My Best Work

Maybe its just because it is 1am and I've been staring at the monitor post processing for the last 2 hours... But I just had a moment of complete shock that this beautiful family is mine.

What do we want?

The dialects of creativity are authenticity and hope. Authenticity communicates the distance between brokenness and beauty. It's not that much. Hope communicates the distance between the already and the not yet. It too is not that much.

The poets and mythologies know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words — to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.

That is why the poets tell us such lovely falsehoods. They talk as if the west wind could really sweep into a human soul; but it can't. They tell us that "beauty born of murmuring sound" will pass into human face; but it won't. Or not yet.

We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.

~C. S. Lewis
The Weight of Glory (1949)

Summer Projects

I didn't blog all that much this summer. I was doing to many other projects, things that required not a little time. Here is a sampling:

The Prayer Closet

This last Sunday night my wife and I dropped our kids off at Children's Choir and went for a walk around the lake next to our church. Before the "date night" was over we ended up praying together in one of the newly remodeled prayer rooms at our church. The rooms are used by prayer teams/ministers on Sunday mornings with those who are in need.

My call to ministry is in Spiritual Direction with and through art.

I was contemplating the bare walls of the little room, and wondering about what it would be like for these walls to be adorned with ebenezers. My first thought was that such objects might be intimidating to the uninitiated - when their focus should be on encountering God through prayer in the moment. Then I saw a vision of this little prayer closet opening onto a huge rotund gallery of paintings and sculptures and objects commemorating encounters with God. I was overwhelmed. To make a long story short - I feel this vision is a calling to be involved in the prayer ministry of our church - engaging others in their journey, offering Spiritual Direction, creating and helping others to create their own ebenezers. What FUN!

In many ways this is an outward call that includes the inward practices of quiet, reflection, surrender, and prayer. It is both humbling and exciting to think that the ministry before me exists in a little unadorned windowless closet.

Our Prayer

Like cold steel shackles chafe and burn the skin, rubbing raw and scaring. I watch despair and incapacitating obligation bite viciously through to their bones.

Then a flash of bright springtime green with little yellow flowers dotting the field and cotton wisps floating in the air. In slow motion stretching, yearning eyes heavenward, leaving the earth she leaps, a pirouette of joyous vibrant color, the icy black chains falling broken back to the ground.

and back again to black eyed doubt and duty. Peeling wallpaper, rust and must make their home in bewildered blinded hearts, becoming embittered - cracked and peeling just like the walls of this cell. Like late fall leaves caught up in a thorny juniper, dry and crackling, so fragile after a season with no rain.

How to remove them without crushing them to dust?

The enemy watches too. Giggling with glee at his priceless catch of princes and queens.

Oh tears! Sweet gift of tears! Flow like sacred waters of baptism. Immerse these drying souls and soften them - be a salve for their affliction. Holy tears from our savior.

Look up and feel the life giving summer rain as it kicks up coronas of dead and dying dust all around you with each weighty plop.

Plop

Plop

Stand up from the spiritual squalor and humbly stretch your needy arms upward in the downpour of his compassion and care.

Lord hear our prayer.

a dream - The Visitor

Hovering above me as I slept in my bed he scratched out, "You don't want to forget this." The somehow familiar hoarse whisper. He set a small box on my nightstand. I woke up slowly, without fear and with too slight an annoyance. In hindsight I wonder how this could be. A looming figure in our bedroom in the middle of the night, three children asleep just across the hall.

Lean and disheveled, his unkempt greying beard disguised leathery sunken cheeks under deep set dark eyes. Well worn khakis two sizes too big were heavily cinched at his waist. His soiled t-shirt fell over them smelling of stale cigarettes, sweat and beer. The faint blue moon illuminated the silence through sheer shades gently wafting. I glanced at my unstiring wife, and scanned his hands for weapons. A gaunt yet imposing visage belying a wiry strength, I knew he didn't need any. So I rolled out of bed gently sliding his clandestine delivery off the nightstand and holding it protectively to my gut.

We stood together in my grandfather's pristine garage with plastic flowery curtains hiding the clean work bench and well sharpened gardening tools. All around was the comforting warm sweet aroma of lubricating oil mixed with grass clippings. Our only illumination from the half light side door spilled askew across the space. His half lit disturbing presence juxtaposed against the light in stark angular vertically. He turned to face me.

