Some of my earliest happy memories are of being on the floor at my baby sitter's home with a large metal coffee can full of crayons. I would color for hours. Color until the waxy pigment turned into it's own creature on my paper and was so thick I could peel away bits revealing a heathered version of the same hue beneath. I loved to draw and then bring my creations to life with color, but coloring books had a special lure to them that I enjoyed too.
Laying on that variegated carpet with the book opened to a page just waiting for me to bring it to life, what innocent joy! To decide if it would be day or night, if the foliage would be young and new or more mature and deep waxy green. The rest of the world just faded into the background, I was enthralled. Just me and my Crayolas... no other crayon compares you know.
Laying on that variegated carpet with the book opened to a page just waiting for me to bring it to life, what innocent joy! To decide if it would be day or night, if the foliage would be young and new or more mature and deep waxy green. The rest of the world just faded into the background, I was enthralled. Just me and my Crayolas... no other crayon compares you know.
It's been a lot of Mondays since I went to my babysitter's house for care while my mom worked to support my sister and I. Finding innocent joy has been a needle-in-the-haystack experience as time, stress, busyness, and health issues distract and turn my head from seeking joy. Chronic illness is not the least of these distractions, with all of it's varied methods of attack. I pray for a renewed attitude and for a fresh perspective frequently, and you know what? He hears me, and answers...
Last night as I lay down in bed after several days of a low spot with my constant companion Hashimoto (my auto-immune minion) and his latest attack on my organs, I knew that sleep wasn't coming easily. I did my normal "I can't sleep right now" things, checked in on which of my kids were online and chatted for a bit with them, researched helpful topics for nutrition and weight gain, stroked my hubby's feather soft curls while he slept soundly just inches away, drank some water, asked the Lord to help me sleep. The usual.
But on one of my trips to the restroom I noticed a piece of paper on the floor. It was a print out of a coloring sheet with a unicorn on it. (Brief history: I love unicorns. I was very much into fantasy in my childhood, self-preservation I'm sure, and unicorns have stuck with me all these years. Their existence in reality was a sure thing in my mind as a child. I am less convinced now, but their image is beyond lovely to me still.) My youngest son printed out this sheet as a surprise for me a few days ago. We color illustrations to accompany our lessons on occasion, yet another Home school perk, and he knew I would love this picture.
True Confession: When he brought me the print-out I could see the image, but it was so blurred and pixelated that any finer details were obliterated. Bummer. I tossed it near, not in, the trash by my bed feeling torn between the sweetness of my son's gift and my perfectionistic tendencies.
Looking down as I got out of bed I felt the Lord nudge me toward the print out. I picked it up and looked at it. Blurry, imperfect, distorted. It bothered my eyes to focus on it and yet I felt Him tell me to put it on my lap desk. So I did. I opened the hinged clip and slid the picture under it wondering to myself how long it would sit there in it's static disgrace.
The answer was: not long. I climbed back into bed, posted a status offering prayer to other late-nighters on my Facebook, and shut my laptop for the night. The marker/crayon/pen/pencil box was still on the counter at the end of my bed from an assignment we had been working on earlier in the day. I looked at that box. It became magnetic, pulling me into a sitting position so I grabbed it. (Not literally magnetic, but I did literally grab it.) Card making has always been a passion of mine, not the super fancy stamp and special scissors kind of cards (love those), but cards made of whatever I have nearby. Ripped paper, scraps of wrapping paper, twine, left over ribbon, bits of fluff, and usually some glitter. Just that afternoon I had made a card for a dear friend and I contemplated making a couple more if sleep was going play hard-to-get.
The unicorn wouldn't let me.
Picking up the lap desk, I laid it across me right next to the marker box. I looked more intently at the image of the unicorn. I noticed that she was on a cobble stone path, there were several types of flowers around her, an arbor held roses in an arch above her, and there were graceful trees growing in the background. I thought to myself, "This just needs color and definition. It can be beautiful." So I began to fill the blank spaces, to re-draw the lines. I decided that it would be a balmy summer day and that the trees would be a warm ruddy brown like the new skin on Madrona trees. I chose colors for the flowers lowest to the ground that would turn them into black-eyed susans, the blooms on the bushes would mimic the ones growing here in my own yard, the flowers growing on the arbor would be purple to represent faithfulness, royalty, and true servanthood.
I found myself using every imaginable medium I had at my disposal: crayon, marker, pencil, Sharpie, ball point, fine point gel pen, cruddy nearly dried out dollar store markers, and even a few of the loathsome off-brand crayons. Each of them lent their own texture, a specific color, a unique depth or hue. I used some of them together, layer upon layer for movement and shading, with each medium eventually losing it's own distinct effect as it combined with the others to become something totally new.
Jesus speaks to me in interesting ways.
I colored flowers until I fell asleep with a crayon in my hand. Sleep was deep and sweet. When I awoke I felt thankful for it and was itching to get back to that unicorn.
After doing the things I do in the morning to get my body going I laid back down, propping up slightly, and reached for the picture. I smiled at the happy black-eyed susans, they looked so cheerful. I picked up right where I had left off choosing to use a vast array of greens for the foliage and trees. The wood of the climbing flowers would be a dark brown, the hooves and horn on the unicorn would be golden. With each color I added, each line I defined, I saw beauty. Some subjects would be left with a soft edge, some an inky black to make them pop.
Emotions began to surface as I was nearing completion of the picture. I felt a familiarity with it. I often feel blurred, faded, less than what I was or should be, maybe even ready for the trash at times. I prayed through the feelings and heard His response, "I define you Beloved. I am bringing magnificent color into your life. I am restoring and healing in ways you can't perceive, but are happening nonetheless. On your own you are weak and static, you have voids that need filling. I am your strength, I am your energy, I am Holiness making you whole."
