I think there is a child in Brooklyn that is waiting to teach me how to blow bubbles and to make it art and to point others to Jesus through art, bubbles and a giant yellow school bus. Did I mention that I do not like big yellow school buses. Kinda like I do not like green eggs and ham. Not at all. Not any way. Not here or there or anywhere. But the Great Art Bus Adventure goes on. I know a tree grows in Brooklyn but so does a boy who blows bubbles reallly really well and needs Jesus. wishing grace…..wynnegraceappears for Brooklyn and soon in Brooklyn from Brooklyn.
Category: Grace
Eyes Wide Open- Living A Good Story
I am going over to Prodigal Magazine to link up with a writing project entitled “What Does It Mean To Live A Good Story”? But I am not ready to write this piece. Not quite yet. Honestly, its a bit scary.
So this is where I get brave and think with my fingers. This is where I process and ponder and ask for His grace to be authentic and brave. And real. And encouraging.
And this is the one where I say that isn’t the most important part of living a good story being awake, fully alive, real and honest.
Isn’t being eyes wide open a really good place to start. Being present and aware and connected to all of those things around us, around me, anchors the heart in the lines and paragraphs, in each and every word even, of our good story.
If I fall asleep on the pages or doze off mid-sentence, then I am sadly not present.
There are the parts that are dog-eared. You know the ones that are marked with brilliant yellow highlighter and turned down page because they are special. We want to go back there and stay.
But what about the parts which are riddled with conflict, or pain, or sadness. What about the chapters that are just plain difficult to live once, much less re-live a second time.
Oh but these are the part where the main character is afraid, very afraid. This is where fear and doubt creep in. And she tries hard to be brave. These are the parts of the story where we hide our eyes and look away. We hold our breath and glance away or get out the kleenex.
These are the parts where the husband leaves for a season, and she doesn’t know when and if he’ll return to the home. And with the brave and the pain come healing and change. And transformation grows out of the dark, wet soil, stained with tears.
The important parts hold uncertainy. The critical life-altering chapters bear a fork-in-the-road, a turn or a twist in the life direction.
This is the part of the story where the main charachter digs down deep, cries out for God and is shaped and molded, held and loved and loved and loved some more.
Every good story has Hope and a longing after love in the center. A good story has suspense and uncertainy of the outcome.
There are parts where the heart longs so deeply after the love of another. But waiting is often the most important part. Without waiting and preparing we would miss so much. The waiting through, the working through, the being shaped in the middle, this IS the story. This is at the heart of the good story. This is the part we sink our teeth into, it the substance. We savor the sweet and the bitter of the tears and the joy. We taste it all and it is good.
With out waiting and wondering and Hoping there would be a beginning and an end, but what about the messy middle. Oh, these are the parts where the story gets good. These are the meaty parts with heart and soul and courage. This is where we linger. This is where we live. This is where change happens. This is the formative part of the story for our main character.
I know an important chapter of a very good story where a mother waited and waited for a baby to love. To join a little family that had love to wrap around another. A good story ripens and with the ripening and preparation for birthing the story, the characters are shaped in unimaginable ways.
Our life stories look so different when we glance back and study them from where we are TODAY. But the only way to live, is to go forward. To live forward. One day at a time. To go forward with honesty. Go forward with authenticity. Go forward through the closed door, the brick wall, the muck and the mire with boldness and faith. And a very brave heart. Open for all that He has for us.
We often would not write nor script what we have lived. But embracing each word, line, verse and chapter as learning and as our own, makes our story a good one. Because it is ours. Because it is good since it is ours.
Every good story has an ending. I don’t know one that doesn’t end whether I am ready for the ending or not.
That is why the messy in the middle, the meat of the center, the rarest, rawest parts are so important. They are the good story. They are the good parts.
This is where the bruising comes, the banged up knee and the bloody noses of life. This is where the bankruptcy is declared, and infertility deals uncertainty, and kids change schools, and parents get sick, and friends face tragedy, and loved ones are lost. And you know all this. You have your story too.
But a good story well lived takes all the pages between two covers and braced by one spine, and seeks to wrap it all in Grace and all in a thankful heart.
And say this is mine. This is my story. And tomorrow will bring joy and surprise and a chance to do a bit of editing and changing of decisions and perspective.
I am not quiet ready to write my piece for Prodigal Magazine. But I am close. And I am getting braver. And I am preparing with eyes wide open. But for today,I have a story to go live. And for that I am very grateful.
How about you. You can tell your story too. You can go over there or you can leave me a comment about living a good story.
Thank you for your Grace, here, today.
wishing you His Grace….
wynnegraceappears
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The Great Art Bus Adventure
Easter is a time of beginnings.
This story starts at Easter.
It starts amid the Peeps, all neon and squishy, and amid the big hats and the big deep belly laughs of community.
There were baskets with artificial turf and dyed boiled eggs displayed with traditional love and care. Boats bobbling on the water, pitching and diving while tied safely to the dock. Boats filled withhappy stationery passengers on board because the seas were mean that day, not welcoming that day. But it didn’t matter. It never matters when you have each other.
