Painting Revelation Blog

Lake Michigan

Since we live on the east side of Lake Michigan we experience the full force of winds blowing across the water from Illinois. The last few days we watched whitecaps erupt in the bluegreen and then march onto the beach, eroding sand, dislodging beach grass, gouging the shoreline and depositing sand in bars off shore. Yesterday I noticed how the deep basin of water formed between the sandbar and the shore was much calmer than the shallows. There was room for the waves to go down instead of breaking into a froth on the surface.

This morning as I sat in the hot tub the wind was still swirling in the tree tops. But the squirrel’s nest I wrote about in the previous entry was hardly swaying. The squirrel had built its home in the very top of a sassafras surrounded by taller, broader trees. The white oak, the maple, the shagbark hickories were being whipped by the wind but the little sassafras nest held steady.

We need to go deep to survive the storms. We need to surround ourselves with people, ideas, books, prayers, music, vistas—whatever we can find that is taller and broader, stronger and more deeply rooted than our present perspective. These are turbulent times but there are choices we can make to minimize the chaos and enhance our sense of security. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. No one can snatch us out of his hand.

(BTW—the cardinal babies hatched yesterday)

cardinal nest

I woke up earlier than usual this morning and made my way to our backyard hot tub with fruit smoothie in one hand, Bible in the other. Sunday before 7 is very quiet in the woods where we live. As I settled into the warm water, delighting in the crisp blue sky, I heard something unusual. Just a small sound, a snapping and a rustle of leaves. Right in front of me at the top of a skinny sassafras tree I saw a black squirrel busy at work. It scampered to nearby branches, bit off a leafy length, then darted back to the growing nest. I could hear it working hard, weaving the new twigs into the mass of leaves.

Then from behind me I heard a cardinal’s call. I turned to see a male and female perched on top of our fence, the female with a spindle of grass in her beak. The male called out again and they both flew away. When I got out of the hot tub I spied the beginnings of their nest under the wisteria vine on the trellis outside my bedroom door. The other end of the trellis held the remains of this spring’s nest. Was this the same couple? Or their offspring? I hope I didn’t scare them away.

They comfort me, these squirrels and birds. They know their place in the world. They know how to make their homes. I feel so blessed to live in the peaceful woods where I am, yet my awareness of the millions of people living in poverty, homeless, in refugee camps, sick and hungry and in squalor is always just below the surface of my mind. I am tempted to despair, to sink in guilt. Yet I remember God’s command to rejoice always, pray continually, and give thanks in every circumstance, for that is his will for us in Christ Jesus.

This weekend I was blessed to open my home—our rustic cabin in the woods—to a friend and her five children. Seeing them delight in the creek and the woods, giving them the opportunity to discover the serenity of this place, makes me feel better. But it is really the birds, the flowers, the fireflies, the steady moon and stars, that encourage me to accept my place, my sphere of influence—always with thanksgiving, always with an attitude of grace.

July 9th garden

Six weeks have gone by since the photo below. Radishes have all been eaten, carrots are filling in after them. Peas climbed up, flowered, and produced. Yum. Swiss chard, butternut squash, tomatoes in cages, beets, onions, peppers. The broccoli have tiny heads. One morning I found a hole under the lettuce, 4” round, 6” deep, carefully lined with long grass and two marigold flowers. I’m guessing a rabbit thought it found heaven.

Each living thing follows its unique, implanted directions, produces its own special contribution to the world. How do we learn to pay attention to what our cells are telling us? Why do I wish I was an early radish or a peapod when my fruit takes all summer to mature?

This past weekend I attended Rob Bell’s conference called Poets, Prophets, and Preachers. It was phenomenal. Preaching as the original guerrilla theater and a peek inside the heads of some of today’s most brilliant minds. Graciously they allowed me to sell my Painting Revelation DVD at the book table. I watched as the speakers’ books flew off the table while my DVDs languished. There was interest, and some wonderful encouraging comments from people who’d watched the video. One pastor bought it, watched it in his room that night, and came back the next morning to tell me how much he liked it. I was happy for the exposure and the affirmation. But when I got back home I started doing the numbers, calculating percentages, and feeling sorry for myself.

I may be a carrot who needs to spend a lot of time underground, going deep. Or more likely an asparagus plant. This spring I dug a trench for the bare roots. When the tiniest shoots came up, I added more soil. Now I have little feathery plants in the trench. Next year the stalk will be a bit bigger and I’ll cover it more. Maybe the third year the trench will be filled in and the asparagus ready to eat. I hope so.