I am an artist.

Warning: This is the hippiest of things I've ever written on my blog!

I came back from Door County this weekend feeling refreshed and inspired.

When my friends and I were strolling down the main sidewalk through Ephraim, casually visiting little shops and galleries along the way, we came across an 1800s cottage that was a pottery studio. The man inside was the potter himself, soft-spoken and anxious to share with us about his process. After speaking with him a little further, I told him that I was an artist. Excitedly he asked what kind of art I produce. I then began to persuade him that maybe I wasn't really a true artist after all--I told him that I was a music teacher, that I don't really have a particular medium I usually work with, and that I don't really produce a lot of works.

But upon further reflection, I realize was so wrong. I am an artist.

As my friends sauntered through gallery after gallery, I became lost in a time warp of my own, staring at millimeters of brush strokes and bold colors, stopping at several pieces for long intervals of time. I was excited to see pieces where the painter decided not to color in a leaf, rather leave it transparent, cartoon-like. I was determined to find out what color was used underneath a painting to give it a particular warmth. I had no idea how with oil pastels one could get such fine lines and layers of texture.

I have always been an artist, ever since I was a young child. I was always drawing, painting, sculpting, creating something out of recycled materials--the list goes on. Even when I am with children now, I'm usually the one who's more excited to take out crayons and paper or sidewalk chalk.

In high school I became heavily involved in choir and singing opportunities, so naturally I decided to pursue music education for my major in college. Though as a senior trying decide my future, I struggled to choose between music and art. Since then, I've somehow allowed myself to believe that because of what I chose to pursue as a profession, that it nullified my lifelong identity as an artist. (Specifically, a visual artist).

An artist observes. Questions. Refines. Imagines. Reflects. Marvels. An artist is someone who doesn't lose their identity as an artist simply because we haven't produced anything and certainly not because we don’t produce works to make a living.
After seeing so many different works of art throughout Door County, I am reminded that I have every right to call myself an artist. For myself and others, don't let your resumé limit you. For some, it may be that you don't consider yourself a musician because you can't read music, or that you haven't had any kind of training. But do you observe? Do you question? Do you think about how a piece of music could be refined? Do you marvel at it?

Believe that you are an artist.

dusty house

These walls
are dressed in layers
like the earth
marking each millennia with a significant event
or trauma
smeared in each brush stroke
are memories of voices
of arguments, of roaring laughter

picture frames are crooked
and cobwebs stretch over less lively spaces

there are corners in this house that are rarely disturbed
because we have been too busy
caring for one another

Ready to be crucified?

I had a staggering thought the other day: am I ready to die a death like Jesus for the sake of defending the gospel, to acknowledge that he alone is God, and there is no other way to heaven--no matter the consequence?

We have comfortably been raised in America with the concept of Christianity as a "take it or leave it" religious option, as if it were a benign choice like giving your money away to a certain organization. No consequence if you choose one organization or the other. Sure, some may disagree, or even challenge the idea that it is excluding another, more important cause, but overall, it's your choice.

In reality, how many true followers of Jesus are there in America? Am I a true follower?

If someone held a gun to my head asking me to denounce my faith, to be honest, I wouldn't fear too much simply because of the kind of quick death that would come from a bullet. It may be painful for a moment, but it would soon pass.

But to die a death like Jesus and even some Christians past-a prolonged, wrenching, excruciating execution where even time feels like muscle fibers slowly tearing--where a second feels like a minute, and a minute becomes three hours--would I have the strength, the deep knowledge of my own conviction to be able to withstand such a horror?

This thought aroused in me such a piercing feeling of gratefulness that I live in this country and not in an area where my faith in Jesus Christ is reason for slaughter.

Jesus came into the world to save me--a continual sinner--so that I can have hope beyond a bullet to the head, beyond alienation and criticism from the world, beyond poverty and riches, beyond mediocrity and hopelessness. I We have been saved from a world that does not accept us into an everlasting family that has no end.

