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The Love of a Few (Thousand) Friends

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For our whole adult lives, my husband and I have been nomads. We have lived in a dozen plus cities and towns, sometimes for a year, once for sixteen years. I often complain that I am rootless and homeless–at least in the Southern sense of having a strong sense of local place and people. “Our people” are spread all around the country and even in other countries. For Valentine’s Day, I decided to draw hearts for each of the people and friends I have loved and who have maybe even loved me. As I was drawing the hearts, I didn’t know where to stop. Every new name prompted another name and another heart.

The first two verses of Hebrews 12 came to mind: “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us,  fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.” (NIV) I feel truly surrounded, carried, upheld, defended, nudged, and sometimes chastised and pushed by a great cloud of witnesses. Many of those people are Christians but not all and yet all feel a part of the great parade of people holding me in God’s love. 

EPSON MFP image

I looked back at Hebrews 11 and noticed all the phrases that started with “By faith.” “By faith Abel, by faith Enoch, by faith Noah, by faith Abraham, by faith Sarah, by faith Jacob, by faith Joseph, ….” The list is long of those who followed God and lived their lives “by faith.” When I am feeling homeless and rootless and sometimes faithless, it helps for me to recall this ancient cloud of witnesses in Hebrews and to be grateful for the present cloud of witnesses and friends (both alive and deceased) who sweep me in and carry me along by faith.

Purple Heart Valentines

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by Sharon Pavelda
–My father was awarded the Purple Heart medal when he was wounded in battle somewhere near the German border in 1944. He carried shrapnel from that wound in his body for over sixty years before dying peacefully in Arizona at the age of eighty-nine. I loved my fatherʼs real heart and I was fascinated by the medal that commemorated the wound he had survived in service to his country.I loved the medalʼs heart shape, so sentimental and locket-like, and the almost cameo feel to it with George Washingtonʼs profile centered just so. It made me think of jewelry whenever I saw it. My father wasnʼt much for glorifying war, nor his part in it, and I was glad of that. Nevertheless, feelings of gratitude and awe would sometimes overtake me when I would catch a glimpse of the scars on his chest and back.
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–Many years after the war, with my fatherʼs wholehearted approval, my younger sisters and I had his medal made into a bracelet for our oldest sister. She had been the only one of us siblings to have settled in Arizona, and she had shouldered the pain and joy of care-giving for my parents as my motherʼs health slowly succumbed to liver disease. We wanted to honor her service to our family and to the wounds of the heart that hands-on caregiving of a loved one inevitably brings. It is beautiful, and she loves it.
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–I believe that every human heart suffers some wound in the action of living and loving. The good news is that our hearts have been made to break open, in order to become capable of holding and sharing more love, if we are willing. The bad news is that we donʼt often get awarded medals for our heartbreak and the survival thereof!
***
–This year, at The Purple Door on Young studio in Memphis, where we issue invitations to play our way home to Love, we invited folks to come and make any version of a Purple Heart Medal they wished. They were encouraged to make one for themselves as well as for anyone else they wished to honor. Stories were shared and received. Paper and organdy and glitter went where words couldnʼt go. Some of us found places in our hearts that were surprisingly tender. The bigger surprise was how we also felt soothed by touching them and comforted by the communion we discovered in the very act of creating together. It has long been my belief that when we play from the heart, we meet in the heart of the Creator. We know we are there when our words dance, our silence sings, and our art heals.
Sharon’s story reminded me of a song by Linda Worster called Heal My Heart. You can read the lyrics and listen to the song on an album called Grief and Grace by Mark Kelso. But here are the first and last verses:
Jesus my brother, come heal my heart,
There’s a piece missing, it’s falling apart
And my life’s leaking out through the hole left behind
Leaving me empty helpless an d blind
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Breathe on me Jesus; I know You can heal it
If pain is my teacher, I’m ready to feel it
And make of my pieces a work of Your art,
Jesus my brother, heal my heart.

Photos: Bracelet and Purple door Valentines–Pavelda Family
Purple Heart– Free ClipArt

Valentine’s Day

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My Valentine to God….

Drawing or doodling gives me a chance to spend time with God without my body complaining. It also creates a quiet space for me to just listen. I don’t need words for these prayers, but if words come I don’t chase them away.

The drawings I do are really just doodles. This is a heart with a bunch of flat “U’s” drawn around it. A few hearts are thrown in. My friend Cindy from Mostly Markers showed me how to draw this kind of rosette drawing using just a bunch of V’s and U’s. It’s a way to grow a drawing without thinking much about the design. Just draw another U or draw a V. It keeps the focus on my time with God and not on the drawing itself.

Sybil MacBeth ©2010