A Flashback Before April

Last night I went to a Celebration of Life. In the background is a replica of "The Travail of the Flag" by Shelli Baker-Manuel Landon. Hers was the life that transitioned beyond the veil. The link gives a brief history of the full painting and prophetic vision that spurred it. I read it just now and tears flowed yet again. This is my flashback to an artistic, inspired life that briefly intersected with my own.

I don't remember where I first heard Shelli's testimony. I remember getting her book by the same title as the painting, likely a gift from either my mom or my aunt. (By the way, my aunt and uncle, Kathleen and Jim Kaseman, are pictured in the "Parade of Saints" in the lower left area. I went up close to the replica last night and captured a quick photo.) 

I also don't remember where I heard/read about her plea to God to allow her to paint like the masters. I don't think it is in the book The Travail of the Flag. But I do remember that the story and the book enraptured me! What God can do with an artistic life that is wholly given to Him moved me deeply. 

It seems that I immediately penned a letter to Shelli as a result. Within days, I think, we ended up at the same ministry meeting in Rogers, Missouri. Imagine my delight! I don't recall if it was my unsent letter still unfinished that I gave to her (probably) or her reply handed to me, but she ministered to me greatly then and beyond. If I still have that letter (or letters?), it will be like gold. If I have ANY letters from those who meant so much to me in those days, they will all be like gold!

Also connected to my new, slightly obsessive interest was Billye Brim's teaching on the Blood (and I may have heard Shelli's testimony in one of her meetings). I was insatiable for old songs about the blood of Jesus. I found one extra-beautiful hymn: The Cleansing Blood; and I wrote one inspired by Billye's book: The Blood and the Glory.

As I sit with this today, I think about the extreme obedience that marked me with Shelli's story. I am struck by the prophetic power of the arts when yielded to Him. Shelli's expressions have always been empassioned and without reserve. I've always admired her boldness. 

When my then-husband and I stopped traveling and dedicated ourselves to church staff, that's when I began losing track of people like Shelli. We were no longer at meetings, and it was more difficult to make those journeys once our eldest was in school. Then our second child came along, and I can only see this now when looking back, but we were headed for disaster! Chaos reigned for some time after I suddenly became a single mom. It is only now beginning to straighten out after 20 years. 

In recent years, I was reunited with Shelli (now with husband Barry Landon) during my time as a writer at Rhema. I recall being excited and praying for their potential way to help during COVID ... only I wasn't able to help spread the word much or make connections because it was just before my world went wild again. I stepped away from Rhema for what I thought would be a short time to help my dad. He passed on, however, and my disabled brother needed someone to assist him, so my back-and-forth life began. That continued until I crashed after my brother's burial. Only now have I somewhat resurrected.

Recently I was thinking about Barry and Shelli—wondering what became of the COVID device to purify air and hoping it had blessed them. The thought has been familiar, so I realize they have been on my heart for a while. I wish I had known what to do with that thought. I find that often when someone passes, they are on my heart for a time (or quite some time) before. 

Amazingly, God helped me to see a post about her memorial service. I went. The stories resonated once again, and I am challenged to set my own artistry free in God's hand. Shelli's life is so large! I struggle to think of someone who is so specifically inspiring to me. I was once a budding, multi-gifted creative. I don't know if I will be exactly that again, but I am on the precipice of just such a journey. 

I noticed the celtic carvings on her harp—so serendipitous to my return from Ireland the week before. Renewal. Restoration. Rededication. Revival. Shelli continues to urge me forward. ♥♥♥♥

Confessions of an Introvert on a Sunday Morning

Public is difficult. People who know me from my youth find it surprising that I do not consider myself an extrovert. In a way, it surprises me too.

At some point, I found some kind of safety in hiding. It wasn't conscious.

It's easier.

A word that has come up recently and consistently is trauma. I don't know what to do with that word, honestly. And I don't really think I'm supposed to seek out something to do with it. I'll trust God to reveal what I truly need to know about it.

Speaking of words, there has always been safety in words for me. Yes, words can be damaging. I know. I know. But when I needed relief, a retreat into words always revived me—as long as I gave myself room to luxuriate.

I remember in the late 80s after two partial colleges and before marriage, I took "vacations" on the top of my bunk bed with books, notebooks, and a freshly baked loaf of bread. I think that's what I attempt to do on Sunday mornings when I can't seem to make myself get out the door. 

But it's a bit different now. I sit with words, yes. The distractions are higher. The consequences are weightier. It isn't just a luxury, though it could be. It's more of a wrestling match. 

