Tag: Scraping Raisins

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The Creator’s Psalm {guest post}

By Carlene Byron | Blog

 

The Lord is my favorite artist;
I shall never cease to be amazed.


He surrounds me with beauty and splendor,
With treasures of intricate mystery and ineffable intent.


He leads me into opportunities beyond imagining.
He guides my hands as I create.

He gives wisdom to know the false from the true,
To discern the Spirit from the muse,

To shape what is pure and good and right and holy.
He has filled His world with riches beyond knowledge,

Created in every form to serve every being,
And like ripe fruit, I pluck what I need.

His creativity knows no end,
And I will rejoice in Him and His works forever.

About Carlene:

The former editor of New England Church Life and The New England Christian, Carlene Hill Byron is enjoying being home in Maine after 20 years in North Carolina. She is a professional fundraiser supporting adults with disabilities and is a member of the Redbud Writers Guild. Find her at Pocket Purpose Blog , The Church and Mental Illness, and on Facebook.

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

We are giving away two of Abigail Carroll’s books of poetry: Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017). You can read her post here.

TWO WAYS TO ENTER

1. Sign up for my newsletter below AND/OR

2. Tag up to four friends on either my Instagram or Facebook posts about this blog post and I’ll enter YOU (not your friend) once per friend you tag! Contest ends Wednesday, July 4th, at midnight (MT)*Only U.S. residents, please! And no bots;-)

 

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This is the final post in our series on the theme “Create.” Our next theme is “Hospitality Around the World.” Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting! Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio! 🙂

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

*All images are the property of Carlene Byron and are used with permission.

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How We Wait: A Poet’s Spiritual Practice {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY

By Abigail Carroll | Website

This year, my church celebrated Lent in an unconventional way: we created art together. Specifically, we snapped black-and-white photographs designed to capture the theme of waiting.

Everyone was invited to submit their best six photos, and a skilled artist in the congregation assembled them into what we called a photography quilt, which we displayed during the Palm Sunday service.

As a member of the Arts Team, I had helped come up with the idea, but I harbored concerns that we would find a sufficient variety of examples when it came to visually depicting waiting—would we all end up photographing the same six things? I also wondered about the spiritual value of the project: would it merely offer a feel-good community experience, or would the church grow spiritually? Would I grow spiritually?

To my astonishment, I hardly had to search for waiting: it found me.

Shortly after we launched this arts initiative, I found myself in that iconic space of involuntary tarrying: a hospital waiting room. A woman at my church with no family in the area had asked me to pick her up following minor surgery. I arrived at the hour she was scheduled for release, but the surgery had been delayed, took longer than expected, and required more recovery time than usual.

Because I had anticipated a simple pick-up, I had neglected to pack reading material or my laptop, so I spent what amounted to about eight hours flipping through magazines, wandering hospital lobbies, and listening to the conversations of others who were also waiting. I found myself moved to pray for many.

As I snapped a photo of the sign, Bernice and Milton Stern Surgical Waiting Area, I realized that what I was waiting for was more than my friend to emerge from the surgical ward in a wheelchair escorted by a nurse: I was waiting—with a deep sense of yearning—for the time when surgery will be obsolete, when, as John the Revelator puts it, “there will be no more death or mourning and crying or pain” (Revelations 21:4). I was waiting for the old order of things to pass away and the new order of things to be ushered in.

The second photograph I snapped was not in a hospital, but in my home.

My spirit had been feeling lifeless for some time, and I had been struggling to experience refreshment in prayer. One day when I was simply out of words to pray, I decided to take ten minutes with God in quiet with no attempt to use (or even think) words.

I installed myself in the rocker at my bedroom window overlooking a neighboring farm, and I gazed out over the white, snowy pastures. Something happened during those ten minutes that I can’t quite name. When I rose from my chair, I sensed that God’s presence had been with me, and my soul felt as though it had taken a deep, long breath. Once again, the theme of waiting had found me, so I photographed the chair next to the window, bathed in winter light.

A third image of waiting presented itself while I was on a walk, but not just any walk.

I had learned that dear friends whom I considered practically family would be moving away. I was devastated. All morning, the sky had been spitting snow, and my heart was feeling as bleak as the damp day, which, though it was April in Vermont, yielded no sign of spring. That is, until I stumbled on a pile of brush on the side of the road sporting small velvety buds. It was pussy willow branches that had been clipped, but were blossoming just the same. I gathered some of the clippings and snapped a photo, and as I did, I realized the picture was less about the willow clippings, than of my clipped soul, which felt utterly dormant and cut off, but which I knew would bud again, even if I couldn’t yet see the life.

We are all waiting for something—a call, news about a job, a broken bone to heal, vacation, the coffee to percolate, spring. Waiting is inherent to the human condition. What I realized, as I participated in our Lenten arts project, however, is that just as the poetry of everyday life resonates with eternal truths, every instance of our day-to-day waiting bears the imprint of a larger waiting.

Just as the poetry of everyday life resonates with eternal truths, every instance of our day-to-day waiting bears the imprint of a larger waiting. @ACarrollPoet

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In his letter to the Romans, Paul says, “[We] groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies” (Romans 8:23). This is the ultimate waiting to which all our other waiting points.

