I don't like to admit the sadness I feel the day after Christmas.
It is the same feeling that comes after a storm that has stopped me in my tracks and demanded my attention has rolled away. The rain stops, and the sun shines again and everything goes back to normal, back to the way it was before an outside or unforeseen circumstance intervened and gave permission for a breath to be taken, and a moment to be held for a moment longer.
We tend to avoid inconveniences, but if we're honest, don't we often find that they are more welcome because they are uninvited? The responsibility is taken out of our hands, and with it the weight and the pressure that it carries, and our grip gets to loosen. We have permission to set down our tools and our plans and for a span of time that we don't get to dictate, we believe a little deeper in something a little bigger that, in that pause, seems a little realer.
It is the breath we see in winter, reminding us of the invisible we take for granted, sustaining our every heartbeat.
When things go back to normal, we forget. We return to our work instead of letting the magic of faith and hope guard our hearts with peace.
Glitter is no longer celebratory, but mess.
Disruptions are no longer happy surprises, but inconveniences.
The day after Christmas it is almost as though, in the anticipation of Advent, the thing I was waiting for either came and I missed it, or didn't come at all, or didn't look like it was supposed to, and I am left sad and disappointed.
I don't like to admit it, because it means I had wrong expectations, or I wasn't grateful enough.
The thing is, Christmas will come again. It will rain again.
Sometimes having hope means living in the tension between what was and what will be. And it hurts like a tightrope burn, or torn hamstrings, or stress fractures.
For a while now I have felt interruption knocking on my door, inviting me outside my normal and comfortable, and to find Christmas, and lightning storms, and glitter, and foggy breath, once a week.
This interruption calls itself the Sabbath. It is the day that faith and hope get to take centre stage, and I get to loosen my grip on normalcy and believe a little deeper in a future promise. On that day, the tension toward heaven pulls a little tighter and draws me a little closer.
The Aramaic word maranatha is mentioned only once in the Bible, in 1 Corinthians 16:22, and can be translated as a cry for our Lord to come, or a declaration that He already has.
It is a tightrope word for the tension of our current circumstances.
I want to remember that when hope hurts, it is only because that which is pulling me closer is only getting more real and soon to be realised.
I don't want to forget the breath that sustains me.
So I accept the invitation to Sabbath, to yearn in tension for six days and rejoice and celebrate on the seventh.
Would you like to join me?
Showing posts with label blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blog. Show all posts
AS YOU WISH
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Though I have seen (and quoted) this movie an innumerable amount of times, this quote struck me in a new way one day while I was driving my car. It was almost Easter, and it randomly popped into my head how similar in meaning this quote - as you wish - is to another that is often heard around Eastertide - not My will, but Yours be done.
Both quotes communicate a preference of others over self. Both are about the laying down of one's own desires, own life, for the sake of another's. Both speak of sacrificial love, a kind that requires, and demands, nothing in return. Neither quoter insists on their own way, neither is self-seeking.
Both really are other ways of saying, "I love you."
Both speak of acts of service, worship, submission and surrender.
As YOU wish, not as I wish.
Your way, not mine.
I hang it as a reminder and a prayer. It is the position I pray that I pray from. It is the position I pray that I live from. For my Lord and Saviour, for my neighbours, for my family, for my friends, and for the world.
//
If you would like a digital copy of this print, or a new original, hand-lettered, please message me.
Both quotes communicate a preference of others over self. Both are about the laying down of one's own desires, own life, for the sake of another's. Both speak of sacrificial love, a kind that requires, and demands, nothing in return. Neither quoter insists on their own way, neither is self-seeking.
Both really are other ways of saying, "I love you."
Both speak of acts of service, worship, submission and surrender.
As YOU wish, not as I wish.
Your way, not mine.
I hang it as a reminder and a prayer. It is the position I pray that I pray from. It is the position I pray that I live from. For my Lord and Saviour, for my neighbours, for my family, for my friends, and for the world.
//
If you would like a digital copy of this print, or a new original, hand-lettered, please message me.
TAVEK
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I have a collection of art sitting in my closet that has a story to tell.
The word tavek is a Hebrew word meaning "midst" or "between". In the Bible it is the word used in the creation story for the separation of the waters, and the word used in Joshua 4, when the Israelites miraculously crossed the Jordan River into their Promised Land. The waters of the river parted like the Red Sea, and Joshua was commanded by the Lord to take twelve stones from the middle of the river bed, and take them to the place where they would stay on the other side. These stones were to be set up as an altar in remembrance of the Way-Maker.
Though Israel was now "beyond the Jordan", their story - their journey - was far from over. Though they were standing on covenant soil, they did not yet possess it. This impossible step was simply another one of many steps on the way. This was not the crossing of a finish line. They were neither here nor there. And yet, they were still called to remember and celebrate and commemorate God's faithfulness in the midst of it. In their midst. In their in-between.
The collection of art sitting in my closet comes from what has seem to me to be a never-ending in-between, a never-ending middle ground of neither here nor there. They are the stones I have collected from the journey that I am still on to this day. Just like the stones pulled from the river bed would have been, some of my stones are dirty. They are ink-smudged, dog-eared, and finger-printed. They have been in the midst with me. Some have travelled with me in my suitcase between four countries, and they wear their journey as well as my own.
They are not perfection. They are not high-quality, untouched, crisp, flawless works of art. I have been waiting a long time to be able to present something matching that description, and I honestly don't think that moment will ever come.
It isn't that I don't pursue excellence, or won't anymore. I just believe that excellence can look like the scars of past mistakes, evidence of the things that made us stronger because we survived them.
