When we moved in to this house and flowers started blooming that first spring, I discovered the small plant with shiny green leaves. It produced large white flowers with a touch of fuchsia inside. I thought I knew what the plant was but wasn’t sure. Peonies? I had read about them before but never seen a real one. They aren’t a usual part of the landscape where I live. I hastily gathered and brought the large intricate blooms inside where the sweet fragrance filled the kitchen.
But the plant is in a part of the yard that I don’t see regularly and frankly, I forgot to check on them the next year. Last year, I remembered it but we had such a drought that the bush withered before it could bloom.
A few weeks ago, we went to a dinner party at a friend’s house. In the front yard stood two bushes loaded with the biggest white flowers (with fuschia in the center) I had ever seen. One of them could fill both my hands together. Our friend confirmed what I already knew: peonies. Inside her house they graced the tables, countertops, the bathroom vanity. I was happy to see them and to know that, unless the drought struck again, we should soon have similar blooms on our plant and in our house.
But I forgot to check again! That is, until Monday. Monday was very stressful, so that afternoon my dog and I stepped out on the back deck for some fresh air. I walked to the railing and looked at the yard below. I suddenly remembered the peony. Leaning over the railing and turning my head far to the left, I saw them: four large peonies, slumped over because they were too heavy for the stems. Yes! I thought. I’ll cut them after dinner. I’ve got to get back to work. But then I felt this urging: Don’t wait. Go get them now.
And a few minutes later, they stood in a vase on our kitchen counter that a few weeks ago held flowers from a friend’s garden. Their faces and their fragrance have cheered me in the middle of a hard week. They do look a little timeworn—they must have bloomed at the end of last week. And to think, I almost missed it! It would have been my loss.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Blessed Art Thou Among Women
Last Saturday, we went to an exhibition at the art museum that highlighted the paintings and photographs of several American women modernists. One of the most famous photographers of her day, Gertrude Kasebier (1852-1934), became known for her motif of mothers in her photos. A mother of three herself, she said, “"My children and their children have been my closest thought, but from the first days of dawning individuality, I have longed unceasingly to make pictures of people...to make likenesses that are biographies, to bring out in each photograph the essential personality."
One of my favorite paintings of hers does bring out the essential personality in her subject matter. It is called Blessed Art Thou Among Women, which alludes to the biblical passage surrounding Mary and the Annunciation. The woman—the mother—in the photograph stands in the doorway with a girl of maybe 10 years old in a dark dress, tights, and shoes. The mother wears a long, flowing white gown with ruffles on the top that remind me of angel’s wings. She’s looking away from the lens and seems to be leaning over to give the girl a kiss on the head. The visual contrast between the mother’s white gown and the girl’s dark dress grabs my attention and pulls me in.
The theme of a mother getting her child ready for the world makes this photograph particularly striking. As I looked at it, I thought about the mystique surrounding motherhood. I thought about my daughter: does she know how much I love and adore her? And how grateful I am that she is mine and what a gift she has been to me?
I thought about my mother: does she know how much I love and adore her? And how grateful I am for all she has done for me and what a gift she has been to me?
As we celebrate Mother’s Day this weekend, I’ll make sure to tell them these things again. And I’ll think about how motherhood has stretched and grown me more than I ever dreamed it would, how I love being a mother even on challenging days, how I can’t imagine my life any other way.
One of my favorite paintings of hers does bring out the essential personality in her subject matter. It is called Blessed Art Thou Among Women, which alludes to the biblical passage surrounding Mary and the Annunciation. The woman—the mother—in the photograph stands in the doorway with a girl of maybe 10 years old in a dark dress, tights, and shoes. The mother wears a long, flowing white gown with ruffles on the top that remind me of angel’s wings. She’s looking away from the lens and seems to be leaning over to give the girl a kiss on the head. The visual contrast between the mother’s white gown and the girl’s dark dress grabs my attention and pulls me in.
The theme of a mother getting her child ready for the world makes this photograph particularly striking. As I looked at it, I thought about the mystique surrounding motherhood. I thought about my daughter: does she know how much I love and adore her? And how grateful I am that she is mine and what a gift she has been to me?
I thought about my mother: does she know how much I love and adore her? And how grateful I am for all she has done for me and what a gift she has been to me?
As we celebrate Mother’s Day this weekend, I’ll make sure to tell them these things again. And I’ll think about how motherhood has stretched and grown me more than I ever dreamed it would, how I love being a mother even on challenging days, how I can’t imagine my life any other way.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Beauty Points
Years ago, when I came out of a time of grieving, I felt as though I had finally awakened from a long slumber. Gradually, my eyes were opened to beauty and I saw it everywhere: in my home, in my baby girl’s face, in art, creation, music, words. It had been there all along but I didn’t see it, didn’t fully appreciate it. And it was my loss.
