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by Courtney Daniel
Looking for the Missing I look for him on Sunday, not even realizing I was expecting to glance through the end of the pew to see the socks pulled up to his knees. I look for him as we send the missionaries off, wondering what shafts of light he would find to bathe them in as the camera clicks. I look for her as I start the batch of Christmas cards, scrawling a card to her and addressing with a smirk that I had finally memorized her address after five years. I look for her in the pictures of our last reunion, wondering if perhaps she had been tired and taking a nap. I look for them as I pour out of my station, not even realizing as I scan the parking lot of patrol cars and weary officers ending their shifts I often search for a red head with blue eyes and a blonde with a crazy bun to be unloading their cars and happily heading home. I look for him in the pictures of people stumbling out of wreckage. I look for words of him on facebook as a community updates via the internet and tallies a list of who is lost. I remember it is silly to look for him to have been in this storm, for he was gone a good ten years before. I look for Him to come back, a conquering King with angels galore and with His coming a glorious gift of healing. I look for those who have gone ahead, those in white robes who are already perched and comfortable on fluffy clouds, I look for them to hug their necks. Lessons from a Widow It starts with hugging. I go in for a half-hug but my heart is only half in it so she gets a measly fourth and calls me on it. "Oh! Give me a real hug! You can do better than that." I learn the art of fully enveloping another until your soul brushes up against their soul. Next is moving from my trademark "I just stumbled out of bed" look to something slightly cuter. Pink. Flowers. Pants that actually fit. I drink in deep that the clothing you wear reflects how you feel. I stop wearing the pajamas of post-baby as the child is two. In truth it is much deeper than hugs or cute clothes. They are glimpses of an eternal thing. Of a thing so deep it goes down to the place of the dead. Of living with death itself. Of grief. Pure. Painful. Soul-deep grief. The lesson is simple and healing: press into Him. Move in close to the King of the Universe and be held by the arms that made you. Truly embrace Him. Next remove the sackcloth of the moment and let yourself be robed in righteousness. Truly wear Him. Finally commune with Him on the very thing He conquered that conquers us daily. Truly grieve well. And you will be free to love like never imagined before. Courtney is, a writer, mother of two very energetic children, and wife to a stay-at-home philosopher.
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by Cloyd Taylor
Sights, sounds, music connecting soul to soul to SOUL. Drama, speech, scripture; singing – beating a drum, delighting ivories, strumming a guitar. Different moods, heights and depths of a soul, his soul, her soul, and her’s, and yours and mine. Artists forging art forging artists’ souls, audience of artists—all—the One, the only audience, he alone who gives eternal applause. Hilary’s song—turmoil beating on the soul, the drum; revolution of the heart, transformation in a heartbeat to the soothing peace of ivory, a melodious interlude for the soul. Peace, it’s reigning, saturates the soul. Living remains real, upheaval returns, the rhythms and beating of the drum, the baring of the soul, it’s healing. {Like Jeremiah’s complaint [20.7-18], suspended briefly by praise [v13]}. The drama, Scriptures woven with life, living weaving of song and guitar the stuff of life, of the soul, of the art of living. We—are God’s poem, his living art. me!? Cloyd is a Clinical Psychologist in private practice who also has Masters degrees in Theology and enjoys writing himself to clarity. He believes that the Arts, especially the live and visual Arts, are vital to leavening our culture and bringing the life of God to people. He is married and has a son in college. by Tamara Murphy
Through a complex and surprising series of events in the summer of 2006 I found myself as the interim worship and arts director at a large non-denomination church in upstate NY. Not only did I accept the job for which I had little experience but also, in a creative freefall, agreed to coordinate the first-ever art show in the church. Not only the first art show in this specific church, but likely the first art show in a church in the entire southern tier of New York state. I had no idea what I was doing. Naturally, I Googled “church art show”. In the first page of results I clicked the HopeArts link and discovered a whole new world of theologically-solid, artistically- imaginative and relationally-rooted resources for our little band of hopeful artists to replicate. It would be a few years before I was able to personally thank anyone from Hope Chapel, but even before that time I felt mentored and held up by, well, Hope. Over time, we not only followed in their footsteps for the art show, but also for the 8 minutes max events. In every sense, our church in upstate NY became irrevocably related to the good work in Austin. Fast forward five years and in yet another series of complex and surprising events I find myself living in Austin. As if the Holy Spirit were gleefully turning pages in the story of my life, I found myself at Hope Chapel on Saturday night, September 10. Not only at Hope Chapel, but at the 8 minutes max event serving as a kick-off event for the next art festival. What serendipity! What I couldn’t tell from a website was how relaxed the setting would feel. Or how welcoming. My son and I didn’t even get in the door of the church before making a new friend. The sparkling water and frozen berries were a natural, refreshing touch on a hot Austin weekend. I wouldn’t have known that we would feel so at home in a new place. I might have known, though, that even in Austin, artists are nervous about performing new work and are as needy for affirmation in Texas as in New York. And that Hope Arts provides an artistic umbrella for churches and artists all over the city of Austin. Although, if I’d had to guess, I could have probably told you that. I’m looking forward to many more events leading up the Tenth HopeArts Festival, exploring the theme Co-forging Living Art, making new friends and, hopefully, new art. In the meantime, I’m going to keep pinching myself that I even get to be here at all. Tamara recently re-located from upstate NY where she served as a shepherd of artists and worship leaders in her church. In Austin, she is working full-time shepherding the four artists she proudly calls her children. She blogs her learnings at www.livingpalm.blogspot.com. |
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