of direct experience, it is often mediated by photography” (1). This is partly because photography allows many more people to observe the installation after it has been disassembled (1). Thus, technology such as photography enabled installation art to gain recognition.
            Why is installation art so popular? First of all, it offers opportunities to create a great variety of works with many different meanings (Kissick 475). One can use sculpture, videos, common objects, paintings, and performance in an installation piece. Secondly, installation art helps solve the problem of art commodification by tearing off the price tag and returning art to a purer, more experiential form (Kissick 475). Additionally, installation art “has a physical presence” that increases its popularity (Reiss xv). Finally, as art critic Matthew Collings expressed in Films on Demand, installation art possesses a kind of attitude: “It is now the most trendy thing you could do. It’s almost against the law not to do it.”
            Why is installation art controversial? According to Films on Demand, installation art questions what art should be: art could be broken macaroni or an unmade bed. Additionally, installation art does not receive a lot of scholarly attention because it is not easily purchased or experienced once it is taken apart (Reiss xv).
            Despite these drawbacks, how can installation art impact how one views and understands art? Installation art emphasizes the experiential and non-commercial nature of art, as well as its God-glorifying purpose. Firstly, Films on Demand says that installation art helps one to realize that the experience of art may be more important than the art itself. This is because “how one sees is just as important as what one sees”; installation art helps the viewer become part of the art itself (Mondloch xiii).
            Secondly, installation art helps one to realize that art is not about buying and selling. Art is meant to be experienced and enjoyed. Not only does installation art remove greed from the equation, but its interactive nature helps one to appreciate art in a purer and fuller sense. 

Fig. 4. Gerda Steiner and Jorg Lenzlinger,

Falling Garden, Venice, Italy.

            Finally, because it often uses common objects in a room, installation art can help one to see beauty and art all around in everyday life. God’s entire creation is a work of art that is meant to be experienced and enjoyed, and installation art can help God’s people to enter into His installations every day. Thus, understanding installation art helps one to appreciate art and its ultimate purpose: to point viewers to the Great Artist. “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims His handiwork” (English Standard Version, Psalm 19.1).

           Works Cited
Bible: English Standard Version. Wheaton: Good News Publishers, 2001.
Flavin, Dan. Untitled. 1996. Fluorescent light installation. Dia Center for the Arts, NY. Artlex.
            Web. 26 Feb. 2013.
Getlein, Mark. Living with Art. 9^th ed. New York: McGraw Hill, 2010. 489. Print.
Installation Art. Films Media Group, 2000. Film. Films On Demand. Web. 26 Feb. 2013.
Kissick, John. Art Context and Criticism. 2^nd ed. London: Brown and Benchmark Publishers,
            1996. 455-75. Print.
Kusama, Yayoi. Fireflies on Water. 2002. Mirror, plexiglass, 150 lights, and water. Whitney
            Museum of American Art, NY. Whitney. Web. 26 Feb. 2013.
McTighe, Monica E. Framed Spaces: Photography and Memory in Contemporary Installation
            Art. Lebanon: Dartmouth College Press, 2012. 1. Google Books. Web. 26 Feb. 2013.
Mondloch, Kate. Viewing Media Installation Art. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
            2010. Google Books. Web. 26 Feb. 2013.
Ran, Faye. A History of Installation Art and the Development of New Art Forms. New York:
            Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., 2009. 46. Google Books. Web. 27 Feb. 2013.
Reiss, Julie H. From Margin to Center: The Spaces of Installation Art. Cambridge: MIT Press,
            2001. Google Books. Web. 26 Feb. 2013.
Schwitters, Kurt.  The Hanover Merzbau. 1923-1936. Installation. Hanover, England. Merzbarn.
            Web. 26 Feb. 2013.
Steiner, Gerda, and Jorg Lenzlinger. Falling Garden. 2003. Installation. Venice, Italy. The Artful
            Desperado. Web. 26 Feb. 2013.

And so, if I haven't utterly lost you yet, I will share the installation art that I did.

 I took approximately 290 Crayola crayons and hung them in color-coordinated patterns from the ceiling.

 

 

 Incidentally, I also dipped the ends of the crayons in glow-in-the-dark paint so that I'd have a mini planetarium. It's difficult to capture this with pictures.

 

After two months (in which approx. 80 crayons fell from the ceiling), I had to take this installation art piece down last week. It was a little sad, but it will live on in pictures just like so many other greater pieces. And at the same time, I'm satisfied that it fulfilled its purpose. Installation art, after all, is like joy. It is meant to be enjoyed and released. The instant we try to grasp it and keep it for ourselves, it is no longer true joy.

 

In the meantime, I will dream about other possible installation art pieces I could do, and I'll fantasize what it would be like to have someone pay me a lot of money to do something I love.

 

But mostly, I'll remember what installation art has taught me about joy. And I'll try to remember that I'm entering God's installations every day.