Beauty doesn’t create itself. What I saw and experienced moved me to praise and thank the Creator. I worship the Creator of beauty, not beauty itself. I worship God, not the sunrise or mountains or flowers He made. Not the painting or the painter, the music or musician, but the One who made them possible. As CS Lewis noted, beauty is not the absolute. It points beyond itself. When I point at something, you don’t look at my finger for very long; you look to see where I am pointing. Beauty points us to God.
To me, that God would give us beauty is amazing and humbling. Why would He do that? I believe God loves us. I believe He loves beauty. I believe He is beauty, and He has lavished it upon us with joy and abandon. Do you see it?
Where?
Beauty doesn’t create itself. What I saw and experienced moved me to praise and thank the Creator. I worship the Creator of beauty, not beauty itself. I worship God, not the sunrise or mountains or flowers He made. Not the painting or the painter, the music or musician, but the One who made them possible. As CS Lewis noted, beauty is not the absolute. It points beyond itself. When I point at something, you don’t look at my finger for very long; you look to see where I am pointing. Beauty points us to God.
To me, that God would give us beauty is amazing and humbling. Why would He do that? I believe God loves us. I believe He loves beauty. I believe He is beauty, and He has lavished it upon us with joy and abandon. Do you see it?
Where?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Just Another Day at the Farm
It’s fall. A beautiful, warm day at the pumpkin farm. The brilliant blue sky fills in the background behind a row of pines, green as ever. A red-roofed pavilion houses displays of Indian corn, boxes of grotesque gourds, and parents with little ones. A maple tree, tall and bent a little, shows off orange leaves, not to be outdone by the profusion below. The orange of the pumpkins explodes against brown dirt and yellow hay.
It’s our second annual visit with her grandparents. She’s two this time and can walk and even run among the misshapen, mutant-looking pumpkins. She’s looking at the camera with eyes squinting in the late morning sunlight. Light bounces off long blond hair as she stands next to a group of the largest pumpkins, their shadows taller than she is. Her hands are clasped together uneasily, plump little fingers gripping themselves. The blue of her shirt, her plaid overalls, even her eyes, reflects the blue above her. Her toddler tennis shoes are too white but won’t be for long. She’s half-smiling, unsure and even a little confused. “What are these things, Mama? Will they get me?”
The photo hangs on my inspiration board—a memory of a day filled with many types of beauty.
It’s our second annual visit with her grandparents. She’s two this time and can walk and even run among the misshapen, mutant-looking pumpkins. She’s looking at the camera with eyes squinting in the late morning sunlight. Light bounces off long blond hair as she stands next to a group of the largest pumpkins, their shadows taller than she is. Her hands are clasped together uneasily, plump little fingers gripping themselves. The blue of her shirt, her plaid overalls, even her eyes, reflects the blue above her. Her toddler tennis shoes are too white but won’t be for long. She’s half-smiling, unsure and even a little confused. “What are these things, Mama? Will they get me?”
The photo hangs on my inspiration board—a memory of a day filled with many types of beauty.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Through the Mist
In the spring a few years ago, while at a corporate event at a local resort, my husband rose before sunrise one morning and went for a walk. He’s an early riser by nature--he enjoys the quiet before the rest of the world wakes up. In the early-morning hush, he strolled through the manicured grounds of the golf course. As he topped a small knoll, his eyes caught a sight that amazed and stilled him: through the light mist ahead of him, a dozen deer stood motionless on the green. He stared at them for a few moments until one of them caught his scent and they all bounded away. Watching them, he felt both sorry to see them go and elated that he had seen them at all.
The next spring, my husband’s company had another event that brought them to the same resort. Up early the first morning, he set out for the golf course. Would the deer be there? He walked slowly, careful this time to be as quiet and alert as possible. He watched for them. And a little while later, he again saw a group of deer, a beautiful sight through the mist. On that spring morning, he went looking—hoping—for beauty and he found it.
Do you look for beauty? Where? I’d love to hear about it.
The next spring, my husband’s company had another event that brought them to the same resort. Up early the first morning, he set out for the golf course. Would the deer be there? He walked slowly, careful this time to be as quiet and alert as possible. He watched for them. And a little while later, he again saw a group of deer, a beautiful sight through the mist. On that spring morning, he went looking—hoping—for beauty and he found it.