On Palm Sunday, when the photography quilt hung before the congregation, we beheld a portrait of our individual waiting, but also of our collective hope—a hope in the gospel’s promise that one day all which is broken will be restored.

I like to think that the act of snapping each photograph helped pique our hunger for a world gloriously renewed. At the very least, it piqued mine. I have come to recognize the experience of longing in my daily life as an opportunity to remember the One for whom I long, who has pledged to renew all things. As for pussy willows and waiting rooms, I don’t think I’ll ever look at them in quite the same way again.

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BOOK GIVEAWAY!

We are giving away two of Abigail’s books of poetry: Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017).

TWO WAYS TO ENTER

1. Sign up for my newsletter below AND/OR

2. Tag up to four friends on either my Instagram or Facebook posts about this blog post and I’ll enter YOU (not your friend) once per friend you tag! Contest ends Wednesday, July 4th, at midnight (MT)*Only U.S. residents, please! And no bots;-)

 

About Abigail:

Abigail Carroll is author of two books of poetry, Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017). Her first book, Three Squares: The Invention of the American Meal (Basic Books 2013), was a finalist for the Zocalo Book Award. She serves as pastor of arts and spiritual formation at Church at the Well in Burlington, Vermont. You can find her online at www.abigail-carroll.com and follow her on Twitter at @ACarrollPoet.

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links

**All images except the first one are the property of Abigail Carroll and are used with permission.

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I Am a Maker {guest post}

By Debby Hudson | Twitter: @debby_hudson

I don’t like fitting rooms. Some places try to look a little fancier than the slate-gray-institutional-look cubicles at Target. At White House Black Market, heavy curtains hang between you and the salesperson. Victoria’s Secret has solid black doors helping you feel more private trying on things you know weren’t made for your body.

What I really don’t like is arming myself with various sizes, because who knows how the new cut of jeans will fit this time. (That’s code for how much weight have I really gained.) The whole experience leaves me feeling like I’m the one who doesn’t fit.

But, we have to wear clothes (thank you Adam and Eve … I mean, really, thank you!) and the perfect fit jeans you bought at the Gap last year have been discontinued. And it’s back to the fitting room.

I’ve been trying some different things on the past few years. I saw a few things I thought would fit. I tried writing. I joined a few groups, took a course or two and started learning the language. I worked up the courage to submit to a few sites and got rejections and acceptances, both of which made me feel like a “writer.” But the fit wasn’t one I was going to wear long term.

Next I tried on photography. Again, I took a few classes, joined a group or two and shot, deleted, shot, deleted. I grew my following on Instagram and sold a handful of photos through Shutterstock. This fit is closer to being true. Perhaps because it’s coming more natural to me. It’s helping me discover more about the creative part of me. Casual and fancy are both good fits with this lens.

I have always been a maker. You might even say it’s in my DNA coming from a line of makers.

My paternal granny made tiny Barbie dresses with crocheted purses for them. I was the delighted recipient of her skills.

Mama tried her hand at ceramics, tole painting, sewing, knitting and a few more things along the way. She was my biggest encourager nudging me to go further with my art.

In her family the women are particularly creative with sewing, decorating, painting and even upholstery. Yes, we are makers. Our hands need to be busy with needle and thread or brushes and paint. It’s an ingrained part of who we are.

When our children started school I took some of the things I made to local shops to sell. Some were sold on consignment and others bought outright at a margin allowing them to make their profit.

I learned what did and didn’t fit for me:

Making = a good fit

Selling = never the right size

Times have changed. Craft shows that were plentiful at the time have shrunk in size and variety. Places like Hobby Lobby sell items that can be sold at low cost.

The opposite is true of sewing. Why spend the money on fabric and the time involved when you can buy the dress cheaper at Target?

For some of us, it’s not the cost of supplies but that zen moment we get in the making.

I’ve dipped my toes in selling again. The internet makes it easier. It’s like a fancy changing room where you can hide behind the sleek black door while someone you’ll never see scrutinizes your work.

While friends have been encouraging me to sell, it’s still not easy. Increased quality of phone cameras has made everyone a photographer. Who needs to buy someone else’s work?

Even though the internet seems to have made it simple for an artist to sell their work the result is a saturated market. How does anyone get their work seen? Now we have to be makers, salespeople and marketers.

Seduced by the ease of uploading photographs, I submitted a few to Shutterstock. They were accepted and after a few weeks I had my first sale. Twenty-five cents! Reality and humility often go hand in hand.

We are facing a big change in our life next year. We are retiring and I already have visions for the Florida room in our retirement home. My mind’s eye pictures shelves in one corner holding a variety of props for my still life photography. Windows on three sides will bathe the room in light for painting and shooting stills. Perhaps an area in front of the white-painted brick fireplace to set up a revolving vignette. I envision the serenity that comes with creating, even in creating the space itself.

Maybe this new place and new chapter will lead toward more risks. Maybe I’ll try on new things in the fitting room that’s called retirement. Maybe I’ll become friends with that fitting room.

