Grace

I had a conversation with a friend the other day about the idea of grace, and offering it to someone else. I made the comment that it seems that grace is often cheapened by naiveté, but deepened in meaning for the receiver when the receiver knows that you understand the gravity of the thing (or whatever) for which they need grace. God does this ultimately for us because, ultimately of course, HE is the only one that can fully grasp the gravity of the grace we need and offer it in whole omniscience. And when we do the same--offer grace--in the face of the sin and ugly we see even in our finite understanding of any given situation, it's echoing dimly this characteristic of God:

When grace so much less naive,

When grace so aware indeed,

When given free in knowledge

When granted much more in heed:

When offered in some enlightenment

Of all that did precede—

So much more the potent it,

That’s offered wholly free’d.

Of all that’s usual shrouded it,

And contrived that should it mean;

Such that man would tout it as,

Such as he would have it be--

Something to be quite merited

To be sought for brave indeed.

To this grace will not subdue herself

And become so cheap a thing.

To be earned, secured or gained or paid, 

(Anything other than given unbade)

This grace will never weather

And herself remain the same.

- T. Emerson

Mind

If Dickinson’s wars in books be stowed,

Then mine to the page I may also owe...

Warrior's work’s done unscathed not;

Battle sans wound is battle unfought

Just as costly a battle ‘mid men

Is the battle that wages forever within

Internal mind’s toil never does cease--

Nor eternal soul’s war 'gainst it’s lease

The two at odds till their end they find,

Nevermore earthly, the wars of the mind.

T. Emerson

Waiting?

For as much as I've quoted others on here, I don't think I've ever posted someone else's blog. But, for several reasons I think this women speaks to this issue better (and perhaps more graciously) than I've ever been able to. Thank you, sister:

http://gracefortheroad.com/2012/02/03/idontwait/

Cor

What would happen if our culture took the idea of our names more seriously? What would happen if our culture--the way so many other cultures have--paid more credence to the meaning of a name?

Western culture isn't too concerned with it, but most ancient cultures, most tribal cultures (including Native Alaskan & American cultures), and perhaps even many cultures in the East lend much more weight to the power name can have to speak over one's life.

I'm reminded of this off and on. A dear, dear friend read this quote to me the other day, and it hit me hard. Humbling & hopeful all at the same time.

May my name speak over my life. In all the ways it means.

"The root of the word courage is cor -- the Latin word for heart.  In one of its earliest forms, the word courage had a very different definition than it does today.  Courage originally meant "To speak one's mind by telling all one's heart."  Over time, this definition has changed, and today, courage is more synonymous with being heroic.  Heroics is important and we certainly need heroes, but I think we've lost touch with the idea that speaking honestly and openly about who we are, about what we're feeling, and about our experiences (good and bad) is the definition of courage.  Heroics is often about putting out life on the line.  Ordinary courage is about putting our vulnerability on the line.  In today's world, that's pretty extraordinary."

- from The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown

Tracy, Name Meaning, Origin, Detailed Name Information & Meaning of Names at NameLab - FamilyEducation.com

Marathon

Il y a des fois

que je ne sais pas

pourquoi les choses arrivent.

La guerre est laid

La mort se fait

Et on l’appelle “la vie”

Mais j’attends un jour

Où la terre ne tourne

Et la tristesse fait la fuite.

T. Emerson

For Boston, today. More than my thoughts are with you.

Studio Dialogue V

“Master, why did you quit?” She finally asked, exasperated.

“I didn’t quit.” He replied.

As usual, she got the feeling He knew exactly where their conversation was going before she uttered a syllable. She also knew it was no game to Him to “humor” her questions and work through them with her--He loved it. Although she doubted this fact at times, it never seemed to stop her in the end from continuing to dialogue. She couldn’t get enough of the Master Painter.

“But you’re not doing anything,” the little piece of art mustered. “I haven’t felt your brush in a really long time.”

The Painter sat back and sighed, not a frustrated sigh, but a loving, patient one instead, satisfied--as if He’d just been waiting for this conversation to materialize.