Do you look for beauty? Where? I’d love to hear about it.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Beauty Before the Blue
“The sky is the daily bread of the eyes.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
On our daily drive to school, my daughter and I take a long, winding back road lined with older houses and mature flowering trees and hardwoods. Spring and fall are my favorite seasons, and during those months, the scenery on the side of the road is a show-stopper.
But one chilly morning, as we started our drive, it was the scene above that grabbed our attention. The sunrise stunned us. While we wound our way on that curvy road in the early morning light, we caught glimpses of brilliant colors through the branches overhead. We talked about each color as it intensified and then faded a few minutes later.
“I see pink!” she’d cry.
“I see orange!” I’d say.
As we watched, I thanked God out loud for the beauty in the sky. A few minutes later, my daughter said, “I think God did that just for us. He knew we’d be on the road right now.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling to myself. “He knew how much we’d love it.” And He knew I’d talk to her about the One who created it. The beauty of that sunrise and of that moment with my daughter filled my heart with praise. Awe and gratitude stayed with me long after the colors disappeared into the blue.
On our daily drive to school, my daughter and I take a long, winding back road lined with older houses and mature flowering trees and hardwoods. Spring and fall are my favorite seasons, and during those months, the scenery on the side of the road is a show-stopper.
But one chilly morning, as we started our drive, it was the scene above that grabbed our attention. The sunrise stunned us. While we wound our way on that curvy road in the early morning light, we caught glimpses of brilliant colors through the branches overhead. We talked about each color as it intensified and then faded a few minutes later.
“I see pink!” she’d cry.
“I see orange!” I’d say.
As we watched, I thanked God out loud for the beauty in the sky. A few minutes later, my daughter said, “I think God did that just for us. He knew we’d be on the road right now.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling to myself. “He knew how much we’d love it.” And He knew I’d talk to her about the One who created it. The beauty of that sunrise and of that moment with my daughter filled my heart with praise. Awe and gratitude stayed with me long after the colors disappeared into the blue.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
The Jar of Clay
It was our first anniversary. One year of marriage. One wonderful and, at times, stressful year of becoming a couple and a family all at once. Our paths to each other had taken many twists and turns but God brought us together, surprising and delighting and thrilling us both.
So, to celebrate, he and I stole away to a lovely little mountain town that becomes a large mountain town when it’s swollen with tourists during the peak season. But that weekend, it was just the locals and us. We felt spoiled because we had the restaurants, shops, and streets to ourselves.
One day, after a very nice, almost gourmet lunch in a small hotel restaurant, we drove down the street to the art gallery. We had spied it the day before and were looking forward to seeing whatever treasures it held. We hoped to find something to commemorate the occasion. When we walked inside, the grayness outside faded with bright lights and colorful canvases. Wow. Surely there would be something special here.
My husband stopped to look at the paintings close to the front. I moved on ahead. When I turned a corner, I saw it, hanging up on the left. It stopped me in my tracks. The painting was large, first of all, and the blend of colors jumped off the canvas: greens, purples, blues, pinks, a band of coral at the top, a light green background. It was striking. I called my husband over and he had a similar reaction. Wow!
A few moments later, he said, “It’s a jar of clay.”
“Yes,” I said. “Like we are.”
The rest of the day, we couldn't stop thinking and talking about that painting so we brought it home with us. It now hangs in our living room. Its beauty reminds us of our faith, our love for each other, and a trip that celebrated both.
So, to celebrate, he and I stole away to a lovely little mountain town that becomes a large mountain town when it’s swollen with tourists during the peak season. But that weekend, it was just the locals and us. We felt spoiled because we had the restaurants, shops, and streets to ourselves.
One day, after a very nice, almost gourmet lunch in a small hotel restaurant, we drove down the street to the art gallery. We had spied it the day before and were looking forward to seeing whatever treasures it held. We hoped to find something to commemorate the occasion. When we walked inside, the grayness outside faded with bright lights and colorful canvases. Wow. Surely there would be something special here.
My husband stopped to look at the paintings close to the front. I moved on ahead. When I turned a corner, I saw it, hanging up on the left. It stopped me in my tracks. The painting was large, first of all, and the blend of colors jumped off the canvas: greens, purples, blues, pinks, a band of coral at the top, a light green background. It was striking. I called my husband over and he had a similar reaction. Wow!
A few moments later, he said, “It’s a jar of clay.”
“Yes,” I said. “Like we are.”
The rest of the day, we couldn't stop thinking and talking about that painting so we brought it home with us. It now hangs in our living room. Its beauty reminds us of our faith, our love for each other, and a trip that celebrated both.
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