sailing

OK, so I have enough emotional distance on my Old Testament project now that I'm OK putting it up. But I took down the painting, in which I ended up printing a heart off the internet and pasting it in, because everything I drew looked like a headless pink turkey.

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“I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.”

I happened upon that Louisa May Alcott quote a few years ago, and tucked it away. It captivated me, but I can’t say that I knew why at the time. I think I liked the idea that knowing that I was still a beginner – at so many things – made it OK to sail into a storm rather than stay in port, safe from wind and waves. And I liked the part about not being afraid.

I have never really thought of myself as a person who is afraid. I’ve traveled the world, tried new jobs, taken up sports and hobbies, returned to grad school at nearly 30. I project so much confidence that a roommate in college once admitted that I made her nervous, because I seemed to have it all together. You see, I have this thing about competence – I try new things, but only things that I know I can master. I don’t have to be put together, but I have to be in control of the things that aren’t put together, I have to have them in a big purse over my shoulder, to tuck them back into if they start to spill out. And if I can’t keep them tucked in, then I’d rather not show up, because I don’t want to be that vulnerable, and I wish I didn’t have to work out my issues on other people’s time. But I can’t keep it together, at least not for long stretches of time. I've always known this somewhere in my head, but these days life is reminding me of it a little much, in ways that are a little too personal. And it's scary. So most of the time, part of me wants to turn around and sail for safe harbor, so I can sit inside where it’s warm, maybe with a martini.

The Old Testament Writings live in the place where the reality of God meets the reality of life. They are not pretty, or neat, nor do they keep all of their issues tucked into a big purse out of sight. God is not a cosmic vending machine, where you put in your prayer, pull the lever, and out pops your little trinket or bag of Chee-tos. There is weeping and wailing, and hope and loss of hope, and cries that are met with “because I’m God and I said so, that’s why,” and cries that are met with silence. Nobody shows up all prettied up. All that the authors and characters can do is show up, and describe the world as they know it, and say that Yahweh is the Lord God, and that this broken, bleeding heart is all they have to give.

So I am doing bad art for my final project in this class. I could have written a paper. It would have engaged my head on the topic of showing up before God with a messy heart on a cracked plate, and it would have been succinct, and eloquent, and have tied together some points well and straightened out a few things knocking around in my brain from the quarter. But instead, I’m going to deliver my broken heart. I am not an artist, and it will frustrate me to try to translate my ideas onto a page in reds and blacks. It will not look like I want it to look. It will not speak to anyone the way I want it to speak. It will betray my incompetence. In that way, it will be my broken, bleeding heart. I am not afraid of storms. This is the world as I know it, Yahweh is the Lord God, and this is all I have to give.