Monday, July 23, 2007
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Guest Post by Dale Wayne
"Charlie's Starry Night"
I am looking at Charlie Classe’s version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The swirl of stars tumbles in purple and green onto a curved horizon. Yellow crayon resists green watercolor, making the hills look like they are reaching for the stars. The moon and planets, encircled by bright yellow rays, blink across the night. The heavens are set in motion by curves of pink crayon peeking through a turquoise sky. When I look at stars, I am reminded of our creator God who “made the stars also.” I picture God the Father with a handful of glitter, casting stars through the heavens for signs and seasons, and for beauty.
We worship a God who, in his love for us, made us in his image. We are created creative. When I walk through the halls of The Geneva School, I can feel the creative energy glowing out of classroom doorways, bubbling in hallway conversations, and floating in a noontime blessing sung before lunch.
Charlie’s cloud-like cascade of stars tumbles like a waterfall onto the horizon. I wonder if she remembers that van Gogh liked to make water look like land and land look like water. A large brown cypress tree, a symbol of death, pierces her green and purple scribbles. Charlie has filled the triangular negative space formed by the tree and cloud, with a rainbow. I love rainbows. When teaching art, there are times when it seems God reaches in and reveals something that had never occurred to me. Once, we were studying Noah’s ark in the second grade. I was explaining with excitement something I did not understand until I was an adult: “Did you know that the ark is a symbol of salvation through Christ? The ark cradled Noah and his family saving them from destruction in the same way Jesus rescues us from sin and death.” “Jesus is the ‘what’ of the world?” I solicit, and get a variety of answers and land on the one I am after: “Yes, He is the Light of the world.” Even though it is probably a bit over their heads, but we talk about white light. “When you put a prism up to a light, or if sunlight shines through a crystal in a chandelier, what do you see?” “A rainbow!” someone will invariably exclaim and somehow God’s symbol for His promise not to destroy the earth again by flood, becomes potent with meaning. Jesus is all the colors. They are a picture of Him. We see it again in the story of Joseph. His coat, like the cloak of righteousness we are wrapped in, is multicolored. Our coat is so full of color it is white.
The first-grade children learn that Van Gogh repeats the shape of the looming cypress with the steeple and church in the little town beneath the stars. The actual scene he was painting did not have a church. He added it by his own invention. When Charlie was finishing up her painting, she left an unpainted section underneath the village. The stark white is interrupted by black crayon dashes that look like quotation marks . Will Coleclasure, the art assistant, suggested “Don’t you want to color the ground underneath the church?” “No” Charlie responded, “it’s in the clouds.” As I look at it I think of the New Jerusalem, descending from the clouds, where the streets are of gold the color of clear glass, its foundation made of every color of stone imaginable, and whose light is the Light of the World.
I am looking at Charlie Classe’s version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The swirl of stars tumbles in purple and green onto a curved horizon. Yellow crayon resists green watercolor, making the hills look like they are reaching for the stars. The moon and planets, encircled by bright yellow rays, blink across the night. The heavens are set in motion by curves of pink crayon peeking through a turquoise sky. When I look at stars, I am reminded of our creator God who “made the stars also.” I picture God the Father with a handful of glitter, casting stars through the heavens for signs and seasons, and for beauty.
We worship a God who, in his love for us, made us in his image. We are created creative. When I walk through the halls of The Geneva School, I can feel the creative energy glowing out of classroom doorways, bubbling in hallway conversations, and floating in a noontime blessing sung before lunch.
Charlie’s cloud-like cascade of stars tumbles like a waterfall onto the horizon. I wonder if she remembers that van Gogh liked to make water look like land and land look like water. A large brown cypress tree, a symbol of death, pierces her green and purple scribbles. Charlie has filled the triangular negative space formed by the tree and cloud, with a rainbow. I love rainbows. When teaching art, there are times when it seems God reaches in and reveals something that had never occurred to me. Once, we were studying Noah’s ark in the second grade. I was explaining with excitement something I did not understand until I was an adult: “Did you know that the ark is a symbol of salvation through Christ? The ark cradled Noah and his family saving them from destruction in the same way Jesus rescues us from sin and death.” “Jesus is the ‘what’ of the world?” I solicit, and get a variety of answers and land on the one I am after: “Yes, He is the Light of the world.” Even though it is probably a bit over their heads, but we talk about white light. “When you put a prism up to a light, or if sunlight shines through a crystal in a chandelier, what do you see?” “A rainbow!” someone will invariably exclaim and somehow God’s symbol for His promise not to destroy the earth again by flood, becomes potent with meaning. Jesus is all the colors. They are a picture of Him. We see it again in the story of Joseph. His coat, like the cloak of righteousness we are wrapped in, is multicolored. Our coat is so full of color it is white.