Dying year

I had just sat down to an opening paragraph of a new chapter when I noticed out of the corner of my eye something red falling just outside the window.

At this point in the year I typically love all of the familiar elements of a Minnesota autumn--the smell of drying leaves, the plethora of pumpkin spice-flavored products, and the reappearing of bright orange jack-o-lanterns on doorsteps.

I sometimes am even disappointed with a 70-degree forecast because it's too warm to wrap a billowy, woven scarf around my neck. I am inspired by the student "models" at the University of Minnesota West Bank "runway." Everywhere I see oversized sweaters hanging heavily atop a pair of twig-like legs, supported by tiny little boots. I wonder if anyone else notices the imbalance of proportions. Seems like a strong, fall wind could knock these models over like a big sack of flour.

The reality is that my summer has died, along with its memories and creations. Although it saddens me every year to see leaf upon leaf fall to the ground and the grass loses its pigment, this death brings comfort to me in several ways. I cannot say that 2016 was a great year. I do not feel proud necessarily of any remarkable traits I have strengthened, work I have completed, habits I have ceased, or relationships I have improved.

With winter coming, I can almost rejoice at the fact that whatever dissatisfaction I have with myself, I can let it die, along with the leaves, plants, grass, and flowers.

I can embrace the dying of summer--of mediocre living, of minimal participation, of self-serving activities, whatever it might be--and look forward to the newness of life that death allows. This is a time for reflecting, of preparation, of examining.

Let me not forget this motivating thought when it is ten degrees outside and all I want to do it walk outside barefoot in a sundress, wiping sweat from my brow.

An Autumn Haiku

leaves stain the pavement
but what they're really saying
is we were here first

Fresh cut grass in September

fresh cut grass smells different
in September
that bleak reality
when schedules resume
time slots are filled
and silence is noisy

fresh cut grass smells different
when your mind runs
instead of your legs

fresh cut grass smells different
as an interruption
rather than
a grace

Numb

Lately I have become numb to the gospel.

We have been in the season of Lent for almost forty days now and I can't say that I've reflected much on the very concept of my savior's precious and terrible journey to death.

Sadly, it is too easy for me to be mostly satisfied by the things of this world: Food. Family. Friends. A job. Money. Car. Activities. Fun. Good deeds. Fulfilling tasks. In fact, I am the worst example of a Christian you might find these days. I am a white female who grew up in an affluent part of America; facing true hardship is rare. The sad fact is, I have no need to trust God. I find my fulfillment in lots of different things. In fact, my life lately would look no different if I was an atheist.  And that's a hard thing to admit, but it's true.

American Christians, I believe, have difficulty in a completely different way than any other Christians on the planet. We are that man who, when Jesus told him to go and sell everything he had, he walked away sad. (Matthew 19:21-22)

Why would he walk away sad? Because it was the worldly things he put so much trust in and so much of his joy came from those things instead of simply being with Jesus and the joy he gives.

I admittedly am that man.

Oh how I long to walk closer with my savior, but alas, I flock to the things that are more attractive, more appealing, more tangible and right in front of me. Things that I can touch, see, smell, taste--these are the things that pull my attention and affection away from Christ.

I have become so unaware of his Spirit that is inside of me that I may as well be a zombie.

Oh, how my heart weeps for myself and others who do not realize that we have this precious, precious God who lives inside of us, waiting to have intimacy with us, to change us into godlike people who become doers of good and be completely filled with ever-increasing peace and joy.

Oh how I want to be changed from the inside out and stop living this grey-toned life.
Oh how I want my heart to be shocked back into a rhythm that beats "Thank you, Lord, you are my life, I give you all, there is nothing on this earth that can satisfy, for all I need is you!"

Oh how I want to discover once again the wonder of his face, the splendor of his majesty, the power of his grace, and the vastness of his love.

He gave his life so he could live in me.
How can I ever look to anything else to fill my soul?