The Voice of my Redeemer. There is nothing like it.
I put the last few touches on the unicorn and smiled at the beauty that had surfaced. In my broken humanity I had defined her, brought her out of blurred confusion, and she stands majestic in the midst of her renewed surroundings.
He assures me that though my circumstances and setting may not change He is restoring, healing, and redeeming even now. Using all that is; the difficult, the lovely, the painful and perfect to bring about His beautiful plan.
Psalm 103:2-3
Last night as I lay down in bed after several days of a low spot with my constant companion Hashimoto (my auto-immune minion) and his latest attack on my organs, I knew that sleep wasn't coming easily. I did my normal "I can't sleep right now" things, checked in on which of my kids were online and chatted for a bit with them, researched helpful topics for nutrition and weight gain, stroked my hubby's feather soft curls while he slept soundly just inches away, drank some water, asked the Lord to help me sleep. The usual.
But on one of my trips to the restroom I noticed a piece of paper on the floor. It was a print out of a coloring sheet with a unicorn on it. (Brief history: I love unicorns. I was very much into fantasy in my childhood, self-preservation I'm sure, and unicorns have stuck with me all these years. Their existence in reality was a sure thing in my mind as a child. I am less convinced now, but their image is beyond lovely to me still.) My youngest son printed out this sheet as a surprise for me a few days ago. We color illustrations to accompany our lessons on occasion, yet another Home school perk, and he knew I would love this picture.
True Confession: When he brought me the print-out I could see the image, but it was so blurred and pixelated that any finer details were obliterated. Bummer. I tossed it near, not in, the trash by my bed feeling torn between the sweetness of my son's gift and my perfectionistic tendencies.
Looking down as I got out of bed I felt the Lord nudge me toward the print out. I picked it up and looked at it. Blurry, imperfect, distorted. It bothered my eyes to focus on it and yet I felt Him tell me to put it on my lap desk. So I did. I opened the hinged clip and slid the picture under it wondering to myself how long it would sit there in it's static disgrace.
The answer was: not long. I climbed back into bed, posted a status offering prayer to other late-nighters on my Facebook, and shut my laptop for the night. The marker/crayon/pen/pencil box was still on the counter at the end of my bed from an assignment we had been working on earlier in the day. I looked at that box. It became magnetic, pulling me into a sitting position so I grabbed it. (Not literally magnetic, but I did literally grab it.) Card making has always been a passion of mine, not the super fancy stamp and special scissors kind of cards (love those), but cards made of whatever I have nearby. Ripped paper, scraps of wrapping paper, twine, left over ribbon, bits of fluff, and usually some glitter. Just that afternoon I had made a card for a dear friend and I contemplated making a couple more if sleep was going play hard-to-get.
The unicorn wouldn't let me.
Picking up the lap desk, I laid it across me right next to the marker box. I looked more intently at the image of the unicorn. I noticed that she was on a cobble stone path, there were several types of flowers around her, an arbor held roses in an arch above her, and there were graceful trees growing in the background. I thought to myself, "This just needs color and definition. It can be beautiful." So I began to fill the blank spaces, to re-draw the lines. I decided that it would be a balmy summer day and that the trees would be a warm ruddy brown like the new skin on Madrona trees. I chose colors for the flowers lowest to the ground that would turn them into black-eyed susans, the blooms on the bushes would mimic the ones growing here in my own yard, the flowers growing on the arbor would be purple to represent faithfulness, royalty, and true servanthood.
I found myself using every imaginable medium I had at my disposal: crayon, marker, pencil, Sharpie, ball point, fine point gel pen, cruddy nearly dried out dollar store markers, and even a few of the loathsome off-brand crayons. Each of them lent their own texture, a specific color, a unique depth or hue. I used some of them together, layer upon layer for movement and shading, with each medium eventually losing it's own distinct effect as it combined with the others to become something totally new.
Jesus speaks to me in interesting ways.
I colored flowers until I fell asleep with a crayon in my hand. Sleep was deep and sweet. When I awoke I felt thankful for it and was itching to get back to that unicorn.
After doing the things I do in the morning to get my body going I laid back down, propping up slightly, and reached for the picture. I smiled at the happy black-eyed susans, they looked so cheerful. I picked up right where I had left off choosing to use a vast array of greens for the foliage and trees. The wood of the climbing flowers would be a dark brown, the hooves and horn on the unicorn would be golden. With each color I added, each line I defined, I saw beauty. Some subjects would be left with a soft edge, some an inky black to make them pop.
Emotions began to surface as I was nearing completion of the picture. I felt a familiarity with it. I often feel blurred, faded, less than what I was or should be, maybe even ready for the trash at times. I prayed through the feelings and heard His response, "I define you Beloved. I am bringing magnificent color into your life. I am restoring and healing in ways you can't perceive, but are happening nonetheless. On your own you are weak and static, you have voids that need filling. I am your strength, I am your energy, I am Holiness making you whole."
The Voice of my Redeemer. There is nothing like it.
I put the last few touches on the unicorn and smiled at the beauty that had surfaced. In my broken humanity I had defined her, brought her out of blurred confusion, and she stands majestic in the midst of her renewed surroundings.
He assures me that though my circumstances and setting may not change He is restoring, healing, and redeeming even now. Using all that is; the difficult, the lovely, the painful and perfect to bring about His beautiful plan.
Psalm 103:2-3