Today there are a lot of maybes. What is certain is that I’m a maker as much as I’m a wife, mama, MeMe, sister and friend. While I’m creating images on the screen and paintings in my tablets, I most want to make a place for peace in grace.

*All but title image are by Debby and are used by permission!

About Debby:

My husband and I partner in ministry as ordained ministers in The Salvation Army. We’ve been involved with the recovery community for 14 years and are Administrators of a six-month residential program for men. Through our work in this area, we see hope shared on a daily basis. We are witnesses to God’s amazing grace. When I’m not being a surrogate mom to these men, I enjoy many artistic endeavors and share a lot of them on my Facebook page. Come find me on Twitter at  @debby_hudson and Facebook at @debbyhudsoncreative. Check out Debby’s photography here and here.

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

I Am a Maker. "For some of us, it’s not the cost of supplies but that zen moment we get in the making." #creativity #making #creatives #artists #art #photography #artistsreflections

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Keep Showing Up {guest post}

By Marvia Davidson | Instagram

You will find by doing. Doing brings revelation and clarity. In the discovery of gifts, I have found it to be challenging to own the place of my full purpose as a creative spirit. You see, I don’t simply do one thing in my creative practices. I engage in many creative things, but I’ve learned to give myself grace to play, grow, and discover what art forms I enjoy.

When I think of the discovery of gifts, I think of exploration and permission.

Maybe these aren’t always easy for us to give ourselves, but they are a much needed part of the process of finding our creative voice, and it enhances the gifts we bring. Sometimes those insights lead to deeper revelation of who we are and what we’re here for, and they can be surprising too.

I find more of my creative voice by showing up and doing the work of discovery – the practice of trying out ideas and techniques. I do this most frequently in writing because I’ve enjoyed writing and sharing ideas for many years.

When it came to any kind of art, I didn’t think I could do it. It looked hard, tedious, and nearly impossible. I doubted I would be able to draw, to create, or paint. I’ll tell you a secret to overcoming my self doubt, and it may sound odd, but social media has been an underestimated source of creative, guiding inspiration for me. I don’t mean to sound woo.

I mean that an app like Instagram has become a mini art school for me, a way to see how art is expressed in myriad forms. It has become an abundant place to learn, search, explore, and share my art, Yes! I said my art because I now call myself and artist. It is art I did not know I could do, but finding other creatives on Instagram has been encouraging for me. I have witnessed people growing in their process, and the more they share the more I find possibility beating in my own heart.

I enjoy making mixed media art and hand lettering, specifically brush lettering. These two art forms were daunting to me because I would peruse specialized magazines, books, or websites of perfectly styled and photographed pieces, but Instagram is full of people who share their behind the scenes process and how they do what they do despite their imperfections.

All of a sudden, I wasn’t afraid to experiment with these new gifts. Along the way, I realized these two art forms could serve as a way for me to express my purpose, values, and desire to see people encouraged through the tough circumstances of life. I also learned to accept I am an artist in my own unique way, and it is okay for me to walk out what it means to be one.

Because my art practices require time and patience, they have been a wonderful way for me to fight back against imposter syndrome and self doubt.

The discovery of color, painting, and pens gliding across blank paper encouraged me to develop my skills, and I’ve been having fun ever since. I wanted sustainable practices which could also serve as a soul care practice, and they are. Like quilting, I find the process of painting and hand lettering to be therapeutic and meditative. In a way, they allow me to infuse my work with focused attention to the message I want to convey.

I believe when we accept the nuances of who we truly are, we become more ourselves and we learn to live abundantly. We learn to give ourselves and one another room to be. We find there is room for us at the table, and the only thing that might be holding us back is our own limiting belief.

Engaging fellow artisans reminds me how much community can matter when we’re trying something new. Sharing our struggles, mistakes, and failures gives us room to refine our creative voices and the processes we use. When I see another artist sharing this way, it empowers me to take more bold steps in my own art because I know that discovery comes through the process of doing.

The more I do the artsy things, the more I am settled in who I am and the creative expression of the Divine in me. The challenge no longer keeps me from growing. I choose to show up. Every time I do, I let loose and play, allowing my heart, mind, and body to express with colors and words on canvas or page.

I choose to invest in myself and the materials I need to express my creative soul. This is an act of self love. To give one’s self grace to discover one’s gifts, is to love one’s self well, and I believe this opens a door for us to learn to love others well too.

To give one’s self grace to discover one’s gifts, is to love one’s self well, and I believe this opens a door for us to learn to love others well too. @MarviaDavidson

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I encourage you to pause and reflect on those creative inklings tumbling around your heart, and follow the curiosity of their unfolding beauty.

About Marvia:

Marvia is a Texas writer/creative soul who enjoys writing, making art, laughing loudly, baking, dancing ridiculously because it’s fun, and smashing lies that keep people from living whole. Join her at marviadavidson.com. You can also follow her on Twitter and Instagram @MarviaDavidson and on Facebook at facebook.com/marviawrites.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. The theme for July is “Hospitality Around the World.” And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

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Pray for the Queen Esthers in the White House

Immigration is a complicated issue, but Trump’s Zero Tolerance Policy of criminalizing those seeking asylum in our country and separating mothers from their babies plunges beneath the baseline of what constitutes as a basic human right.

