She took a toy marketed toward little girls, and she put the magic back into the doll. She stripped away the intended message, the over sexualized image, and she replaced it with innocence and imagination.
Where once these dolls had no no power to inspire, Sonia brought life and personality to them, and in so doing she awakened the imaginations of little girls.
Sonia is “just a mom.” She had no aspirations to go viral, or to make a business out of recycled dolls. She just had a vision, a creative gift, and the confidence to try something different.
Dear creative mom, do you see the magic at your fingertips? That vision that you have has the power to impact, to move us all, to awaken imagination and inspire joy. Your creativity is needed, and it all starts right there inside your home.
Don’t hide your gift. Don’t tuck away in the closet in shame. Share it. Show the world what you can do.Because creative motherhood is the pulse of imaginative childhood.
Your creativity, your artistry, it matters. That furniture you’re repainting, the walls you’re adorning, the cakes you’re baking and cookies you’re decorating, those words you’re penning, songs you’re singing, canvases that you’re lavishing with color, those photos you’re taking, and the dolls you’re remaking – all of it matters.
Your gifts are necessary, moms. Your creativity is needed. Because who but you will show these children of the digital age how to play? Who but you will give them the confidence to dream?
When motherhood, creativity, imagination, and artistry collide, the result is nothing short of magical.
Lee and I circled the podium and, like everyone else around us, our eyes turned upward in awe. Mouths slightly agape, breathless at the sight of one of the greatest pieces of art of all time. We were in Florence, Italy and we were standing in front of the Statue of the David.
To say that this sculpture is impressive is an understatement. It is truly the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen, and I think I could have stayed in that room for hours studying it. The marble was exquisitely crafted into the image of a man, but what made it impressive were the details. The sinewy muscles of the shoulders and legs stretched made it appear that at any moment, the man would step off his pedestal and begin walking.
Masterful art by a master artist. How did Michelangelo do it? How did he form something so spectacular out of a damaged piece of marble over 500 years ago? Could it be because the artist was also the art and, therefore, the creating was merely an extension of his God-given gift?
Let me explain.
In response to Monday’s post, I had some really wonderful, thought-provoking conversation. Can an artist be a Christian without making Christian art? After a lot of thought, I’ve come up with what I hope is a worthy (and theologically sound) response.
The short answer is this: Yes and No.
Ah, ambiguity. Don’t you just love it?
If you look at the history of the Church, though, perhaps you will begin to better see what I mean. This idea of “sacred” verses “secular,” particularly when it pertains to art, is a modern concept. We began to draw a line of distinction between that which honored God and that which honored the world, and in so doing, we the Church (and in this case, the Church refers mostly to the Protestant Church) set up a false view of life and art, and ultimately of God. We began to claim and preach that anything that didn’t directly point to God, or speak of Him, did not bring Him honor and, therefore, art within the Christian realm was dumbed down.
A friend emailed me after Monday’s post with some thoughts on the matter and his words were good. Really good. I won’t embarrass him by sharing his name, but I’d like to pull a couple of quotes from his message:
“I think the dichotomy that sets [art] up as “intertwined” or “separate” is a false dichotomy. As Christians, everything we do takes place in a renewed, renovated, redeemed, forthcoming, there-but-not-yet, kingdom (on earth as it is in heaven). Therefore, there is no “separate,” as Christ is part of our identity, sealed upon rebirth. EVERYthing is intertwined. The gist of your point, though, on whether the art can be accessed within or without a (somewhat artificial) lens of “religion,” is merely one of public perception, and that’s one that’s changed substantially throughout history.“
If God is the Creator, the painter of this world and all that is in it, the Word from the very beginning of time, the rhythm to which we sing, the measured beat of the poem, and if we are His created beings fashioned in His image, then in a very real sense all forms of creativity have the potential to point to Him.
Do you see the beauty and the freedom in what we are discussing here? My friends, as his created beings, we are all the art.
“For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” Ephesians 2:10
When Paul wrote that we were “His workmanship,” the Greek word he used was Poiema, meaning “made or crafted.” Friends, we as believers are the poem. We are the song. We are the beautiful painting. We are the handcrafted evidence of His Creative Power. We create because we were created.
What beautiful freedom to be found in this truth!
What does that mean, then, for those of us who create art that doesn’t explicitly point to God? This is a concept to be broken up in two different ways.
First, a believer can create something that reveals God without ever once mentioning His Name. It happens all the time. Paintings, photographs, novels, music, and so on – all of these can be written, and have been written, by Christians who used their creative gifts to showcase God, without ever once mentioning His Name. Faith and Art are intertwined, because the Poiema is simply living out the craftsmanship of God.