The first-grade children learn that Van Gogh repeats the shape of the looming cypress with the steeple and church in the little town beneath the stars. The actual scene he was painting did not have a church. He added it by his own invention. When Charlie was finishing up her painting, she left an unpainted section underneath the village. The stark white is interrupted by black crayon dashes that look like quotation marks . Will Coleclasure, the art assistant, suggested “Don’t you want to color the ground underneath the church?” “No” Charlie responded, “it’s in the clouds.” As I look at it I think of the New Jerusalem, descending from the clouds, where the streets are of gold the color of clear glass, its foundation made of every color of stone imaginable, and whose light is the Light of the World.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
A Walk to Remember
I have just recently come back from visiting family in the Midwest and am reminded afresh how other parts of the country are very different from Southern California. Technically, being a rational person, I should already be clear on this, but there is something about experiencing a reality live that is quite different from knowing it in your head.
My experience of reality in the Midwest began my first morning at my brother’s house in Michigan. Determined to keep up my exercise regimen despite being away from home, I put on my tennis shoes, anchored my iPod in my pocket, and stepped out the front door. I was immediately bathed in a heavy, moist heat that almost sent me back indoors, but as I said, I was determined. And really, I thought, what could be nicer than a walk in the countryside? Heading down the circle driveway, I decided to go right. There are no sidewalks in my brother’s neighborhood, which runs mostly to trees, large fields of crops, and the occasional house. There is only a narrow stretch of a two-lane road, bordered by an even narrower margin of gravel that slides straight down a steep slant into a ditch, all of which is overgrown by a variety of wild greenery.
I felt uncomfortable walking directly on the road (I had seen enough flattened possums around to feel a fair amount of caution with regards to cars), so I started out walking on the small border of gravel. Normally, I like to walk very briskly, but now I found myself navigating the unstable slip and slide of the gravel like an old lady, keeping a wary eye on the path ahead of me as well as on the steep drop to my immediate left and all those plants reaching out to brush my leg. Did poison ivy grow along country roads? What about poison oak? And then there was the startling eruption of insects that also threatened my stability—brown, clicking, leaping, flying things that would burst out of the plants and rush straight at me. Also, for some reason, flies in the Midwest are enormous, mutant-sized flies and they bite. I can only imagine what I looked like to the cars passing by me—a strange, half-Asian woman picking her way gingerly along the side of the road, flailing her arms and slapping at her own head, arms, and legs. They probably gave me such wide margin (pulling over to the opposite lane when passing) not only out of concern for my safety but also their own. I’m sure I looked either mad or possessed.
Eventually, I decided to give up on the gravel section and take my chances on the paved road. It seemed safe enough now that I had reached a point where I could see it stretched flat in front of me for at least a mile ahead. As I was walking against traffic, cars would become visible in plenty of time for me to move. I picked up my pace and despite the sweltering heat began to enjoy the rhythm of my walking. This lasted a good five minutes. At the end of that five minutes, the forest of trees that had previously been to my left thinned out and a house with a large front yard came into view. Right about this point is when I saw a large and vicious looking dog running at full speed towards me, barking ferociously. In retrospect, I am always amazed at how much one’s brain can process is such a small amount of time in situations like this. As soon as I registered the dog pelting towards me with its ears flattened back, I looked away. I thought I remembered somewhere someone saying that you shouldn’t make direct eye contact with an aggressive dog. My brain raced as frantically as my heart rate as I tried to remember what one does in a dog attack. Show submission, I thought. But how did I do that again? Was I supposed to drop down into fetal position? Play dead? Or did one only do that in bear attacks? Or maybe that was shark attacks—you know, dead man’s float? For a flash second, my brain warned me to protect my head and the back of my neck, but in the next nanosecond I remembered that that was what we used to do in school earthquake drills. All the emergency responses I had ever learned in my life seemed to flood my consciousness at once, scrolling through like some kind of mental rolodex of horrors. And then there was the part of my brain that simply shrieked, Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! as I forced my body to continue walking forward.