We just wanted to talk. And tell our stories. And dig down into the inner parts of each other to hear the stories. And to soak in Easter rays aimed right at our faces, traveling from the Heavens to warm us up and toast our souls.
I met Margaret right smack in the middle of Easter. Seeds were planted. She would leave for Uganda the next morning early. But for the moment she was anchored by that smile of hers to Southern soil. And tethered to me by a passion for much that reaches out in that Alabama way and lights on your soul like a Monarch mid-flight.
She had a story to tell. I listened. God planted Easter seeds as we wrapped the words in conversation under a black night sky right beside a lapping Jeremy Creek.
Uganda called her to come see, serve, and invited her to bring her contagious smile with her. Passion could come along too.
I had my family, school days, Prom nights, my writing, and my dailiness as a momma and wife to live out.
A Southern Springtime blossomed and gave birth to the verge of summer and email arrives.
We don’t know what that next thing is.
We can’t know what He has for us in the day after and the day after thats.
When the in-box invites and its your daughter not you. You are filled with excitement and possibility.
There was a donor, there is a bus, there is a ministry. Can she come along on the road trip with us.
New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Raleigh, and then home is the route this key piece of an art ministry must take. A big yellow school bus needs to come home to Charleston where she will serve and be used in an outreach for the arts. With Christ squarely in the middle.
So like all good stories that have a beginning, middle and ending this is the middle.
Because after en email came a conversation followed by a phone call. And an invitation comes. And I am invited. I would write of the journey. I would write of the adventure. Of the right after the beginning of this story, because much has proceeded the story to this point. There has been dreaming and planning and praying. There has been vision and passion and hearts have donated.
So my middle is this part. This should I go along and re-route my life plan.
And do I take a daughter along who at 16 is caught in a place of indecision. She has my disease. It is contagious. This when you need to think about it seeps all in your cracks and crevices.
And I too have known this far too many times.
But I want to be bold and brave and obedient.
And what post 50 year old housewife and mother who by choice stays home with her kids, with joy, doesn’t want to hop on a plane then hop on a bus and go to Brooklyn to blow bubbles in the park.
What lover of words doesn’t want to write a blog about an adventure down the Eatern Seaboard to deliver the one with the staring role in a new ministry, Big Yellow School Bus.
There will be a videographer and Margaret, sweet Margaret. And there will be a sister. And there may be my child. And there may be me.
So this is my Big Art Bus Adventure story, stuck right in the middle. This is a story with possibility, suspense and daring. The birth of a new ministry calls for celebration, like that of a new born child. One where people come, and Art plays her part, and stories are told. Where paint and color shout joy and creativity. And point to The Creator and all that is beautiful and intricate in His world. All that is visual and designed in beauty and in love for us.
My world is little black words on blank white pages. Oh, but these painters and artists who tell their stories with color and a medium which capture the orbs behind the lids, the windows to the soul and cause the eyes of the soul to see the world anew—these artists have a gift that wows, and stimulates the senses with technicolor love.
It is bold, it is bright, it is love. And in creating they point to The Artist of all of Creation, with celebration, and praise, and a telling of the story.
So I am in the middle of a story and it is a really good place to be. Because there is an ending to be written and there is more of a story to be told. And there is a God who delights in His children.
I may in fact need to not go. I may go. I may go with my child. My child may go without me.
I am turning the page and trusting what my part in this Big Adventue will be.
No matter how it ends, I am glad that I met Margaret, and that I can connect with her Art Ministry and ride the coattails of her passion for Jesus, for Art, and for People.
Not the end.
I am joining Jennifer today over at her beautiful blog Getting Down With Jesus (you will understand her blog name when you go here).
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Five Things A Recent Glamping Trip Taught Me About Life
On a recent Glamping trip with The Patient One, the kiddos, and close friends, I learned a lot about life, the gospel, and of course some truths about Glamping.
1. Glamping requires a return to simplicity.
Our glamping vehicle was lovingly named the tinaminium (spell check does not recognize this as a word). It was a rented camper that provided many creature comforts (therefore the loose refence to the “minium” in the term of endearment, tinaminium. Condo’s bring some form of luxury to mind. I digress. What’s new.
Life lived under the brilliant stars and the ebony black sky is exhilarating. The air feels cleaner, the stars are brighter, and many of life’s accoutrements are left at home. This is by design, in order to do life differently, and due to a lack of space. They are somehow not missed at all. (well accept for the long hot showers and the strong internet signal). We packed high thread count sheets and white linen table cloths and our ipads. That’s why its called Glamping sillies.
2. It is important to love your neighbor as yourself, while at your glampsite. (spell check doesn’t know this word either.)
This means don’t run your generator when others are sleeping because it is loud and bothersome. It is important to be a good neighbor because you are parked very close to your neighbor, therefore any of the fruits of the spirit which you didn’t leave at home should be used in dealing with communicating with others.