But art can be made that flies directly in the face of God. We can just as easily point to paintings, photographs, novels, music, and so on, that go against the very nature of who God is – so what do we do with this?
As believers we have been given the Holy Spirit, and through the Spirit we have discernment to know and understand and see that which does not bring glory to God. For this reason, I can still appreciate the art of a non-Christian as a revelation by God, though the artist may not have intended it to be such.
I can also discern when an art form is in direct contradiction with the very character and nature of God, and I can choose to look away. Not all art reveals God, because as sinful man our very first tendency will be to glorify ourselves.
But again, all forms of creativity have the potential to honor God.
If all of creation reveals the Creator, then creativity (as defined by the act of creating) will always begin with the potential to honor God. But…
There’s still so much more to say on the topic, so I will conclude this message in one final post. In the meantime, what are your thoughts? Feel free to share in the comments, or to shoot me a private message if you’re more comfortable with that.
It’s been two and a half years since I boarded a plane to Tanzania. Two and a half years since I walked through the red dirt and cried, the images of abject poverty almost too much for my heart to comprehend.
Two and a half years ago, I learned that Hope is Slow, and that is, perhaps, the most valuable lesson the Lord has taught me. I’m still grasping hold of what that means even today. Hope is so very slow, and I get weary in the waiting, but God in His Mercy is not bound by my impatient timeframe.
Hope may be slow, but it is alive.
The work that Compassion International does worldwide is humbling. I’ve seen firsthand the impact this ministry has on communities, the hope they are bringing to families living in poverty, and I have wept.
Hope is Slow.
Today, Compassion is participating in #GivingTuesday, and together you and I can help spread Hope. In this season of giving, when our hearts are soft and pliable, let’s join together and make a difference.
Over 2 million children under the age of 5 die each year in India. In the small community of Gujarat, where many of the mothers are teenagers, most do not have the resources needed to provide for their children.
Today we can change the lives of an entire community. We can reverse the trend of hopelessness, of illness, and of childhood death. Opening a Child Survival Program in Gujarat means:
– training and preparation for young moms to help care for their babies
– helping mothers learn to read and write
– giving children a safe place to learn and grow
– ensuring lifesaving medical care for babies and moms
– proclaiming the hope of God to families living in poverty
Today, as we step away from the blessing of Thanksgiving, and move into the beauty of Christmas, we have the chance to bind together and offer Hope. We can wrap it in love, and breath new life into a community that wonders if Hope is real.
It is real, friends, and it is actively moving through willing hearts across the ocean, and into the arms of young mothers who are more accustomed with fear than they are of Hope.
Will you join with us today? Your donation, no matter the amount, will change a life. Together, in just one day, we can make a huge difference.
Changing the world is entirely possible. Like Hope, Change is Slow. It takes time and patience, and a lot of faith.
Won’t you be a part today? Will you give back according to the abundance of your riches? Will you place your stake in the sand today and declare that there is no place for hopelessness in this world?
To donate to Compassion International’s #GivingTuesday campaign to build a Child Survival Program in Gujart, India, click this link.
After you’ve donated, take a moment to share this on your social media channels. Help us spread the word so that we can link arms with others, and together we can make a huge impact.
Thank you, my friends, for being a part of a movement of Hope. You made a difference today. A big one.
“Mom, I don’t get this problem. I need your help.”
“Mom, does the ‘Y’ at the end of this word make the ‘EE’ sound like ‘happy,’ or the ‘I’ sound like ‘cry?’
“Mom, I can’t find my (fill in the blank).”
“Mom!”
“MOM!”
“MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!”
And then the baby screamed for an hour.
It was one of “those” days. You know what I’m talking about. The kind of day that doesn’t contain enough coffee to make life not feel like a freight train crashing around on a Tilt-a-Whirl. Like you’re being squished and pressed in from all sides, and also on top and from the ground up.
It was a day that came after a night that was too short, and several times interrupted by a baby with a bird mouth who couldn’t find her sleeping groove, and so eating was her go-to coping mechanism.
And so many cries for “Mom.”
As the day drew to a close, I found myself dragging through each motion. With daddy out of town, it all falls on me. Gymnastics, soccer, meals, homework. On a good day, I can rock our schedule with gusty flair, but on a fatigued day, I move a bit like an elephant in quick sand.
I slogged my way through the showers and the late night studies of multiplication tables, my eyelids so heavy that Tia finally looked at me with deep concern.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “Your eyes look weird.”