"I don't want this," I said, holding the box out to him. I felt like a ghost outside of myself, like I should be fearing for my life, but I am beyond fear of pain or injury. No! Like I should be fearing for my soul, and a nauseating tingle rose up my spine.

"That's fine," he offered slowly through a pursed frown, shaking his head and casually swinging his sinewy arms in a wide gesture that he really couldn't care less. He took a step away from me, his gaze sweeping across the painted concrete floor.

"Then take it back," I thought to myself.

In the driveway now, his dark junker of a work truck, bent and rusting, overflowed with debris and filthy tools. The driver side door was open and an empty beer can fell out, bounced twice and then rolled with a hollow tinkle out toward the street. He stood there pacing in the glow of the orange sodium street lamp where the well trimmed lawn met the sidewalk.

I watched empty handed next to the house as he unzipped and took a leak on my grandfather's roses. "You're going to want it back," he intoned, hostile.

"I don't think so," I offered calmly confidently, controlling a wired alertness ready to react - to run or to fight. He stared right through me, throwing all of his energy into that piercing gaze, penetrating my soul. There he met an outside strength that bolstered me and allowed me to stand despite my fear. A strength that assured me the battle was uneven in my favor.

"Oh, You're going to regret that," he threatened as he undid his belt and let down those two sizes too big khakis and began to defecate on my driveway.

I turned and went inside.

Play House Follow up

Here are a few pictures of the different playhouses from the gala. The night of the gala was overcast and rainy. A shame, because there was low turn out. All told they raised around $20,000 for their non-profit.


The week of wear and tear from being on display at the children's museum did minor harm to most of the houses. The only thing we couldn't touch up: They had removed the bell cord, and try as we might we couldn't get it re-threaded inside.


Our steering wheel survived though!


I got a lot of compliments for SPOT. In the end our firehouse was the biggest dollar bringer at auction, though in my opinion, it wasn't best of show...

This beauty was dubbed an "artist's studio," and had a chalk board inside. The week at the museum left it completely covered with chalk tags and names. It looked fantastic. I thought it was a shame they hosed it down for the gala. If I were to buy one of these playhouses, this would be the one. It now has a home in the backyard of a posh 1920's mansion near Cheeseman Park in Denver.


"Chia House" photographs better than it looks in person. Construction wise I doubt it will make it through a winter.

Act now and your child could have the COOLEST lemonade stand on the block...


This "space station" was completely covered in zinc panels! We are speculating that the price it fetched at auction wouldn't even cover the cost of the siding.

All in all, working on the playhouse competition was a fun experience. I think we can do a much better job, much more efficiently next year.

Three Fires

This economy is getting the best of me

I wish I could say the sweet scented smears of sunscreen and the whistling slightly over-seared dogs being snatched from certain fiery death by my tongs just in time for dinner has been occupying my carefree mind this summer, keeping me content if not slightly too full and a wee bit sticky. But truth be told, I've been sinking. sinking... sinking...

Going under. Glancing up far too calmly at the swirling immense complexity of it all clicking and whirring away without me. "Isn't that interesting?" I think to myself. Down. down... down...

Here I sit, Monday through Thursday, earning what feels like too much pay for this... this... sitting.

Grateful to be employed, but with lack of good meaningful work to do a curious little battle for my self worth is being waged. As if I was a genteel spectator at a civil war battle, I watch the flying darts and arrows of occupational malaise pierce my own soul. Lethargic - almost disinterested. Their seeping poison making me sleepy.

One more lap around the empty office? Another cup of coffee? What am I doing here? Isn't there something more important I could be doing? Is this pay check worth it?

How did work get all tied up with money anyway? Work is good for the soul. But money without work has me caught like a greedy monkey with his clenched fist in a jar.

Hey! I would listen if You told me to let go. I thought you should know.

Playhouse Design

Well times are slow for us architects right now. In our lull we contributed some time for a fun fund raiser for a local affordable housing developer, Rocky Mountain Communities. They are on display at the Children's museum for the next week and a half. If you are in Denver on July 25th consider attending the gala and bidding on one of the five playhouses designed by local architects for your backyard.

We designed a firehouse complete with a fire engine to drive, a bell to ring, a ladder to climb, and a real brass pole to slide down! The engine house mascot "Spot" even has his own doggy door!