Fortunately, the attack—the impact of fur and teeth and claws—never happened. The barking continued, but either the dog was trained not to leave the property and attack innocent road walkers or else it had one of those invisible “fences” that gives the dog a shock through a collar when it reaches a perimeter. I was hoping for the latter. I have more faith in electrocution than obedience. Whatever it was, I managed to continue my walk without getting mauled and made it back to my brother’s house exhausted but in one piece.
The park I walk in here at home may have graffiti, renegade skateboarders, and blatant drug activity, but really...it’s not so bad.
My experience of reality in the Midwest began my first morning at my brother’s house in Michigan. Determined to keep up my exercise regimen despite being away from home, I put on my tennis shoes, anchored my iPod in my pocket, and stepped out the front door. I was immediately bathed in a heavy, moist heat that almost sent me back indoors, but as I said, I was determined. And really, I thought, what could be nicer than a walk in the countryside? Heading down the circle driveway, I decided to go right. There are no sidewalks in my brother’s neighborhood, which runs mostly to trees, large fields of crops, and the occasional house. There is only a narrow stretch of a two-lane road, bordered by an even narrower margin of gravel that slides straight down a steep slant into a ditch, all of which is overgrown by a variety of wild greenery.
I felt uncomfortable walking directly on the road (I had seen enough flattened possums around to feel a fair amount of caution with regards to cars), so I started out walking on the small border of gravel. Normally, I like to walk very briskly, but now I found myself navigating the unstable slip and slide of the gravel like an old lady, keeping a wary eye on the path ahead of me as well as on the steep drop to my immediate left and all those plants reaching out to brush my leg. Did poison ivy grow along country roads? What about poison oak? And then there was the startling eruption of insects that also threatened my stability—brown, clicking, leaping, flying things that would burst out of the plants and rush straight at me. Also, for some reason, flies in the Midwest are enormous, mutant-sized flies and they bite. I can only imagine what I looked like to the cars passing by me—a strange, half-Asian woman picking her way gingerly along the side of the road, flailing her arms and slapping at her own head, arms, and legs. They probably gave me such wide margin (pulling over to the opposite lane when passing) not only out of concern for my safety but also their own. I’m sure I looked either mad or possessed.
Eventually, I decided to give up on the gravel section and take my chances on the paved road. It seemed safe enough now that I had reached a point where I could see it stretched flat in front of me for at least a mile ahead. As I was walking against traffic, cars would become visible in plenty of time for me to move. I picked up my pace and despite the sweltering heat began to enjoy the rhythm of my walking. This lasted a good five minutes. At the end of that five minutes, the forest of trees that had previously been to my left thinned out and a house with a large front yard came into view. Right about this point is when I saw a large and vicious looking dog running at full speed towards me, barking ferociously. In retrospect, I am always amazed at how much one’s brain can process is such a small amount of time in situations like this. As soon as I registered the dog pelting towards me with its ears flattened back, I looked away. I thought I remembered somewhere someone saying that you shouldn’t make direct eye contact with an aggressive dog. My brain raced as frantically as my heart rate as I tried to remember what one does in a dog attack. Show submission, I thought. But how did I do that again? Was I supposed to drop down into fetal position? Play dead? Or did one only do that in bear attacks? Or maybe that was shark attacks—you know, dead man’s float? For a flash second, my brain warned me to protect my head and the back of my neck, but in the next nanosecond I remembered that that was what we used to do in school earthquake drills. All the emergency responses I had ever learned in my life seemed to flood my consciousness at once, scrolling through like some kind of mental rolodex of horrors. And then there was the part of my brain that simply shrieked, Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! as I forced my body to continue walking forward.
Fortunately, the attack—the impact of fur and teeth and claws—never happened. The barking continued, but either the dog was trained not to leave the property and attack innocent road walkers or else it had one of those invisible “fences” that gives the dog a shock through a collar when it reaches a perimeter. I was hoping for the latter. I have more faith in electrocution than obedience. Whatever it was, I managed to continue my walk without getting mauled and made it back to my brother’s house exhausted but in one piece.
The park I walk in here at home may have graffiti, renegade skateboarders, and blatant drug activity, but really...it’s not so bad.
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