We’re working on tact with that one…
As I warmed up the baby’s bottle, while quizzing Tia on her math, and listening to Sloan tell me about the new book he was reading, Landon tugged on my shirt.
“Mom?” he asked, eyes all big and hopeful.
“Just a minute, buddy.”
“But…Mom?” He pulled on my shirt again.
“Hang on, babe. I’m listening to Sloan right now. Tia what’s 8×4?”
He leaned against my side and waited for a brief moment before tapping my arm again. I sighed and look down. “What, Landon?!” I was exasperated. He could tell.
He motioned me down so he could whisper in my ear. “I love you,” he said softly, then he smiled wide, thin lips stretched across soft cheeks.
You can’t have him, friends. He’s all mine.
With a lighter heart, I finally got all four (four!) kids settled into bed, and I stood in the middle of my kitchen for a few moments, relishing the stillness and quiet that is rather elusive in our home these days. I felt almost giddy at the thought of my own warm bed waiting for me, and I began preparations to make my way to it.
“Mom?”
I turned to see Tia standing in her doorway. She came padding out and tossed me an impish grin. “I need to get a drink,” she said.
I sighed. “Okay, but be quick, alright?” I was exasperated. She could tell.
“Okay,” she said, then halted. “But I also want to tell you about the rainbow.” She looked at me, her eyes so big they made her look like a Disney princess. How could I say no? I nodded my head reluctantly.
“Did you know that the first color in a rainbow is red, but you can’t see it because just above it is blue, and the red and the blue blend together, and that makes the first stripe look purple? Isn’t that so cool?” Her smile was so wide, and her eyes so delighted to share this information with me that, once again, I felt my fatigue roll off my back like the droplets of water that streak across the windshield.
To all the exhausted, overwhelmed, stretched-too-thin moms out there, I raise my glass to you. We’re fighting the good fight, heels dug in, determined to enjoy this ride called motherhood. We’re told to cherish each moment, but the moments all blend together into chunks of time that feel like they’re just.too.much.
But like the red and the blue of a rainbow, those blended together moments actually make something new and beautiful. They make motherhood.
We’re doing this, friends. We’re living this mothering journey, and it isn’t really glamorous, and perhaps we get exasperated more than we should, but at the end of the day we know we’re loved, and we learn really cool things about rainbows.
So we tuck those brief moments deep in our hearts, and they become the fuel to get us through the next day, and the next night, and the one after that, until we find ourselves on the other side of this journey. I understand why older women tell us to cherish this time.
They know that on the other side of mothering young children, we miss the magic in a rainbow.
The sky was grey the day I met him. It was 2003, and I was in Kiev, Ukraine looking on a quest to speak with the men and women who’d fought valiantly in “The Great Patriotic War.”
Leonid sat behind his desk and looked at me warily, not generally accustomed to people wanting to hear his story. His back was bent, his face bearing the lines of one who’d lived through hell on earth. Through the translator, he asked one simple question.
“Why do you want to know?”
I was a 24 year old pregnant American in Ukraine with a thirst for history. I wanted stories. I wanted to hear them and to tell them. But this man – this man had lived the stories. They weren’t romantic, and they certainly wasn’t as neat as most movies had made them seem. Leonid’s history was alive with the sounds of men dying. He could smell the gunpowder and fear, all mingled together in a story of heartache.
He was a veteran.
The men and women who lived this history are slowly fading into the past. Their stories are all we have left, and we must be willing to listen. We must gather them, and preserve the words if we cannot preserve the sights and sounds. This is why I continue to search for the right publisher for my novel.Because I believe the stories must be told.
We must continue to write books and make movies so that these veterans will understand that we want to know because we want to honor them. And for the men and women who are serving today, the ones living new stories, fighting against our own modern day terrors, we must show them that we respect their sacrifice. That their stories are worth hearing and telling and honoring, too.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked.
“Because I believe your story is worth telling,” I told him.
His eyes glistened and he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands gently in his lap. He took a moment to gain his composure before speaking.
“I was 16 when the Nazi’s invaded my country. My father went to the front immediately and died very quickly. Though I was not yet old enough to enlist, the Red Army allowed me to fight as a volunteer. When I was 17, I entered the front lines.
The men in my unit were not much older than me. They were 18-25 years old, all of us boys. We were afraid, but we had courage in our hearts.