Children belong with their families.

Using kids to teach a lesson, or as a “deterrent” to immigrating illegally is inhumane, base and immoral.

Two months ago, on April 19th, border patrol began enforcing a Zero Tolerance policy that criminalized seeking asylum in the United States, meaning that parents were arrested and over 2,000 children were sent to stay without their loved ones in detention facilities.

I’m not writing this to convince anyone that Trump’s policy is a vile aggression on humanity. If you need to be convinced of that, then read this, look at these pictures, or listen to this.

I’m writing because this is all I can do from the safety of my kitchen table as my own three children watch Sesame Street in the room next to me. I feel helpless and paralyzed.

But not hopeless.

Because I believe there are Esthers in the White House. The Bible tells the story of a Jewish woman named Esther who was strategically placed in a position of power in order to speak truth at a time when her people were in danger. Her guardian encouraged her with the famous line that perhaps she was put in power “for such a time as this” (Esther 4:14).

I’m praying for those in the White House with a heart to begin listening to it.

I’m praying compassion would flood the floors of Congress and saturate every Congress member with grief, lament and renewed resolve to fight injustice.

And if not an Esther, perhaps a Daniel or Joseph? Daniel was chosen to serve the king when his people were in exile. He could have been belligerent, but used his power for the good of his people. In another book of the Bible, Joseph gains favor with the king, who takes him out of prison and positions him in leadership so he ends up helping many people (Gen. 50:20).

So along with donating to an organization raising money to reunite families, calling my representatives and writing letters (I used Resistbot for the first time today!), finding out about the protests in my area, and spreading the word as much as I can about this atrocity, I am also praying for the Esthers in the White House.

Join me in praying for these female Republican Senators (most of the Democrats are already on board with the proposed legislation, called the Keep Families Together Act):

Joni Erst (Iowa), Susan Collins (Maine), Cindy Hyde-Smith (Mississippi), Deb Fischer (Nebraska), Shelley Moore Capito (West Virginia), Lisa Murkowski (Alaska)

And for These Female Republican House Reps:

Martha Roby (Alabama), Martha McSally (Arizona), Debbie Lesko (Arizona), Mimi Walters (California), Ileana Ros-Lehtinen (Florida), Karen Handel (Georgia), Jackie Walorski (Indiana), Susan Brooks (Indiana), Lynn Jenkins (Kansas), Ann Wagner (Missouri), Vicky Hartzler (Missouri), Elise Stefanik (New York), Claudia Tenney (New York), Virginia Foxx (North Carolina), Kristi Noem (S. Dakota), Diane Black (Tennessee), Marsha Blackburn (Tennessee), Kay Granger (Texas), Mia Love (Utah), Barbara Comstock (Virginia), Jaime Herrera Beutler (Washington), Kathy McMorris Rodgers (Washington), Liz Cheney (Wyoming)

Jesus, move these women to use their influence for the good of all human beings, not just United States citizens. If they are mothers, I pray they would ache with the ache only a mother can know. I pray that ache would translate to action.

Amen.

More Resources & Action Points:

In addition to calling your representatives in Congress (and especially those who are Republicans) or sending them letters, you can call these numbers:

White House comment line: 202-456-1111

Department of Justice public comment line: 202-353-1555

The Department of Homeland Security which has oversight of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE); their comment line is 202-282-8495

If you need a script, this is what I’ve been using for my letters and phone calls:

Dear _____________,

I appreciate all you are doing for our state and country, but as a citizen I am very concerned about President Trump’s Zero Tolerance Policy concerning immigrants being separated from their own children at the border. This policy is cruel, dehumanizing, and un-American. Would you please do all you can to preserve the humanity and dignity of every person and fight against this policy and support Senator Feinstein’s Keep Families Together Act? I am a mother myself and I cannot fathom the torture of having my children torn from my arms. I used to be proud to be an American, now I simply feel ashamed. Thank you for reading this and I pray you use your influence and power for good.

Sincerely,

Leslie Verner

This article has tons of other organizations that are mobilizing to help these families.

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

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Why I Paint African Faces {guest post}

By Beth Watkins | Twitter: @iambethwatkins

I’ve always been a maker. I can’t help myself. I’m an extremely tactile person. I love doing things with my hands and if I see something I think I could make myself, I absolutely want to teach myself how to do it.

I sold homemade jewelry on the playground in 4th grade, and again in high school. I carried around no less than 4 notebooks and 50 pens from the 5th to the 10th grade – always on the ready to doodle, draw, and write about my feelings in full color. I got my first set of real paints when I was 11, set up my studio in the basement, and read books about impressionism before bed. I won my first award for a painting when I was 12 and sold my first acrylic painting when I was 16. I was always collecting supplies, making things out of what I could find, and went through a really intense phase of dyeing, appliqueing, and painting on my clothes.

I thought I would apply to art school, but then decided God wanted me in Africa instead. I took my acrylic paints with me but turns out when you live in a desert the paint dries a lot faster and I couldn’t work with it the same way. So I made jewelry with beads and electric wire. I took bottle caps and wire and sat with street boys and we made cars, snakes, and rickshaw sculptures. When I went home I’d draw pictures of these boys, of my desert home, crosshatching their faces, the mosques, the ladies in their colorful tobes.

