Aptitudes of Artistry, within Quadrants of Belief

My friend E and I were recently discussing the fact that some of the world's best artists, who speak most poignantly into the human condition, aren't Christian, or do not/ did not advertise it if they are/were. We were looking at a quote from ee cummings on her classroom wall, posted near her desk. She's St. John's Great Books-educated, and probably one of my best-read, most artistically-savvy friends.

I think our observation is pretty true. The most intriguing thing to then consider is why God would choose to do it that way- speak truth where we may not expect to find it; have those 'get it' ("it" being life's perennial blows and how the inexplicability of pain, and the [seeming?] injustice of its disparate distribution, matters) who those on the in's might assume do not get it ("it" being, the true fact that God is interested in our redemption into His loving- yes, loving- hands).

Here's an illustration. Some Christian artists DO get it, both "it's," but the layering of meanings and capturing of paradox, contradiction, and felt frustration isn't quite as penetrating or intricate as another artist might have done it. It's still a good work, though. Below is an excerpt from The Chance, a book by Christian writer Karen Kingsbury. I wrote it down from my audiobook because it resonated with me. It's not exactly eloquent, but correctly/aptly captures that gut-wrenching fact of life -- irrevocable or incomprehensible losses, albeit without subtlety:

"How many letters had she written, and how had more than a decade gone by? The weight of it pressed against her heart. There was no way to calculate all she'd missed. High school and homework, prom and graduation. Thousands of goodnights and good mornings and everything in between. Her precious Ellie would be 26 years old now, all grown up, years removed from the girl she'd been growing up in Savannah."

It might be interesting to start a list of artists (authors, painters, graphic designers, lyricists...) that fall in different quadrants of faith: professing believers, unprofessing believers, professing unbelievers, unprofessing/ambiguous unbelievers.

Tricky Eucalyptus

I went on a few morning runs in San Diego. I don't want to forget this seedling of an idea: as I ran past some rather snarly looking bushes/trees, I was met with the WONDERFUL aroma of eucalyptus. It was probably the most pleasant thing I ever smelled, ever. Better than the best perfume in the world. The paradox of the plant's appearance (maybe pretty in an isolated camera shot, but when the leaves/petals are altogether, it looks disorderly and un-vibrant) and its extraordinary fragrance.

Can we apply this concept to other aspects of life, or to people? Where the pre-judgments based on appearance led us astray from ever knowing (or being able to guess at) the good things they contain and emit? This hints at the (sometimes obnoxious, sometimes delightful) paradoxes of beauty-- how the easy-on-the-eyes type fades, but lesser-seen forms of beauty remain intact through decades, lifetimes. The form that is at first unimpressive is the one that provides, that gives beauty to its environment in an unexpected way.

If you only knew your goodness

If you only knew
The way you made me new
Inside my heart
The repairs weren't few

If you only knew
My appreciation for you
Words of life spoken to me
My vision renewed

If you only knew
The hope I have again
The freedom, courage, health[ier] spirit
I have back in my reservoir again...

It's because of you. your goodness.

A Let-Me-Lavish-You Kind of Love

I've been thinking a lot lately about my parents, what complex people they are. How they are, in fact, people. Which means they have made errors and faced hardships just like I am encountering now in my twenties--each new year seems to bring with it a new discovery about life and its many opportunities to feel ill at ease. (As well as to feel good; I'm not trying to be a dour pessimist. But as Ann Brashares notes in My Name is Memory: like Southerners remembering the fallout of the Civil War, "You forget your victories, but you remember the losses.” I can't deny there is some weighty truth there.)

Anyway, I've been considering the painful fallout each of my parents has faced throughout their lives. I am immeasurably impressed and relieved at how they each have insulated their reasons for bitterness and absolute distrust of God's goodness or the goodness of those they've mostly dearly loved (that is, each other), from me, their daughter. they have each loved me in a let-me-lavish-you kind of way. The image to come immediately to mind is that of how my friend from undergrad, Steph Chan, describes God's love for us: "Imagine a dumptruck. Imagine you standing behind it. Imagine God releasing a dumptruck of love onto you, covering you completely in His love." Like that.

Of course, being the younger child, I have the benefit of greater naiveté. Things weren't as peachy as they appeared from a teenager's point of view, whose losses were greater than mine, as a 7-year-old. One of the most unpalatable facts of life is how horrible outcomes are never split evenly between parties. I've long felt that between my brother and me, I've gotten the easier half of everything. I think he would agree, and he is so right to.