There are a lot of stories I could tell you of those years, but I won’t tell you all of them. Most are too painful. I do remember one evening, though. It was near the end of the war, and we knew that we were winning. We were in Russia at this time, and the winter months were finally ending. It was still cold, but we could feel spring coming. We were by the fire after another long day of walking. We hadn’t seen battle that day, but we knew we could meet a fight at any time. That was part of the fatigue, knowing that we would run into the battle at any moment.
We heard a sound coming from the trees behind our camp and we all stood up. I remember my heart beating so fast I could hardly breathe. A man shouted from the darkness in a language I recognized, but didn’t understand. He was speaking English.
My friend, Pavel, spoke English and responded. He told us to put down our guns because these men were friends.
The Americans sat with us by the fire that night. They gave us cigarettes and vodka. I didn’t understand the conversation, but I remember the camaraderie we all felt. We were different, but we were also the same. We were young men who had survived. We had seen the very worst of mankind, and the very best of mankind. We were all scared, and we were brave.
We were soldiers.
They left the next morning, and not many months later we got news that Hitler was dead. This is the story I want you to know. I want you to know that those years were dark and painful, but there were good things that happened, too. I will always remember that night when I sat with friends from another land.
These are the stories you should tell. Thank you for listening to me.”
To all the veterans who have served in the fight against oppression, I thank you. And to the men and women serving now, I am so very grateful. Your story matters today, and it will matter fifty years from now. Thank you for your sacrifice.
I had big plans for after Annika was born. Because I’d done this baby thing three times before, I just assumed that life would go back to the way it once was, forgetting completely that babies change everything.
There was, of course, a small part of me that new it would be tricky these first few months. But I was only thinking of it from the vantage point of being fatigued. I figured that I would just live tired for a little while, but that’s no big deal, right? I mean, I can do tired.
I also knew that a little more would be required of me as a mother. Whereas the older three can all bathe and dress themselves now, and are relatively independent in the day-to-day tasks of life, I knew that having a baby would be a set back in some of that mothering freedom I’d come to enjoy.
Friends, I forgot completely that babies require just about every ounce of your strength from sun up to sun down, and even a bit of the moonlight hours as well. I mentioned in my last post that Mother’s Amnesia is a real thing, and I had it to the hundredth percent.
I forgot that an eight pound human being needs almost constant care, and that the fatigue nearly obliterates your brain cells. I didn’t just ignore that little fact, I TOTALLY FORGOT IT.
Which makes it laughable that I thought I could just go on with life as it once was, completely uninterrupted.
I don’t say any of these things to complain. In fact, I am about as content and joy-filled as I possibly could be. I am absolutely, madly, deeply, and fully in love with that baby girl, and holding her in my arms feels like a blessed privilege. The weight and warmth of her little body against mine make every sacrificed moment worth it.
But I am also overwhelmed. I feel both sentiments in equal measure.
We are slowly falling into somewhat of a routine these days, and for that I am grateful. She wakes up only once at night, and she is figuring out how to nap during the day. These are good things, and they are gently giving way to more structure in my days. I haven’t yet figured out how to make it to the grocery store, and the house is in a perpetual state of disarray, but no one has starved and we aren’t in need of intervention from the TV show Hoarders just yet, so I think we’re in good shape.
This is just the tenuous art of motherhood that slipped my mind fully. Somewhere between Landon growing from toddler to preschooler, I forgot that life with young children is a beautiful hard.
In addition to the daily crazy, I have a career to nourish now that I didn’t have when my other three were babies. I love what I do, and while I’ve scaled back considerably in the last year to focus more on my family, I still want to nourish and grow this part of myself that I feel God has led me to. So I’m learning and practicing this tenuous art of motherhood and life and creativity.
I’m remembering and I’m growing, and I might be eating a little too much chocolate, but there has to be room for too much of something right now, and the chocolate is at my fingertips.
I’m happy, and I’m busy. I’m overwhelmed, and I’m content.
This is life right now, all rolled up tight in a mess of wants and needs and not enough sleep. There are moments when I want to run away, but they are far outweighed by the feeling that I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Maybe you’re there, too. Maybe you forgot, or maybe you didn’t and you’re simply in that joy-filled overwhelmed phase of life where it seems impossible to accomplish all that needs to be accomplished in a 24 hour period of time.
I’m here to say I get it, and I stand in solidarity with you. I wish we could get together and share a cup of coffee and a plate of chocolate together, but that would somehow require both of us to leave the house. So instead, I raise my mini-Hershey bar to you and offer a proverbial pat on the back.
We’ve got this, friends – this beautiful, messy, hectic crazy life.
Now excuse me while I go take a two minute shower because I hear the baby stirring and I am DETERMINED to wash my hair today!