For example, if your neighbor’s campsite is in close proximity to the door of your home-on-wheels and the smoke is wafting into your tiniminium, causing you to be engulfed
in smoke slightly inconvenienced, its best to be a good neighbor by moving your vehicle out of the smoke’s way. It is much simpler and kinder than asking them to a. move their camp fire b. extinguish their campfire c. use different firewood that doesn’t smoke up the entire neighborhood.
3.Glampsites are a breeding ground for good story-telling and honing your listening skills.
Writers love stories, and I love writing, therefore, I love stories. I love listening to them, digesting them, processing them, and writing them. That must be why I love glamping so much. Because they are a breeding ground for story. Wait that may have been a leap, or I may have loosely connected the dots there on point 3.
Time stood still, as Time does when you are engrossed in a good story, so I don’t know how long I listened to a new “friend”, my glampsite neighbor tell me an amazing story of his life. He is a writer and I am a writer so naturally we talked for a very long time. And I will be writing more of his story here on these pages after I have asked his permission to re-tell. It is his story not mine, so I’d like to request permission before pressing publish here on the blog.
What I can tell you, is it was rich and deep and heartbreaking. I can tell you that his story is filled with redemption, hope, and C.S. Lewis’ “Mere Christianity.” I can tell you that the strength and perserverance that it took to live through his pain, heal from his pain, and ultimately choose to share his story, well they inspire. And they are a beautiful story of forgiveness, healing, and love.
(I did not expect this story to come sit in my lap and pierce my heart while Glamping. Did I mention that I was surprised often while on this Glamping trip.)
And I can tell you if I hadn’t gone Glamping, I wouldn’t have met my new “friend”. He called out to me and asked me to sit and talk to him while he breaded shrimp for the fryer. He said “I am a little OCD about this process.” That is why we had an inordinate amount of time together, talking and listening over three pounds of shrimp being breaded. It was time very well-spent.
I also sat and chatted with a neighbor from home and learned that she had lost both of her parents this past year. I have known her for 17 years, we live in the same small town, we have children the same age and I didn’t know that her mother and father had both died this year.
Her story caused me to stare into her eyes and listen with all I have. There is more to her story than I can share until I ask, but losing parents in one condensed time frame has to be deeply painful. She and I have made plans to go paddle boarding together. I have another “new” friend because of glamping.
4. Glamping creates the need to be dependent on one another for “survival.”
We dragged a lot of stuff with us, but we still didn’t prepare well enough. Our friends, not the ones in the glamper with us but the ones in a tent down the way, prepared better than we did in the food (protein) department. Because they are kind, generous, and really good cooks, gifted really in the culinary arts, we ate like Kings and Queens. We “lived” off of their grill and their kindness. Well, I can’t speak for anyone else. I did. And food tastes better when its prepared on a new $700 grill which is transported out to a glampsite for the weekend. And food tastes better when it is eaten out-of- doors in the cool fresh air. In fact, a lot of things are better out-of-doors on a plantation in the middle of nowhere. We know it was nowhere because the GPS couldn’t find it.
5. Friendship is better in close quarters (and friendships grow deep roots in the dark)
When Glamping, your generator must be turned on in order to have light. Well sometimes its just best to preserve your power and sit in the dark. Especially when it is late at night, and music from the music festival is serenading you on a Saturday night, on a quail hunting plantation, on a cool May night, in your tinaminium with a really close friend. Actually, your super-glue friend, your accountability partner and your sister-in-Christ. The dark can be good for sharing life, your heart, and having good momma time.
The dark of night can breed intimacy in friendship. And living in very close quarters could test the best of friendships. But this one survived and may have been made stronger. Many of our friends have walk in closets bigger than this space the four of us shared for a weekend.
Because we like to laugh, we imagined that Jesus could have written a parable teaching us how to treat others in a glamping campsite. We studied the parables in our Bible Study this fall, so they were still front and center in our frontal lobe parts. We had a stranger come to our door during that dark of night, generator off, talking heart to heart time. He scared us. We think we missed an opportunity to be kinder and gentler to him than we were. Did I mentioned he scared us? He had the wrong door, its like the wrong number when you call someone. He was looking for friends. They were staying in the tinaminium next door. Did I mention he scared us.( Well startled would be more accurate.) We pointed him in the right direction. But we didn’t offer him a meal or a kind word. And we weren’t particularly good neighbors. We felt like those in the parable of the Good Samaraitan who passed by the guy laying in the ditch. You know, the ones who didn’t help. Well we pointed him in the right direction. He just had the wrong camper.
Maybe we’ll get a second chance to “do unto others” on our next Glamping trip. Maybe we’ll get a do-over in the do-unto others department. We can only hope.
And there will be another. Even though the showers are short and sweet, and the creature comforts are few and far between, even with a loud generator.
Who doesn’t love the chance to hear stories under the blue sky days out in the middle of a field. And to live more simply.
There is much to learn out under the stars, and clouds, huddled by your camper with friends and family.
I wish I hadn’t stopped with five things I learned, though you may be.
wishing His grace….
elizabeth w. marshall 