Making collaborative art with kids is such a blast! They are totally willing and eager. And they are fabulously involved. Above, you'll see a snapshot of a moment from my last six weeks of art-making with kids from my church, Kings Park International Church.
We created an image using paint-stained torn papers collaged together in a style that's almost mosaic like. The method worked beautifully in that it allowed lots of kids to participate and have confidence in their contribution.
For over three decades now, there has not been a week that has gone by that I'm not once again caught off guard with the random thought, 'I should call my Mom', only to realize I cannot.
I remember, when she WAS still available to talk, I seemed to have countless tiny empty reasons not to call..... that I regret .
For all who have the immense privilege of still breathing the same earth air as your Mom, take it from me, you'll be glad to keep that phone warm with your hand print!
'Billie' , as her friends called her, was a brave woman who left her spot in the earth a bit more lovely. But it's odd how youthful eyes are blurred with prickly grudges and mirages of unmet expectations.
My confidence, now, is that she perceives the sadness over the service limitations of my cell phone's reach and hears the messages from my heart.
I have thought long and hard about what is generally called 'the generation gap.' I've personally pledged to lay down my life like a bridge to connect that gap with my own children. I've observed, over my 30 years of parenting, that fighting for open communication, along with vulnerable admissions to my own frail humanity are the beams and bars that will piece together the great divide.
I love you, Mom. I know that you know that by now. And I know now that you loved me.
Happy Mother's Day!
" Listening to my Pandora channel's stream of familiar songs, suddenly I stopped what I was doing. I held myself perfectly still. Some refreshing, brutally true lyrics held me hostage.
"Truth is harder than a lie
The dark seems safer than the light
And everyone has a heart that loves to hide
I'm a mess and so are you
We've built walls nobody can get through
Yeah, it may be hard, but the best thing we could ever do, ever do
Bring your brokenness, and I'll bring mine
'Cause love can heal what hurt divides
And mercy's waiting on the other side
If we're honest
If we're honest
Don't pretend to be something that you're not
Living life afraid of getting caught
There is freedom found when we lay
our secrets down at the cross, at the cross
It would change our lives
It would set us free
It's what we need to be"
The words she'd crafted poiniently followed the contours of our common blight - the difficulty of being 'real' with each other. I wanted to reach through my Bose speaker and pump the hand of singer/songwriter, Francesco Battistelli , saying 'Bravo!, Bravo!' What a perfect assessment!
"And everyone has a heart that loves to hide
I'm a mess and so are you."
I'd only recently captured the above little image in my journal . It's a self portrait, of sorts.
A child breathes imagination as freely as oxygen. Effortlessly. Spending time with a young child is like holding up an oxygen mask to our stuffed-up thought passages! This is me mapping out an imaginary town with our grandson, Gabriel. What a hoot! I never tire of listening to the gushing-rushing-freely-oozing geyser of his thoughts.....OK, truthfully, maybe I tire -sometimes! But you get my point!
A child's imagination is like a free falling slinky, tumbling down an endlessly spiraling staircase. Their thoughts don't get caught on the 'that won't work' corners of reality. Their ideas don't dead end. I love that. It inspires me.
I've been scooping up some of Gabey's energy and spreading it into my journaling practices for several months now. Below, you can see a few of the page-spills.
Welcome! Glad you're here! This little spot is where I share thoughts, writings and verses that fuel my life, my marriage, and my art. My desire is to offer up hope and grace and help make your life feel a bit lighter.