I have a couple of quick shots from set up this morning. The signage was installed later. I'll get a few more shots at the gala. Some of the other entries are pretty cool too!

Good Friends, Summer, Special Days, and Lost Shoes

Good Friends

3 days this week we spent some good quality time hanging out and talking with friends. I love watching my wife light up and engage in conversation - loving on and enjoying the people who are important to her - to us. We are not extroverts, but company brings out the best in both of us, I think.

Summer

Our backyard has a large box elder tree with a swing, and an even taller European linden tree that flowers with these strange light green wisps giving it a great rich two tone hue this time of year. Tonight around twilight the lawn was freshly mowed and the garden was weeded and most of the toys were picked up. The sprinkler was running. I plugged in the strands of white Christmas lights that run through our patio awning, and just soaked in the crisp summer air, feeling the misted grass between my toes. I love summer in Colorado. I love our backyard.

Special Days

Amanda and I have been married 10 years. She asked me, over dinner as we celebrated, what some of my favorite memories were from these ten years. I had a few significant ones to share. But right now the only thing that occupies my mind are glimpses of her joy finding expression in sparkling laughing eyes, - her nurture metered out to an infant asleep on her chest, - her contentment seated beside me holding hands on the couch. Truly, it is all the little insignificant memories of these last 10 years of blessings that make me long for more.

To the next 10 and beyond sweetie!

Lost Shoes

I found two navy blue crocs in the bathroom tonight. They are beloved, well worn, and sized perfectly for a 5 year old boy. The house was dark, and everyone else was asleep. I looked at them and remembered all the frustration that ensued hours before when these shoes could not be found.

"They're not in the shoe basket, not in your room, not in the backyard buried in the sand, not in the playroom, not in the basement, not in the car, not in the living room, not in the kitchen , not in the dining room. None of the normal places you lose them. Maybe you need to go barefoot to remember to put your shoes away!"

*sigh*

They are really small shoes, sized perfectly for a 5 year old boy, sitting there on the bath mat next to the tub with foam cutouts to stick on the glass during bath time. I love the little feet that fill those shoes. He deserves better than my aggravated impatience. I'm going to miss those really small crocs when they are replaced with size 15 sneakers. And even more when they won't be found on my floor anymore.

Lord Jesus, hear mr prayers, petitions, and thanksgiving for good friends, Summer, special days, and especially for lost shoes!

I Will Rise

"I'm on fire when you're near me. I'm on fire when you speak."

Sunday worship has been moving me to speechless silence and tears. The experience is a potent visceral oomph like my chest is opened and waves of joy and praise are lapping my soul as I raise my hands to heaven. There is NOTHING that compares to my invitation into His life. There is no sensation as tremendous as pure worship. Not sex. Not Drugs. Not Alcohol. Nothing compares...

Nothing.

"Yes, I will rise when he calls my name!"

Dads Rock

I got a quick little graphic art assignment from church last Tuesday.  "Can we get it by Thursday."  OK.  Sounds fun.

Chrysalis Christianity

I sit across from people and help identify their present: Right now, Who are you? Who is God? How are you living? Sometimes I see the incongruities between the answers to those three questions. Their faith penetrates the soil of their lives, often quite deeply, like roots - twisting, turning, burrowing, making room, fracturing the hard pan and clay. But so many (all) have rocks and even boulders where that faith does not seem to penetrate. Sometimes those boulders are so obvious, so incongruant, so much an obstacle that I feel this impatient need to pull out the jackhammer.

I know it hurts, SIT STILL! It's for your own good don't you know! 

For the record, God is not this way.

I was talking with a mentor the other day, and she confirmed that this festering impatience is in her too.  "But you can't squeeze a butterfly out of its chrysalis."  That's the picture I left with that day.

God lets wheat and tares grow up together. He explains, "because while you are pulling the weeds, you may root up the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest."

Clearly we are to tend the garden of our souls, but don't let impatience or guilt cloud the underlying truth.  We the elect are already planted as true good seed right down to the DNA, but not yet fulfilled. He is faithful to complete what he has started!

"I know he is faithful" they say, "in my head anyway..."

That is a great place to start.  Lets talk about what you know of His faithfulness!

Rabbit Heart

Rabbit heart danced in perpetual jerky fitfull loops

"Never stopping means always safe," she gasped,
bloodshot eyes scanning the horizon.