My parents, though: after the divorce, my dad raised me full time. He doted upon me to a fault. He made me a literary, athletic, extroverted, school-oriented, curious-about-God girl. Yes, I did just write that: "he made me." I do credit him with much of how I developed into the "mix of colors" I am today (thank you, C.M., for that compliment...and thank you, C.C., C.Y., N.M., D.L., and C.M., for always defending his character). After his death, I've become close with my mom again. It's a pretty amazing story of redemption going on before our very eyes. How do we "redeem the time" lost in childhood (see Ephesians 5:15-17)? We've spent a lot of time together lately and it's pretty awesome what God can do to mend families, one day at a time. It's discovery for me to find out who my mother is, in terms of her personality and rooting out the source(s) of her perseverance. Our family's story is not a fairy tale, I assure you. We don't match with the more functional parts of our extended family. But it does feel right and good, the progress our little unit is making towards God's vision for how He created us to be.

What strikes me when I think about both my parents is that they have both succeeded in making me, their child, feel so loved. Maya Angelou's quote captures it so perfectly: "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” 

Now, I am a person who remembers the exact words that come out of the mouths of people most dear to me. I write them down, often, because I don't want to forget them. But sometimes, those words (if they're claims of love) don't prove true in the long run of how they do or don't love you. And people's actions? The difficulty of forgiveness proves that people's actions toward us (for us or against us) are mammothly important in how we relate to them. I've always thought, before today, that Angelou's quote was a little simplistic for this reason. But I cannot deny that how a person makes you feel is a unique indicator of their quality of love for you. I can compare significant others (with each other) and family members (with each other) along these axes, and I find startling differences. I feel much more loved by some than others, even though the fact of their spoken love is, on the surface, equal or the same.

The quality of love... Lord, let me be wise in response to the high-quality love I get to receive in this life. Thank you for directing that quality of human love that way, towards me. May I make your creations feel especially loved too-- remove the me from interfering and let it be all You streaming through to them.

Bordering Fuchsia

After I finished my preliminary exams, my boyfriend sent me purple flowers. It was one of the most loving gestures he could have done, not because I'm a flower fanatic or a die hard romantic, but mostly because he recognized and agreed with the enormity of the occasion, from my point of view. It marked a significant point of triumph, relief, accomplishment, and even giddiness -- that I had learned all this new material that is so darn interesting to me, and written gobs about it in a short period of time. The feeling of productivity was enough for a high.

But then, this delivery (which came mid-nap) ushered in a new kind of celebration: the realization that I'd reached that magical hour in which I had permission, at long last, to finally finally REST, and sense enough to take full advantage of it. (In the note accompanying the flowers, he actually did spell out instructions to go sleep.) I could (and did) sleep with no regard to time; do leisurely activities, watch TV, read non-sociological material. This past week I've found myself prioritizing time with girlfriends, packing in three-a-days thrice. I've started hacking away at to-dos long overdue. I've started, in other words, caring for the upkeep of my own life, beyond my career path.

And that time has flown. A week has already passed since the end of the exam.

This past week I've also found myself reveling time and again in those flowers. They are a profound marker for me: they are a symbol of one's love for me, in spite of my pretest self absorption, and posttest -- ok, self absorption. I really am a time manager (I'm fondly reminded of --- in the WB show "Felicity," who's always drilling herself on organic chemistry compounds with flashcards in one hand, and a stopwatch in the other...here's hoping I can be her!), sometimes to a fault. I've not always done a great job showing my love for family and dear friends when studying hangs in the balance. I love to give my time to reading, studying, writing, researching, as if that were my lover. Maybe because I am comfortable there. And feel competent there. And darn it, I just enjoy it and the process and the product it brings. BUT, when placed above people-- that's disorder. Not to mention painful.

But I digress. The flowers: they are really beautiful to me. The main color in the bouquet is an unusual delight: a luminescent purple, bordering fuchsia. I usually never have flowers to brighten my apartment. So they represent not only a symbol and reminder of someone's love, but they also bring beauty where only functionality reigned supreme before (that is, the dining room table).

I also love them because they make me think. Yesterday, day 6, I noticed something peculiar with the flowers as I stared them down whilst writing in my journal. Some miniature tulips nestled in the middle were beginning to droop down. Not dead yet, they were getting there. Rising above the bouquet, some yet-to-be buds were almost bursting. These were not yet in their adult glory. And other flowers were presently in their prime: glowing, healthy, their petals stretched like a young yoga instructor's arms and back, reaching for some great height.

Isn't life like that too? Aren't we always watching some things pass away, some things almost-bloom, some things shout their present glory? Maybe each flower is a blessing, or maybe they each represent facets of our own personally well-known facts of life. Maybe what's decreasing are my former obsessions, hopes, dreams. Watching them fade is sad. But God, who created these flowers, and me and my whole lifespan and each day in it, won't let the bouquet be only that. No! Look: there are gorgeous things going on right this second, and indeed, they occupy the bulk of this bouquet. I'm alive right now, I'm bearing fruit, and it's even pretty. And, I can only imagine what those buds within them hold. What glory will they bring?