advent

i don't know about you, but for me Christmas came deliciously slow this year.  i'm starting to feel as though "Christmas" is becoming an entire season for me, rather than just a day.  it begins with advent, moves through St. Nicholas day, dances around parties and school productions, takes a deep breath Christmas eve and then explodes the next morning.  but it doesn't end there - the liturgical calendar celebrates twelve days of Christmas.  twelve days to continue to ponder the mystery of the incarnation, the humility of the shepherds, the poignant gifts of wise men.  i love it.  

last year i started a personal tradition of painting an advent piece, which also marinades me in mystery for a while.  

this year i wanted to explore the adventine (adventian?  chose whichever made-up word you enjoy better) concept of waiting.   waiting for clarity.  for direction.  for detail.  for truth.  i wanted to communicate the reality of how we all see dimly, through muddied waters, tired eyes, broken lenses.  how we are all waiting for the focus of God's revelation.  

here's what i wrote in my journal in November:  

I can see how my eye has been moving to the background, to the obscured light, to bokah, refraction, blur. the delicious excitement of detailing what has no detail.  the challenge.  the beauty of colour, repetition, fuzzy line, blended shade.  this is exciting.  a new step.  an intentional step.  a step that makes sense to my hand, my eye, my heart and mind.  a glorifying step.  

so, my first semi-abstract painting. 

i'm really proud of it.  it makes me think of how i can look backward at my life, or forward, or even around me in the moment, and everything is so obscure.  and then i ask for God's help to see - my purpose, my next step, the path behind me - and there's a tweak.  a turning of the lens.  lines become a little more crisp, the turmoil contained, muddied areas clarify - some beautiful godly perspective.  clarity.  never complete, but enough to understand a little better. 

i'm considering painting a series along this line.  calling it the 'not yet' series. 

our new church has many traditions - one of its many endearing qualities.  traditions like every child getting a little present the sunday before Christmas.  and a candle-lit Christmas eve service.  and the sunday after Christmas - a consolation and desolation service.  consolations are moments in our lives where we see God clearly, we experience the joy of knowing and trusting Him better, we celebrate, we taste the goodness. desolations are the opposite.  moments of pain and fear, moments of wandering and wondering.  as a church we took time to look back over our year, at our personal moments in both categories, and then the mic was passed around for people to share their stories if they'd like.  i didn't share.  i was on the stage, having led worship with scott, a mic at my fingertips but i didn't trust myself to speak.  i knew if i started sharing a torrent of tears would awaken.  

but i can share here.

my greatest moments of desolations this year were hugs.  goodbye hugs where friends shook with tears on my shoulder.  hugging my despairing daughter the first few weeks of school.  hugging myself as i wailed out my grief on our bottom stair.  

and my greatest moments of consolation?  also hugs.  hugs from new friends.  from perfect strangers.  hugs around casserole dishes filled with food for our arriving family.  an enormous group hug from our church the morning scott was commissioned.  hugs from my mother-in-law and father-in-law, welcoming us back to bc. and hugs from my children, bubbling over with stories of new friendships, or sleepy hugs of contentment.  

i was struck with another moment as i was thinking in church this morning.  a saturday morning a couple months ago.  scott was still sleeping and i snuck out of bed to have my journalling/prayer/coffee time.  i opened our bedroom door quietly and slipped through.  my eyes caught sight of our oak floor jutting up against the wide white baseboard my dad installed, and the warm grey wall we had painted our first day in this home.  floor, baseboard, wall.  and i thought "beautiful".  and it struck me - i love our home.  this house that made me want to weep the first time i walked through it - a continual visual assault of dirt and ugly colours and needed projects and neglect.  so much work.  and that morning the lens shifted.  i saw my house a little clearer.  i saw that it was my home.  and as my childhood friend marilynne told me would happen - i love the house all the more for the sweat involved in changing it. 

so, friends and strangers, may this year ahead bring us all a wee bit more clarity.  may the "now" of God's comfort and compassion, His presence and unfailing love, supersede the "not yet" of our agonies and confusions.  God bless you.

how to make a healthy Janet.