A few years later I sat with former street girls at a center in South Sudan and we made bead looms out of cardboard and they learned to weave necklaces and bracelets, attaching them to closures made from inner tube. They loved it.

We’d sit for hours and hours, wondering where the time went – marveling at how quiet the center was now that hands were occupied and fights broke out less. The older girls would teach the younger ones, and we sold their wares. By doing so the girls stopped selling their bodies. They made their own intricate designs, invented their own techniques, and went from students to teachers.

Again, in the evenings, I’d sketch their faces as I wrote their stories in my journal, not sure how so much beauty and so much pain could coincide together.

I’m back in the US now – taking my making with me. I’ve learned to make shoes, how to can tomatoes and pickles (the composing of a delicious meal being as much creation as a painting – just one that nourishes us in different ways) and make standing planters and raised garden beds out of burlap sacks, scrap bricks, and anything else I can find.

I’m still painting portraits – our house is filled with colorful paintings of African faces. Faces of people I’ve known, loved, and had to leave. As I paint them I remember, I pray. They are tributes in a way. Marks of seasons now over. They fade into the background now, more or less, but sometimes I stop and I remember. Faces of people I love, marking dreams lost, grief, the changing of things with time.

My husband and I were apart the last three months of our engagement. He was still in South Sudan and I was in the US getting counseling and planning our wedding. I painted a 3’x3’ portrait of our faces from a picture taken the night we got engaged. I was worried for him, still in a tumultuous place, a country at war. I couldn’t hug him, touch him, see in his eyes if he was ok or not, so I painted him. I got to scrutinize each hair, each freckle, the curve of his smile and render it with my own hand. It was deeply meaningful to paint, forming his face on a canvas when he was so far away.

I make out of practicality sometimes, but mostly joy. And I think it is in this joy we ourselves have been made.

I always did and I still do get a little flutter when I finish a picture or project. Whether it’s shoes for a friend, an ambitious baking project, an illustration for a freelance project, or another portrait on our ever-crowded walls, I get the flutter because while I’m in the process I’m never always sure that finishing will come.

Most of what I make isn’t for day-to-day use. Much of it sits tucked away. It’s the making that fills my soul. An idea that is seen through until the end. Getting surprised again and again that some of the things I make turn out nicely. All the better if it is something that sparks joy for someone I love.

Maybe that’s what the Creator feels about us too. I don’t think God gets surprised about what those Almighty hands are capable of, but God must experience something like pure joy in creation. Joy that begets joy. God creates us and not only do we find great joy in what else and who else has been created alongside, we take what we have and what we can find and we make art, gardens, jewelry and clothing, homes and poems, stews and cakes and we make and we make and we multiply joy as we create as God taught us how.

We are makers of beauty because we’ve been beautifully crafted.

We are makers of beauty because we’ve been beautifully crafted. @iambethwatkins

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 We are unique and flawed, becoming masters in our crafts while others master theirs. We make mistakes and we learn and we make as we have been made. We create as we have been created. In love, in pained labor, and the world is better because we keep making, because we’ve been made in the image, and part of that image is that of maker.

(all images by Beth Watkins)

About Beth:

Beth Watkins spent the last 6 years working in North and Sub-Saharan Africa with vulnerable populations. She is currently settling back in the US with her immigrant husband and writes about flailing awkwardly into neighbor-love at http://www.iambethwatkins.com and on Twitter: @iambethwatkins.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. The theme for July is “Hospitality Around the World.” And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

Why I Paint African Faces, by Beth Watkins. (blog post) #art #artists #create #creativity #makers #createdtocreate #painters #inspirationforartists

 

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No “Late” Bloomers: Late Weddings, Old Moms & Delayed Creativity


“Are you dating anyone?” the woman asked me after church over mini muffins and bad coffee.

I shook my head.

“Oh, you have plenty of time,” she said to me. Turning to my mom, she added, “My daughter was a late bloomer.” I was spending the summer at home in Florida after graduation from college. I planned to move to Chicago to start teaching in the fall.

“Yeah, she got married in her late twenties,” she continued, my mom nodding along. I clutched my Styrofoam cup, inwardly marveling that I was no longer a college student, but was now labeled according to my marital status. I was now “a single.”

Even at the time I thought she was being a bit harsh in expecting her daughter to get married right out of college. And over the years, that phrase, “late bloomer,” has always grated on me.

Can God be “late”?

When you try to put your feet in the steps of Jesus as you live your life, can you describe any transition as “late”?

According to that woman, I would have gotten married “late,” at age 32. I would have had babies “late,” at age 33, 35, and 37. And I would have started writing “late” in my mid-30’s. But I don’t believe God is ever late.

Spring dragged her feet in arriving to Colorado this year. Tulips and daffodils, the first signs of spring, eased from the ground a few weeks later than they usually do.

