Being, still.

"The principle part of faith is patience."
-- unknown

"Faith is for that which lies on the other side of reason. Fiath is what makes life bearable, with all its tragedies and ambiguities and sudden startling joys. Surely it wasn't reasonable of the Lord of the Universe to come and walk this earth and die for us and then show us everlasting life? We will all grow old and sooner or later we will die, like the old trees in the orcahrd. But we have been promised that this is not the end. We have been promised life.

What owuld have happened to Mary (and to all the rest of us) if she had said no to eht angle. She was free to do so. but she said yes. She was obedient, and the artist, too must be obedient to the command of the work, knowing thiat this involved long hours of research, of throwing out a month's work, of going back ot the beginning, or sometimes, scrapping the whole thing. The artist, like Mary, is free to say no. When a shoddy novel is published, ther writer is rejecting the obedient response, taking the easy way out. But when the words mean even more than the writer knew they meant, then the writer has been listening. And sometimes when we listen, we are led into places we do not expect, into adventures we do not always understand.

Mary did not always understand. But one does not have to understand to be obedient. Instead of understanding-- that intellectual understanding which we are so fond of-- there is a feeling of rightness, of knowing, knowingnthings which we are not able to understand.

During [a] question-and-answer period... a young woman waid to me, 'I read a Wrinkle in Time when I was eight or nine. I did not understand it, but I knew what it was about.'

As long as we know what it's about, we can have the courage to go whenever we are asked to go, even if we fear thatn the road may take us through danger and pain."
-- Madeleine L'Engle, "Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art" p.16

"For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently."
-- Romans 8

It is Sunday and I am not answering any phone calls. It is Sunday and I am full of thought, retreated to a silent world of solitude where there are no demands, no errands to run, no preoccupation with productivity. It is Sunday and my body needs time and space to heal these aches in my feet and the sunburn in my eyes. It is Sunday and I am still and full of being.

Yesterday, I ventured to the basement to paint again after a long hiatus. There are a series of canvases leaning against the side of the piano that have been begging for help each time I come down the stairs and yesterday I gathered the stamina to take them on-- one or two at least. Funny how I forget how loudly this work speaks to me. As I move my brush, the canvas, the oil, the pigment whisper lessons about life and as I move mountains with the swipe of my hand and change seasons with color I remember the lessons I've been learning all along.

I am reminded again of the importance of process. I often want things to be finished and right immediately-- I don't want to sit through the important hours, days, weeks, months, years of pressing and pulling from the potter's hand. Often, in the process of a painting, I will begin with an few ideas about shape, a few impressions of color, a small and simple idea about the idea. These are enough to provide earth under my feet, but it is the walking itself that constitutes the beauty of the adventure. Often, I can only begin slowly, only lay down the basic foundations and then I must walk away. Often, these starting points all full of mistakes-- I find myself, so many times, laying down marks I don't mean. But the paint is wet and there is no going back.

And so I am learning that sometimes there has to be space and there has to be time to let things dry. If I get impatient and try to go in and fix it up while these first strokes are still wet, all I end up with is a mess. The colors become muddy, the shapes unmanageable and I never find a way to say what I really mean when I try it this way. It is only a waste. Yet-- thank the Lord-- there is forgiveness in space and time. Sometimes-- most times-- the best thing I can do is walk away from the canvas, leave it messy, hope others will understand that it isn't finished and know that when I come back, the dry paint will make a way for a new, better picture to emerge.

The Lord is at work in me. "Come away with me," he says, "For I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls." It seems so easy to forget in our culture of rush and words, that our Father is a God of peace. He promises that "You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace." It seems too good, too easy, too much like cheating.

Yesterday, I was standing nearly beneath where I now sit, and I realized that much of this journey I've been walking for the last year or two has been one of growing intimacy with the Father. "Come on," he has been saying, "Move closer into my arms. Trust me and you will hardly believe what I will do for you."

The last year has been one of immense change, immeasurable challenge-- there have been many days, many nights, many weeks, that I've wondered how I was ever going to make it. I've been holding on tight, facing giants, facing the demons in my own heart, my own head, my own spirit. In the midst of it all, I must say that this has, by far, been the greatest adventure of my life. The world-explorer does not turn back or lement at the wounds, the mishaps, the unexpected turns of his excursions-- no-- he rejoices in them, realizing that these moments of excruciation, questions of survival, and surprises are what make the story worth telling in the end.