I don't believe excellence means untouched by pain, or the skilful hiding and beautifying of flaws.
Deuteronomy 27:5-7 is a commandment of the Lord to build an altar of uncut stones. Though the tabernacle had been intricately and precisely decorated by Spirit-filled and skilled craftsmen (Exodus 35:30-35), I believe the altar of uncut stones is a reminder that neither result - the fine or the rough - is the defining factor for what is or is not worthy of holy presentation unto the Lord.
By sharing my art, and offering them as gifts to others, I am declaring to the liminal void that they are worthy of holy presentation unto the Lord. My journey, though rough and frought with trouble, was not, and is not, in vain. It is worth remembering, worth honouring, worth the scars it bore.
I have doubted, and still doubt, these truths. So I am choosing to speak truth even when it feels like a lie. Most of these prints are truths I have needed to hold onto and believe in in my darkest hours, but could not bring my mouth to say out loud.
With each piece I hope to share a little part of the story behind the scars and behind the words, and I promise (myself) that I will not apologise for their imperfections, let alone my own.
Maybe by doing so you will my hand reaching out to hold yours as you too walk the tightrope of a tavek. Maybe your hand will reach back to me, and you'll tell me your story in return, and we'll take a few more steps together.
I really do hope so.
So here they are. The stones that I have pulled from my tavek. My altar of remembrance.
Here is my story of God's faithfulness in my life, as He continues to make a way.
@_tavek
The word tavek is a Hebrew word meaning "midst" or "between". In the Bible it is the word used in the creation story for the separation of the waters, and the word used in Joshua 4, when the Israelites miraculously crossed the Jordan River into their Promised Land. The waters of the river parted like the Red Sea, and Joshua was commanded by the Lord to take twelve stones from the middle of the river bed, and take them to the place where they would stay on the other side. These stones were to be set up as an altar in remembrance of the Way-Maker.
Though Israel was now "beyond the Jordan", their story - their journey - was far from over. Though they were standing on covenant soil, they did not yet possess it. This impossible step was simply another one of many steps on the way. This was not the crossing of a finish line. They were neither here nor there. And yet, they were still called to remember and celebrate and commemorate God's faithfulness in the midst of it. In their midst. In their in-between.
The collection of art sitting in my closet comes from what has seem to me to be a never-ending in-between, a never-ending middle ground of neither here nor there. They are the stones I have collected from the journey that I am still on to this day. Just like the stones pulled from the river bed would have been, some of my stones are dirty. They are ink-smudged, dog-eared, and finger-printed. They have been in the midst with me. Some have travelled with me in my suitcase between four countries, and they wear their journey as well as my own.
They are not perfection. They are not high-quality, untouched, crisp, flawless works of art. I have been waiting a long time to be able to present something matching that description, and I honestly don't think that moment will ever come.
It isn't that I don't pursue excellence, or won't anymore. I just believe that excellence can look like the scars of past mistakes, evidence of the things that made us stronger because we survived them.
I don't believe excellence means untouched by pain, or the skilful hiding and beautifying of flaws.
Deuteronomy 27:5-7 is a commandment of the Lord to build an altar of uncut stones. Though the tabernacle had been intricately and precisely decorated by Spirit-filled and skilled craftsmen (Exodus 35:30-35), I believe the altar of uncut stones is a reminder that neither result - the fine or the rough - is the defining factor for what is or is not worthy of holy presentation unto the Lord.
By sharing my art, and offering them as gifts to others, I am declaring to the liminal void that they are worthy of holy presentation unto the Lord. My journey, though rough and frought with trouble, was not, and is not, in vain. It is worth remembering, worth honouring, worth the scars it bore.
I have doubted, and still doubt, these truths. So I am choosing to speak truth even when it feels like a lie. Most of these prints are truths I have needed to hold onto and believe in in my darkest hours, but could not bring my mouth to say out loud.
With each piece I hope to share a little part of the story behind the scars and behind the words, and I promise (myself) that I will not apologise for their imperfections, let alone my own.
Maybe by doing so you will my hand reaching out to hold yours as you too walk the tightrope of a tavek. Maybe your hand will reach back to me, and you'll tell me your story in return, and we'll take a few more steps together.
I really do hope so.
So here they are. The stones that I have pulled from my tavek. My altar of remembrance.
Here is my story of God's faithfulness in my life, as He continues to make a way.
@_tavek
THE THRESHOLD
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This isn't the beginning of something.
It is the faded ripple of a forgotten pebble tossed into the ocean long ago.
This isn't the end of something.
The paint is still wet.
This is the midst of something.
This is the threshold between what was and what will be.
It is the faded ripple of a forgotten pebble tossed into the ocean long ago.
This isn't the end of something.
The paint is still wet.
This is the midst of something.
This is the threshold between what was and what will be.
ADVENTURE
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Maybe we all desire the path less travelled, the greener grass on the other side, the mystery of the unknown, things no eye has seen.
But what if we realised that we are living someone else's adventure? What if the grass really is greener on our side? Do we realise that we get to see things they'll never get to see? We miss so much in the things we see every day.
Adventure is opening your eyes a little wider.
Adventure is in your peripheral vision.
Look up. Look around. Look closer.
But what if we realised that we are living someone else's adventure? What if the grass really is greener on our side? Do we realise that we get to see things they'll never get to see? We miss so much in the things we see every day.
Adventure is opening your eyes a little wider.
Adventure is in your peripheral vision.
Look up. Look around. Look closer.
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