We made it home from vacation last week just in time for the peonies in early June. I nearly didn’t see them because the thin stems couldn’t support the huge, fat blossoms and their faces were flattened against the rocky ground. As a first-time homeowner, this is my first summer here and I’ve watched curiously as each new flower type surges up and out, exploding in the Colorado sun, then shrivels just as a different bloom takes over the show. First daffodils, then red tulips, white apple blossoms, lilacs, irises, and now roses and fluffy peonies.

Not a single bloom has been late—each one a note rightly-timed in the rhythm of spring’s symphony.

Because spring seemed delayed this year, I was more eager—desperate, even–for its arrival. Spring unlocks a suppressed something in me and I want to weep when I spy the first green shoots poking from the dirt or bright flowers decorating the yard. For me, spring is an emotional release from months of cold, dreary, color-less winter, a catapult back into lusty life.

Waiting primes us for greater gratitude when the thing we wait for finally arrives. Though I fully embraced being single and knew that marriage would not bring me ultimate joy or pleasure, I still longed for a life-long companion. And though I knew (or thought I knew) how children would alter the landscape of my life, I still yearned for the interruption. The long years of hopeful winters made me more thankful for spring when it finally came.

I’m not a young mom, but I do have young kids. I don’t fit the “young mom” category that many church ladies cluster women into. In fact, many moms with kids the ages of my kids are at least ten years younger than me. But I still don’t believe I got married or had kids “late.”

I published my first piece of writing at age 36, not because I was a “late bloomer,” but because my talent bloomed exactly when it was supposed to.

“My soil is like silk,” my 78 year old neighbor—my gardening mentor–boasted when I lamented that mine is like a rock. “You need to really work on your soil before you try planting in it,” she advised.

Art, too, often requires years of silent cultivation before the first flower can break through the ground.

Art, too, often requires years of silent cultivation before the first flower can break through the ground.

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Browsing through a bookstore recently, I picked up a book from the shelf about Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was surprised to learn that she didn’t start writing until she was in her 40’s, and didn’t publish Little House in the Big Woods until she was in her 60’s. Perhaps her childhood experiences needed years of marinating before they were ready to share with the world.

“Late” implies something didn’t go as planned. Perhaps the Master Gardener needs a bit more time with his hands in the soil, kneading, folding in nutrients, transforming rot and death into healthy soil for new growth to form. We may long for change, but waiting doesn’t mean Jesus isn’t there, that God isn’t working, or that plans have gone awry. Because in God’s kingdom, nothing blooms “late,” but always right on time.

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What are you waiting for? In what ways are you a “late bloomer”? How would your life have been different if everything had followed your own timeline?

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. The theme for July is “Hospitality Around the World.” And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

No "Late Bloomers: Late Weddings, Old Moms & Delayed Creativity #marriage #motherhood #creativity #transitions #timing #Godsdelays #oldmoms #metaphors

 

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When You Know You’re Not an Artist {guest post}

 

By Heather Caliri | Instagram: @heathercaliri

If I knew anything for certain when I was a child, it was that I was not the artist of the family—my older sister Katie was.

Looking at her work, I knew I’d never be as good as her. I wouldn’t even be in the same universe as her. Anyway, I had my own ‘talents’: school, and the performing arts, and generally being the favorite child. I didn’t need to do art.

That was her thing.

I felt nervous when I learned that for my ceramics class in high school, we had to keep a sketchbook. To my great surprise, I liked drawing.

I liked that with nothing but pencils, pens and my own imagination, I could transform a blank notebook into something indelibly, creatively, mine.

I took a few more art classes in high school, and then one more in college. In those classes, making art felt like caring for a mean-spirited cat. Sometimes, it would curl in my lap and keep me company, and sometimes it would turn around and try to claw my eyes out.

Once, I used some new watercolor pencils to craft swirls of color on a page, thrilled with the freedom of abstraction. When I showed my tender risk-taking to my high school art teacher, he told me I should look at another student’s abstractions, because they were much better. I felt like he’d sucker-punched me.

A drawing from high school.

Later that year, I started making faux album covers for a made-up band I called The Cheshire Cats. At first I felt proud of my work, but laterI felt dumb that I was playing around with words and fonts when my classmates were making real art.

And in a college drawing class, we were supposed to do gesture drawings of a bell pepper. When I glanced over at another student’s work, I saw a pepper. When I looked down at mine, I saw weird squiggles. My eyes filling with tears, I took my HB pencil and made a long gash down the middle of my newsprint.

Years later, thinking of that class, I made this.

All this to say: most of my formal art training served to make me feel terrible about myself, my work, my skill. It mostly taught me to compare what I did to all the other people around me.

It kept me from making things.

The other day, one of my friends saw my sketchbook and said you’re such a good artist. She also said that she was not.

This is the drawing she liked. Note: I copied the pattern from wallpaper, which is totally acceptable but always feels like cheating to me.

I wanted to take her face in my hands and tell her that all these words we use to judge our art—good, real, artist—they are MADE UP WORDS. They do not mean what they think we mean. They do not say anything useful.

I started making art more when my children were little. By then, I had been writing for a long time, and I’d learned that “talent” was a shell game. I bought my kids nice art supplies, and when they made things, I did too. I realized if “writers” are people who write, then “artists” are people who make art. I didn’t need permission to claim those names.