Rock heart watched with persisting calm and curious wonder

Rabbit's burning circuit.

This way, that
This way, that
Going, going

nowhere fast

With determined measure and a slow certainty 

Rock placed his hand as an obstacle to her circuit.

from the corner of the eye, 

a stationary blur, 

Ahead unmoving... Shock. 

Stumble or stand? 

Stumble or Stand!?!

skidding on her chin to a gritty halt.

Listen... he intoned.

*silence*

Can you hear ?

*silence*

Listen...

Three Questions

Are two words copyrightable?  If so, see here.  Put your dime in that cup.

Who am I?

Who is God?

How am I living?

It ALL comes back to this:  Know yourself.  Know God.  Move forward.  

Peripateo is a Greek word that translates as a beautiful mix of walking and living.  To LIVE means to MOVE.  

These three simple questions open a door to discernment and growth in the Spirit that astounds me time after time after time.  

Today:

I am peaceful, though there is trouble.

He is in control, my firm foundation.

One blind step at a time.

Going to Print

Nothing like a deadline to bring a work to completion.  I am finally pleased with it.  I am taking it to print in the morning.   Now it needs a title.  the working title is "sacrifice," but it has spoken so much more than that to me over these last few weeks.  I've got a few days to decide on the title.  I am submitting this painting and Co-Heir in the Bear Valley Visual Arts Show, which will run through the 26th.  I'll let you know how it is received.  

I've was invited to speak at Cherry Hills Community Church.  This image will likely be the centerpiece of that engagement.  We haven't finalized the date yet.  It will be sometime this summer after I am through with finals.

Both And

Have you noticed,

Almost every psalm turns back to God.

Art is an abiding language.  

You can't be in its presence and stray for long.  

It takes you into itself.  

It doesn't just scream truth into the aether.

It always invites you in.

Feel it

Experience it

Know it intimately

abide

This quality makes art profoundly apologetic,

connecting heart and mind.

Didactic teaching cannot be 

the Gospel without words.

Cracking the Nut

In a past life I found a mathematical metaphor for everything I loved about Architectural Design. It was the Leplace transform. Take calculus and turn it into algebra. You could write an infomercial about this thing.

"It slices , it dices, it makes mounds and mounds of coleslaw!"

What I loved about Architectural Design was solving a complex problem through the means of an artificial conceptual framework. All of the difficulties came together easily once the concept was discerned. Once the nut is cracked in that conceptual world, you can "transform" it back into our world as built form. And it didn't really matter to me if anyone inhabiting the built form ever knew the concept. I knew it. I let it take up residence in my built form. It peaked at you from every corner, because each detail was informed by the concept holding the space together. With great assurance and even pride I knew the built form reverberated with a deep truth, a central kernel that made it beautiful, and right, and maybe even perfect! At least that was the goal.

Jesus Christ was the transform in my life. I let Him take up residence in me. He peaks out at you from every corner because each detail is being informed by the God Man who holds this space together.

Now I am trying to discern the "nut" that needs to be cracked in this painting. This painting is a detail of my life that needs to be informed by Christ. Yet, it isn't for me. I am designing a work of art that every person will possess and assess differently. Truly this is the beauty of art. As each person abides with the work, it somehow unlocks the truths that are within them. I need to see that the painting is more like the transform than the complex puzzle to be solved. We are the complex puzzle to be solved.

She asked me, "Have you asked God what the nut is?"

"Hmmm, No. Let's do that!"

As I drove up Santa Fe yesterday I asked Him. Do you know what He said?

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Work In Progress

I am attempting to "complete the process" this semester - cross the finish line - persevere - diligently cross my t's and dot my i's. To bring it past the inspiration to the fulfillment of purpose. And I mean that for all of life really, not just this painting. But this yet unfinished painting is a signpost at a fork in the road. What do I do now to complete it? What do you see here?


Which is the likeness of Christ? Which is the likeness I want for myself? Which do I want for you, brother? For you, Sister? For you, son? For you, daughter?

I see the dissonance between the sacrificial servant savior bloodied and beaten, ready to die, extending his hand of blessing to one pristine and polished with good posture.

At once I feel grateful for His sacrificial blessing, and yet see the ways I am far from His likeness. What is this good news transforming us into?

Cast off the distancing mask of perfection.
Embrace the melody of brokenness and the melody of grace.
He has shown the way.