Even this post, which I originally thought would bring some expression and discovery just hung there after the previous paragraph for a day. Now I'm here just to sew it up and move on. *sigh*

Death and Life of Spring

Spring is here. My hacked willow has plenty of dead branches which distracted me when I went to get the mail on Tuesday. I snapped off many little limbs until one popped me in the eye. Technically it was UNDER my eye, but it made me wonder if I'd have a bruise. (I didn't.) At least it's not evident enough to attract my attention when I glance by a bathroom mirror.

With one broken branch, I attempted to clear out a bit of a crook in the tree. Ants live there. I abandoned that too. But I did manage to take photos of tiny beauty present at my feet.

 

I'm resisting the urge to edit photos and make them pretty. If I had time, I'd do that and write something substantial. But I know if I did not take this quick opportunity, the moments may be lost for a very long time aside from the photos that had writerly thoughts once stirring in my head.

Tightness Melted

I didn't realize how tense I was inside. I'm not "that" type of person--uptight, anxious, worried (or so I think). But something similar happens in me, and I'm beginning to notice.

Take yesterday. My schedule changed when I agreed to take my daughter to a medical appointment. Not a big deal, but I wasn't as productive as I would have liked, and I missed some church activities. Everything seemed "normal" until I was leaving. I opened the door to the garage and saw this:

IT MELTED ME! Instead of being met by chaos and things that need attention, I had an intentional scene. Granted, it isn't much by way of design and decor, but it MINISTERED peace to me. Tension I didn't know I had melted away. That's how I identified the tightness that wrapped itself around my thoughts and breath. I noticed when it left. 

I looked up "minister" in the online Webster's 1913 dictionary:

Min"is*ter, v. i.

1. To act as a servant, attendant, or agent; to attend and serve; to perform service in any office, sacred or secular. Matt. xx. 28.

2. To supply or to things needful; esp., to supply consolation or remedies. Matt. xxv. 44.

This little grouping of mostly discarded items is so small and imperfect that I want to apologize for it to the design world, yet I cannot deny the powerful moment I received yesterday! It was a supply of something needful, a consolation, a remedy to an unknowingly rigid, stressed mind from humble design!

It also ties into a phrase that is resurfacing in my thoughts—that an object must serve me, not me serve it. I'll have to write the Amish telephone story and link it here. That's where it all started long ago in the '90s.

Even this morning, as I contemplated the amount of loose tea to use when making a full bodum pot (since I cannot have caffeine the day before my stress test), I hovered a wooden tablespoon with a second helping and thought, It is here to serve you. Use what you desire. 

I always desire a strong flavor. The second tablespoon went in.

Agh! This flies in the face of historical me! Conservation is my usual ruling impetus. Make it last. Get your money's worth. Function is probably right behind that. Everything serves a purpose. No fluff. I've cut off so much desire over the years that it's been hard to identify now. But there is a Guide who helps me. That prompt used in a micro setting like tea could be answered. To be honest, I did falter for a moment. I may have even limited my desire by conservation and function, but at least I stretched it a little bit! I suppose it's like a muscle that hasn't been used for a long time. Flacid. Unusable. But small those small stimuli and exercise can probably prod it back to life again.

When it comes to function, what if the purpose of an object or a setting is to minister? This ministered peace. Certain things I own minister ease, like the massive food processor I received at Christmas versus the mortar and pestle that I attempted to mangle Thai ginger with last week. Yes, I intended to simplify and live like I do in Guatemala—All I need is a broom, towel, and a bucket!—but here I am already cluttered with ease.

So the other day, when I daydreamed about that pink rug and making a garage entrance that pleased me (kind of like how I feel when I see my pink front door entry), it was also not the usual me. A fluffy pink carpet in the garage? That didn't even qualify as logic. But I SAW IT in my imagination. And I'm learning to take action on those things.

[Side note: I just crossed my arms and was considering how far to take this when I heard, "Take your pleasure. Like all things, it is here to serve you." Oh yeah!]

I am in the midst of a rabbit trail stemming from the word minister that led to sacerdotal duties. At some definition/etymology/root/origin note, I thought I read "sacerdotal life" in a short, descriptive list. It wasn't actually there, but again, I SAW IT, and now I'm acting on it. It carries the feeling that this is a part of the "gentle warrior" puzzle (and I should link it to that blog, I suppose). Wait! I know. I'll finish my rabbit trail and post it on that blog, then link back to it here. It strikes me as a lifestyle-worthy mindset.

I just had the luxurious thought I can write ANYTHING! LOL. It's like a kid with a crayon and the paper is not just one standard sheet, but a whole roll.

Seriously. I edit myself so constantly that while I was elaborating a few paragraphs up, the balance my mind was contemplating in words and grammar and a myriad of things too numerous to list, it felt like a blanket had been flipped up and "snapped" to clear it. 

This blog is here to serve me.
I can write anything I want.
Even grammar can go by the wayside.
Punctuation police don't exist.
Take your pleasure.
Write what you desire.