It’s amazing what reading a few craft books does for your skill level.

Making art still feels tender to me. Unlike with writing, which has felt mine for nearly twenty years, art feels a bit like using my left hand to cut a piece of paper. It’s awkward. I feel my lack of practice, especially when I draw.

Drawing this peony made me sweat.

I don’t care. Art making is not about skill, but about desire. The only question I want to ask about art is: do I want to make some? Do I have a picture in my mind I want to make real? Do I want to take a piece of discarded paper, or a recycled cereal box, and resurrect it into something beautiful?

Basket made of old sheets with papier mâché citrus. Note: the basket was supposed to be a rug. Oh, well.

I think many of us hold back from making things because we feel incompetent and think lack of skill is a problem. It makes me tremendously sad to think of all the joy that fear steals from us. It makes me angry to think of how we teach art, pitting one person’s joy against another.

Still: there’s a simple question for each of us to ask. Do we want to make something? If the answer is yes, it is brave and bold and beautiful to set aside our fear and try.

About Heather:

Heather Caliri is a writer and shy artist from San Diego who uses tiny, joyful yeses to free herself from anxiety. Tired of anxiety controlling your life? Try her mini-course, “Five Tiny Ideas for Managing Anxiety,” for free here.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter Here:

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Unicorns and Rainbows: On Adoption {guest post by Sheli Massie}

By Sheli Massie | Facebook

“Being adopted is like having blank chapters in the story of your life.” – Adult Adoptee

I remember vividly the night after we had been matched with our son from Uganda. I lay awake in bed just sobbing, what I thought was a release of emotions carried these past two years of waiting. My husband kept saying over and over, but this is what we have been waiting for. This moment. As I began to process the floodgate of emotions I realized that my heart was immediately connected to his birth mother. I was imagining what her life was like or wasn’t. I was wondering what her name was, where she was, if she was alive, what a horrific and courageous decision she made to find someone to raise her child. That night imprinted a connection on my soul where answers may never come.

It’s been over six years since our youngest son joined our family and I still have so many questions of his beginning. When he came to the US he was only three, or so we think. Having a birth certificate and hospital records is a privileged expectation, not a norm. So we went by what the dentist could tell us here in the states. Home six years and just beginning to unpack his story. His beginning.

His story is his story. I can only tell you my perspective, what I have observed. I have never known what it is like to not have a family. A mother. A home. Food. Clean water. I have never been without. So I can not imagine the way he processes the abundance that is here and what was before. What I do know that when he is able to tell his story, his grief, his loss all I can do is to create a safe and healing place for it to happen. I will get it wrong. I already do. I miss cues and opportunities to enter in. Instead I rush past them and don’t recognize behaviors as something bigger. As part of his story. His undoing.

One of the greatest misconceptions that we have had to confront with his adoption is the reaction of those around us. Saying things to us, in his presence, that “he is better off here in the states. His life will be better. He is so lucky. Everything will be good for him. At least you saved one.” Yes, ALL of those things and more have been said to us.

Let me just say this, adoption is not unicorns and rainbows. It is not the happily ever after. Adoption comes with great loss and suffering. It comes with layers of unknowns and complications. And it comes with years of figuring it out together.

I was so naive when we adopted our sweet boy. I assumed that love would heal it all.

I was so naive when we adopted our sweet boy. I assumed that love would heal it all. -@sheligeoghanmas

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A real Barbie Savior complex. And then I put myself in his shoes. He has no beginning that I can remind him of. He has chapters that I am not a part of. A story that started way before this Mzungu (white person) showed up and took him from all he had ever known. He is left with a grief that is painfully deep I can not fathom.

We have this tradition in our family that we had been doing for years. The four older children knew that on their birthday I would share their birth story with them again at the dinner table. Each year I would tell their unique beginning. Their prologue. Until the year he asked what was his story. He asked me to tell him when he was “in my belly” in Africa. He would look across the table and yearn to hear how I had loved him every moment I carried him. He wanted to be more alike than different. For a while I admit I just played along. Not giving details but saying how I loved him from before I saw his face. I thought I was doing the right thing. Trying to build connection. But what I was really doing was making it easier on myself. What he needed was the truth. He needed to hear his story.

He will ask randomly about his mother. Who she is. Where she is. What her name is. If she ever calls. I give him all I know from just knowing him. “She is a strong and courageous woman. She is beautiful and brave because you are sweet boy. She loved you more than she loved herself because she chose to give to you life no matter the consequence. You are Ugandan, one of the most amazing countries I have ever seen and you will always be connected to a power greater than any of us can even imagine. “

Part of adoption is dying to self. Dying to false expectations and belief systems.

Part of adoption is dying to self. Dying to false expectations and belief systems. –@sheligeoghanmas

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You are bringing a child into your home that has undergone significant trauma, yes even as an infant. Loss and trauma are two of the biggest factors of the process that I feel gets passed over too quickly. Unless we are willing to knowingly enter into the lifetime of unpacking and hard work of healing we really should rethink adoption not as a calling but a commitment to holding space for painful trauma work.

