Fading

Today I went out to water my flowers.

Maybe it was the cooler temperature that prompted me to notice

they're starting to fade.

That's just the way it goes.

So, I decided to take some inside and really savor them today.

It was a day for looking and appreciating up close

what I know will be gone tomorrow,

and turning that appreciation to worshiping the Giver of every good gift.

I know a few people who are in the middle of major medical challenges right now,
whose faith is being tested.  They have to decide moment by moment
to focus on what they can see, or trust in God, who they can't see.
So this morning as I examined what I can't normally see, I prayed for them.

Right there in the middle of the zinnias.

I asked God to give them healing and wholeness.
Remember how Jesus would never stop at healing the physical, but also address the heart?
So often we are hurt when God allows us to endure unexplainable trials.
He doesn't stop at healing the medical hurts.

I love the little crowns in the centers of the zinnias.  They're so regal.

But they remind me of the crown of thorns Jesus wore for us, too.  He identifies with our agony.

And that was my little photography/worship retreat today.

Light Reflections

Winter is dark here on the tundra.
This week, thankfully, we have turned a corner.
We are waking up in the light.
Just a tiny bit, but light, nevertheless.

This morning I noticed the light on these delicate pink calla lilies from my Valentine.

A question popped into my head that good photographers probably ask every day:

What does the light want to show me?

It was painting the edges of this one.

I noticed it bouncing off the lines of the white chair in the background.

Then I saw this brightest blossom facing away from the others,
and I thought it just might be dancing.

It's Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent,
the season of reflection before Easter.

Lent is meant to make you look a little closer.
This article described it this way:
"This is what Lent does.  It allows us to see the parts of ourselves we'd rather leave covered up.
It asks us to drag our full self into the light of day, no matter how dark it may be."

Of course the light exposes everything,
without regard to the condition of the subject.
It simply tells the truth.

The depths of my heart are scarcely as pristine as these flowers;
there are messes to be explored and dealt with.
But I think there is some beauty to be uncovered there as well.

So that's going to be my Lenten question:
What does the Light want to show me?

I hope to ask it, ponder it a little every day.
To respond with praise
with confession
with thanksgiving
with availability
with prayer for God's help and strength.

"For God, who said,
'Let light shine out of darkness,'
made his light shine in our hearts
to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God
in the face of Christ."
2 Corinthians 4:6

Calling my name

You know you're a true tundra photographer

when you wake up to this

knowing that most people see this

but you see this.

The flakes are waving wildly your way,

and you hear their tiny voices calling,

"Come and play!"

It's a siren song, really.  

You think, holy buckets, this is the fluffiest snow I have ever seen!

Capturing those flakes will be like shooting fish in a barrel.

You forget the wind, the shivering hands, and the watering eyes.

You forget that you said the same thing about last week's snow and last month's snow.

You go out there, because you must.

Because today just might be the day.

A psalm for winter

Ah Lord, you are the Artist.

It's never more obvious than in winter

when your attention to the most intricate of details is plain for all to see.

If, indeed, we will see.

Or can see.

But why must you test our resolve so with your sensory deprivation?

Where is your light, your warmth, your aroma?

You test not only our resolve, but our character and good sense as well.

And so often find us lacking.

Woe to us.

And also, you test our wakefulness

and watchfulness.

We are working so hard to keep our eyes open, Lord.
But it's not that easy.
There are things we would rather not see.
We are weary.

Even so, you reward our feeblest efforts to stay present

with glimpses of life

and light.

Reminding us that this is but one season.

We will put our best face on as we are able.

Sometimes we will convince ourselves and forget that we were faking it.

Then, Lord, let the joy spill over onto others.

And sometimes we won't even bother to fake it.

But our hearts will find abiding hope in knowing that underneath it all,

you are at work in us.

You are, after all, The Artist.

And we are your art.

Selah.