all is calm.  all is bright.
the sky is grey, but the snow on the ground gives a beautiful glow to my home.  my empty home.  i just vacuumed so there are still those gratifying streaks in the carpet.  a basket of yarn sits on the couch.  my planter of succulents still thrives somehow by the window.  the wreath is up, the tree is lit.

i can not put into words how full i feel today, for the past number of weeks really.  this season of resting has been sheer gift.  it has given me the space to begin cultivating some amazing rhythms in my days.  i get the kids off to school and then i sit with my coffee (sugar-free dairy-free, but somehow still delicious thanks to soy cream and xylitol).  i journal.  two pages of whatever is running through my mind.  sometimes i start and think "there's nothing running through my mind" and then two pages later i have unearthed hopes and fears and longings and frustrations that i didn't know were there.  and because i do this almost every day, it's like a daily brain purge, heart purge, soul purge.  sometimes i write prayers, sometimes i write things i will never say out-loud - but the beauty of it is, because i've written it down, i don't need to!  i put down my journal and pick up my Bible or my prayer guide. it is incredible how often the psalm or scripture or the prayer for the day directly correlates with what i've just spewed out in my journal.  i mean, freaky incredible.  like the God of the universe whispered words in a man's ear thousands of years ago for me to read... today.

and He did!

i am wondering how i will keep this morning rhythm when i stop the resting and start the working.  i think, and i can't believe i'm writing this....i think i'll have to wake up early.  i honestly have " i think i can i think i can" looping through my mind at the moment.  waking up early is not my forte.  it's not even my pianissimo.  but there have already been a couple mornings where i've actually done it.  a number of saturdays where i have actually left scott in the warm cozy bed and transferred my sleepy self to the couch with the coffee and journal.

this, my friends, is nothing short of miracle.

but as i'm lying there, hearing the kids bustling downstairs for their saturday morning hour of television (is someone out there judging that?  really?!), contemplating whether to allow the sleepiness to pull me back under, i picture my journal, and the catharsis of writing.  i think of how much healthier i'll feel throughout the day having taken the time to sit with myself and God.  and, let's be honest, i think of coffee.  and i magically arise!

for the past number of weeks i have sat with my pen and fresh piece of paper and have asked "how do i feel?".  and i feel calm.  i feel grounded.  i feel health.  i feel intense gratitude.  i feel hope.  and Brene Brown* is teaching me to sit in that, to open up my heart and breath deeply the incredibly joy that surrounds me, to understand the vulnerability of such joy, and the desire to protectively squelch it with a "it can't last" thought.  i ignore fear and enjoy the moment.  i enjoy the two pages.

i enjoy the day.

so, we'll see what is to come.  i mean, truth is, the longing of my heart is that this season will lead me into a season of more of this season!!  and who wouldn't want that.  but i know that i'm called to more.  i'm called to help with the financial burden of living in North Vancouver.  i'm called to intentional relationships of mentoring and being mentored.  it's possible, quite possible, that i'm called to a bookclub.  i think i'm called to teach in some capacity.  and i'm most definitely called to gathering and encouraging and collaborating with the artists in our church.  what that all looks like?  Lord only knows. but thankfully, He actually does - know.

my list of essentials is this - no matter what comes next:  i need to daily spend time with God, i need to prioritize self-reflection, i need to exercise, i must continue to eat in a healthy manner, i must sabbath, i must be intrinsically involved in the lives of my children and husband, i must have time for deep friendship, and i must paint.  

i think that's my recipe for health. no measurements needed, just eye-ball it.


i pray for calm and bright to be your experience today.  that you would take time to look around and in, to practice reflection and gratitude, to recognize God's unyielding love and presence.  may this advent season lead us all to a new birth in our dirty stable lives.  amen.

*Brene Brown is the writer of "the Gifts of Imperfection" and "Daring Greatly".  She is a sociologist who has studied the areas of shame, vulnerability, and whole-hearted living.

invitation

Come out and see my current works, meet new friends and old, have some snacks and fill your heart up with some beauty.

OPENING RECEPTION 

Sunday, December 8th, 1-5pm

at Alexander Homes, 

6611 Royal Avenue in Horseshoe Bay