Recently I was invited by the lovely Sarah Martin to participate with
a group of other bloggers collecting "stones".
Read on to find out what it's about.
Today I am sharing an art piece that is still a work in progress
as part of The Stone Collective.
*
The Stone Collective is a community making much of Jesus as we create art,
photography, prose, poems or music that commemorate the wonderful things God
does in our life.
Based on the passage in 1 Samuel 7:12-14,
each month we will
collect Ebenezer Stones
as a regularly practice in the art of worship via our
creativity.
Want to join in on The Stone Collective?
Last month, I participated in an online class, "Writing The Land" taught by Dawn Wink.
The land, nature, geography all find their way into my art and photos.
Outside of the Bible, I hear from God by observing nature.
This piece makes an attempt to grasp one of those moments.
I adore the prairie. It is truly my spiritual geography.
It is where my spirit has grown and been healed and nurtured.
In my morning writing, I asked,
Could I love another geography so much?
The answer that flowed onto the page was this:
"Oh yes," whispers a voice in my mind.
"It's not so much the location as it is the eye that is willing to see.
To look where few linger to look."
So stop and look some more.
Look out your window.
I gaze out and first see the clear blue sky straight above.
The clouds plump periwinkle mixed with gray clouds whisp over the horizon to the south east
and the white rays of sun peeking over.
I don't see it at first, but then I look toward the sun.
Directly in line with it . . . only in that line do I see the shimmer. The millions of God-miracles dancing as they descend, silently whispering, "Look toward the Light and it is there you will see the miracle."
I grab the camera, but the shots cannot convey the shimmer, the vastness of the sparkle,
the rainbow casting sparkle that is only visible by looking toward the light.
I make a sketch.
I write.
The sun. White light. Why do we paint it yellow?
I cannot look directly at it, but when I look toward it, that is where I see the glitter of snowflakes.
There is no wind.
No clouds directly above.
The cold freezes the water vapor in the air though they don't fall from a cloud.
They dance, playfully showing off.
Delightful like a four-year-old giggling and catching them on her tongue.
Is there something revealed of God's divinity -- His divine nature and eternal power--
in this very glimpse of splendor
from my kitchen window?
From my table where I witness sacred ordinary miracles
if I am willing to see . . .
I take note.
It can only be seen from a personal perspective.
The line of glittering beauty goes directly in a straight line from the light
to the one who looks toward it.
It is a personal connection, view, perspective available to anyone who stops to look.
It is there for those who stop in awe, in wonder and marvel at the sight of it.
It shines the secret glitter in each of our locations.
And I think to myself...
Isn't that how God is?
He reveals Himself to each one of us in a personal, intimate way, when we stop and truly look.
He shows His beauty to us in everyday circumstances of our life
if we will look toward His light.
And so . . .
I attempt to create a piece of art
to remember the moment.
The art is an imitation, but will never adequately replicate the original sight.
Romans 1:20 says,
20 For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.
I find myself looking for His qualities in the things that have been made...