Sweet boy is triggered by things every day and he will be for the rest of his life. It is something that we have come to accept. Behaviors that others may see as acting out or abnormal we just see as a breakthrough. That he feels safe enough to let that emotion surface or be explored. His world is not better because he was adopted and is not with his birth mom. His life is complicated and hard. He carries grief and unwritten chapters around as a daily reminder. As his second parents all we can do is create space for him to feel it all.

About Sheli:

Sheli Massie is a story keeper, seeker of justice, healing and hope in a broken world. She believes in longer tables, unlocked doors and living a barefoot life. She and her husband live outside of Chicago with their five children and one grandlove. You can find her over on Instagram @shelimassie_, Redbud Writers, Twitter, and  her website.

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GIVEAWAY OF ADOPTED!

For our last week of posts on foster care, adoption and children, I’m giving away a free copy of Kelley’s book, Adopted. It was one of my favorite reads last year and it was awarded the Christianity Today: 2018 Award of Merit Christian Living/Discipleship. Sign up for my newsletter by midnight (MT) on Thursday, May 31st and be entered to win a free copy! And/or tag up to four friends on my Instagram post about this book and I’ll enter you up to four times per friend you tag! Sorry, no bots and only U.S. residents!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

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A Full House {guest post}

By Amanda Tingle Taylor | Twitter

I always thought my home would be full of children. I knew that I wanted children from an early age. I was always the “mom” in my friend groups, making sure that everyone was taken care of. I had my daughter at an early age and I was excited for what the future would hold. Circumstances changed for me and I found myself divorced with a baby. I knew my plan had changed, yet I still held out hope that I would have a large family full of children.

Many years later I fell in love again, got married and started making plans to grow our family. Better late than never seemed to be a fitting plan! Yet, time was no friend to me; as the years flowed past us our family didn’t grow. Abandoning my dream of having many children wasn’t an option. That lead to testing and fertility doctors. There were kits and creams, a surgery, and a tremendous amount of praying. Nothing changed, nothing happened; our family did not grow.

When reality set in that our family would not be growing the way that I thought it would, we started looking at other options. We agreed that we were not willing to spend a small fortune on something that might never happen with doing IVF. We moved next to adoption as an option. My heart wasn’t there. I again looked at the costs; financially, emotionally, and relationally and found that I couldn’t find a way to reconcile my brain and my heart. I started to worry that our family was done.

Secretly I had been looking on websites that provided photos of children waiting in foster care for adoption. Every time I clicked on a photo or opened the website I felt that little pull in my heart. I felt a hand gently pressing into my back urging me to keep moving in that direction. The more I looked the more I realized that there was such a huge need that I had been blind to. It wasn’t adoption that was most needed. It was loving and caring foster homes. The number of foster children in need was staggering.

That was twenty months ago. Since then we have had seven beautiful children in our home. I have been mom to them all. The ones who could talk have called me mommy. Each time a scared little face looks up at me for the first time I remember that I always wanted a home full of children. I have that now. Six of them have gone on to other families or back home to their parents. I still pray for each and every one of them at night. Sitting on my coffee table I have a photo album with photos, birthdates, and notes about each child.

The other child; the one that hasn’t left our home since she came to us twenty months ago – she is my daughter through and through. At this point we have been asked if we would adopt her if that became an option. YES! A thousand times over we said yes. She is graduating from Pre-k soon and planning to celebrate another birthday with us. We’ve been able to share two Christmas’s with her and have established new traditions with her. We are her parents. And as I tuck her in at night I know that will never change. No matter if she is with us for twenty more days or twenty more years. She IS my daughter.

When it’s quiet and I am up all alone, I look around my house and smile contently. I finally have a home full of children. It doesn’t look the way that I always imagined that it would. People often don’t understand why we would put ourselves through the pain of saying goodbye over and over to the little faces that call us mommy and daddy. The need is so great but they only see the hard parts.

They can’t understand that even when a child has to leave my home it doesn’t make them any less my children. I have loved them, sheltered them, cared for them, cleaned them up and fixed their ‘boo boo’s’. I may never be able to explain it fully to others, but as I pick up toys and put away clothes at night, I know why. I still see a home full of children even though they may have moved on. Each child has taken a piece of me with them. More importantly, I have a heart full of children; my children and I will always have them there.

About Amanda:

Amanda is an art teacher by day and by night a writer, foster care advocate and avid DIYer. Her passion for helping others and her desire to reach the lost and hurting come through in her artwork, writing and relationships. She shares her home in Georgia with her husband, daughters, foster children and a menagerie of animals. You can find her sharing real life and real struggles on her website A Joyous Mess. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and/or Instagram!

GIVEAWAY OF ADOPTED!

For our last week of posts on foster care, adoption and children, I’m giving away a free copy of Kelley’s book, Adopted. It was one of my favorite reads last year and it was awarded the Christianity Today: 2018 Award of Merit Christian Living/Discipleship. Sign up for my newsletter by midnight (MT) on Thursday, May 31st and be entered to win a free copy! And/or tag up to four friends on my Instagram post about this book and I’ll enter you up to four times per friend you tag! Sorry, no bots and only U.S. residents!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

***

This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!

 

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links.

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