“The notion that I am only at work when you feel or perceive it, Love, is a false one.”

He smiled knowingly at her thoughtful pause. Her classic puzzlement was also not unexpected.

“But what does that even mean? I'm just supposed to ‘trust’ that You’re not done even when I don’t feel anything?” The painting said, still mildly frustrated.

The Painter squinted a bit at the question, and answered, “You don’t have to do anything, my dear, but you’re on the right track: Trust.”

“What? I don’t get it.” She said, slightly defeated.

“Well, to ‘trust’ or not is always, a choice, my dear, and one that belongs to you alone.”

“Okay." She perked up, "I can understand that, but what I don’t get, I guess, is the difference between if I do ‘trust’ and if I don’t. Like, what does that have to do with anything?”

He smiled. She was quite often surprised at how even though He always seemed to know what she would say next, He never tired of her and almost seemed to even lead her questions. And this time, she could tell, she’d asked exactly what He wanted her to.

“To trust or not to trust is the difference between Art and Masterpiece.” 

He waited, as if to let her process for a moment, and then continued. “You are, and always will be a painting: a piece of art, intended for beauty and inspiration and everything else that art represents. That fact is immutable, but to trust or not to trust is the difference between remaining as the Art that you are now and becoming the Masterpiece that you were intended to be. I can be 'done' anytime you choose. But if you decide to let me be the the artist that I Am you will not always understand what it is I’m doing or how I’m doing it: Trust is ultimately the difference between good and best.

“Oh yeah. Good and best. We’ve been over that.” She said, after a while.

“Yes, we have.” He nodded, cheerfully.

“So, you said that You haven’t quit. You’re not done working on me, right? I mean, if I choose to trust like you said or whatever...?

“Or whatever...?” He laughed, and the colors on her canvas blushed a little. “Yes, it would follow, wouldn’t it?” He said, still laughing.

“So....” She trailed off, not sure if she wanted to finish the thought she began.

“Yes?”

“...well...” She held back only long enough to see in His eyes that he already knew, once more. “...Does every painting have to do the same thing?”

He nodded, not in answer to the question but in order to validate her inquiry.

“Yes and no.” He said, “There are principles in Art that apply to any piece. But fundamentally speaking, what is 'artistic' about every piece is its inherent uniqueness. The unique nature of any piece is due to the artist permitted to work on it, and the journey it undergoes. Therefore, as distinctive as every piece is, so will its process be. You, my Love, have only your process to worry about. And there will be times when your process will seem static for a time, but things are not always as they seem.”

“Okay,” She said, not skipping a beat, “But can You tell me when I’ll be able to know or feel You working on me again?!”

“No, honey, therein lies the rub. For now, it is for you to trust.”

“Okay, but what about why? It would make it ALL easier if I just knew why!”

He shook His head and didn’t speak for a while. She was wondering if He’d forgotten that she’d asked the question, but then feared a bit that He hadn’t. Maybe she’d crossed a line with the Painter that she shouldn’t have.

After a substantial silence, the Painter unsealed his pursed lips and finally spoke. The painting was relieved at His ever patient tone, but the twinge of pain in His voice was not lost on her either.

“I wish I could show you why, Love, but I can’t. It’s not something that you can grasp now nor benefit from. There will be a time, Someday, when you will understand so, so much more about your process, your journey, and your story. And as much as I long for that day as well, it is not now....”

He appeared to choke up a moment before finishing His thought:

“But regardless of that, please know that while your waiting and trusting--should you choose to--I love you and know what I’m doing. There is reason behind it all.”

She heard and understood, to the degree to which her mere capacity allowed. She knew He’d spoken and that He meant it and it was true. The Painter gazed at His small piece of art and she knew He was planning and dreaming for her. His plans and dreams weren’t always easily canvassed--but they also weren’t only good indeed, but best in the end. 

“Alright, Master.” She said with a freeing resignation. “But I hope it’s okay if it’s not easy for me. Like, ever.

In response, His gaze only glowed and deepened. Sometimes He didn’t need to speak. She knew He'd heard.