There is the process, there is the need for space and silence, there is the courage-- and then there is the faith. So much of the past year has been composed of moments of crying out to God, "I am not going to make it!" I find myself being pushed beyond my own wildest dreams. I find myself learning the voice of Peace, the Spirit that has continued to speak, "Walk," even as the voice in my head has said, "Stop. Turn back. Be rational, logical, responsible." And still, I am reminded of that ever-haunting question: Who hopes for that which he already has? I am bouyed by the reminder that Faith is being sure of what he hope for and certain of what we do not see. I am learning to put my weight into this knowing that anchors me in the midst of all that I cannot and may never understand.

Yesteday I filled out an application for a studio apartment that will cost more than I am paying now. I wonder at my sense of peace about it as the voice of the Lord, the Father who knows how to give good gifts, seems to keep saying over and over again, "I will be faithful to you and I will provide for all of your needs" and as my own brain keeps asking, "how?"

I find that the more I follow Jesus, the deeper I enter the command to "seek first the kingdom," the more I feel I am simply riding the coattails of a force beyond my own intiation, request, or expectation. As a person in posession of a degree in art, the question of "what are you going to do with that," is no matter of unfamiliarity. And even as I planned ahead for the near impossibility of income resulting from my life as an artist, it seems that the Lord is seeking to make bread from stones. Make art seems to be his continual demand. It is almost as though he has commanded me to do this-- to shy away, to trade this endeavor for something more "practical" continues to conjure images of sin and disobedience. How often does he call us to do that which will force us to seek him as our sole source of security? Is he still asking me to give up all rights to my own contributions? Is he waiting for my stubborn heart to hear him say, "just recieve it all and let go?" I think he probably wants the glory I am still seeking for myself.

The repeitive hammer of the silversmith upon my hard heart seems to continually be hitting upon this issue of needing help. I am yet fearful, yet unable to take in the help I really need, let alone ask for it. Submission isn't my strongest suit. I am always ready to be ready, always prepared to defend myself, always cautious to take without fear of a repayment I am unable to make. I am yet complete, the love I know is still imperfect as I still find myself full of fear-- it is not yet driven out.

But I think I am getting closer, even as I try to pretend yet still. And I cannot avoid the impulse to thank the Lord that he is strong and he does not avoid the need, at times, to be heavy handed with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. And sometimes that means asking me to say yes to that which is far beyond my sight, beyond the sway of my own hands, beyond what I even think I deserve.

And so I am looking down this road, waiting for the phone call to come in and sign a lease, and I am wondering if the Lord will provide through a job that pays my bills or if his continual desire for me is this burning fire of humility as I find the strength to say, "I trust you enough to ask for help," and the surrender of admitting, "I just can't do it on my own."

Truth be told, these days, my primary compulsion is to do very little. In the midst of this process from student to whatever comes next, the story seems to be a restructuring of my heart into simply learning the art of being. I often find people expressing thier frustration at my lack of phone usage, my delay in email reply, my reluctance to make hard and fast plans. But I am finding this particular season to be one full of the neccessity to be quiet. I have taken much of my life "off the hook" these days because that is what seems neccessary for my heart, it seems to be the appropriate soil for the growth going on beneath the surface. More than ever, simply sitting out on the deck and studying the evening clouds, laying in bed for an hour after the sunrise wakes me from sleep, sitting on the bus on the way back from field trips, silent and watching grass pass by windows, seems like the best thing. And the second truth is that accepting that need and its reality in my life has and continues to be difficult for even me to accept and justify. It doesn't seem right to say, "the best thing for me now is to stop, to do nothing," especially given the choices I've made about where to live and what life to lead. But it does seem better to name it all thus: I am learning to rest. I am learning the art of surrender and I am being taught the reality that my life is not my own. I am letting go of control and waiting for the Lord to speak and move. I am learning to listen rather than continuing this life of frantic activity for the sake of looking busy and productive.

More than ever, the words "The Lord is Faithful" ring in my ears, permiate my heart. Even as so much of the choices I make, the realities I am sinking my teeth into seem borderline absurd, foolish and against the world's demands of accomplishment and required contribution, I cannot move away from the peace I find in simply saying, "Lord, I will follow you, even if that means I get no claim to what is accomplished or given." I am learning the stillness neccessary to hear and recive and am waiting for the rest. This life of following is not easy, yet it is full of peace and is surely never heavy or ill-fitting. It is right.