Scribing the Journey

for when we experience change

Duane Scott — Fri, 24 May 2013 11:34:39 +0000

It was after I scribbled in the last bubble on the test when I panicked.

Nothing to study. No papers to write. No appointments to attend.

You keep someone bound long enough they won’t know what freedom feels like and it’s a scary place, to stand out in the breeze and have nothing to think about except the breeze because the breeze is so empty, really, and the birds twittering can only be enjoyed for mere seconds but polycystic kidney disease goes on forever.

That’s what I was thinking about when I attended graduation, how I didn’t know what I’d do when I got home that evening.

So I walked with Mr. Watson to the river by my house and I watched the poof of his tail, the way it bounced proud, taught on the end of the leash. I marveled at a hummingbird, how it hovered on seemingly invisible wings, crop-dusting the riverbed. And the sun, it plucked its eyebrows in the mirror of the water and I was drenched in suffocating thoughts of absolutely nothing to do.

I scrolled to the calendar on my phone. Checked my emails, too. Nothing. So I ambled back to the house and when I got inside, I exclaimed, “You know what? I have a river close to my house!”

My dad-in-law stared, popcorn midway to his mouth, as if I’d been out in the sun too long. But my mother-in-law understood. “It’s like you’re seeing everything with new eyes, isn’t it,” she said and I nodded.

Later, on the way to the graduation party, I told Southern Gal, “It feels like I’ve been born again and I don’t really know who I am. Hopefully I still like me when I figure it out. Even more, hopefully you do too.”

That night, in the glow of the campfire, I chuckled.

The next day, tripping over an inappropriately shaped pail in an antique store, I laughed. (I nearly had to send SG to the car for the same reason but that’s a story all its own.)

A few days later, I unwrapped a new canvas and held my paintbrushes again.

Each day has brought something new and everyday, I fill my lungs – fill them deep with His love, and I start by blowing the dust off my soul.

It hasn’t been without difficulty, though. And I’ve learned that when we say goodbye to one thing and hello to something new, it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be terrified. There’s an uncertainty in change and it’s this timid dance into something new that requires us to lean on a Partner. And that Partner, He says:

(The painting, titled “Trust”, is already sold. In the near future, once this site is redesigned, I’ll share a few more available for purchase. Thank you.)

The Life of the Body, Week Three

Duane Scott — Tue, 21 May 2013 12:02:13 +0000

She’s only a girl—a girl with fire engine red hair and a thousand freckles. She limps on shrunken legs across the commons room and slides weakly into a chair at a glass table. Glancing around the room, she looks at those of us in scrubs like she’s figuring an escape route and when her eyes land on me, I notice the prominent cheekbones, the sunken eyes, the weariness.

Behind her, on the TV, a sultry, skinny lady eats yogurt and she murmurs with each bite like she’s making love.

I pray the young girl doesn’t notice.

At the tender age of eleven, she has been diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, a condition in which the individual obsesses about their weight and the food they consume.

Some rights reserved by ! Santiago Alvarez !.

I invite you to finish reading The Life of the Body, Week Three over at The High Calling where each Monday they are discussing The Life of the Body: Physical Well-being and Spiritual Formation by Valerie E. Hess and Lane M. Arnold.

for when others say you aren’t enough

Duane Scott — Wed, 08 May 2013 11:46:19 +0000

My stomach twists hard on itself.
My heart thumps visibly through my shirt.

And yet, a quiet voice: Share his story.

So I stand on weak knees and make my way to the front of church and the people, they stare as my nervousness grows. But I press on and in front of all those eyes, I tell his story; how his time card here on earth has been punched, how he’s looking from this world to that world, how he forgave much because he had been forgiven more.

“I guess his story is so inspirational to me,” I stammer, “because I wonder what I’m also doing to make sure I’m in heaven.”

Shortly after, sliding back into the pew, I regret ever standing and my stomach twists again.

I manage to survive the rest of the service and then I drive home… in silence.

We’re sitting together over a simple meal of grilled burgers and baked beans when she says it.

“I’ve been thinking… after you shared that man’s story in church, that I’d like to volunteer at hospice.”

Her voice is quiet, unsure, and when I glance at her, she lowers her gaze.

Growing up together, going to the same church, I know why her face is lowered.

Because she, like me, was never as good as her peers. Like me, she likely was the topic of other family’s dinner conversations. Like me, many religious people were probably quick to point out her lack of Jesus but slow to extend his understanding love.

Self-confidence can be shattered in mere seconds and can take a lifetime to be rebuilt.

Glancing at the food in her plate, I wonder if, like me, her stomach twisted when she admitted she wanted to do something for Christ and my heart crashes into my plate along with the hamburger I hold.

It doesn’t taste good anymore because my stomach has twisted too.

Sitting here, writing these words to you, I weep.

I weep for her, for myself, for all the broken people sitting in churches with a tired self-confidence and a tired faith. I weep for everyone who has been told by others that Jesus could never use someone like them who isn’t…

Religious enough.
Spiritual enough.
Talented enough.

However,

Maybe you’ve listened to their gossip too.
Maybe your voice has been ignored in Sunday school.
Maybe you’ve compared yourself to the “holier” person in the pew in front of you.

Maybe, today, it’s time to stop listening to the masses of confused voices but instead, start listening to the voice of the One who simply says, “Take up your cross and follow me.”

Oh, it’s not an easy path, the one that follows Christ, and it definitely isn’t comfortable.

Perfectly fitted suits and perfectly suited people aren’t found on this path, but instead, the people are full of scars and self-doubt and messy pasts. They don’t have every scripture memorized and chances are, they can’t read the Hebrew, Greek, and Latin translations. Their sinks are full of dirty dishes, their children know what a spit-bath is on the way to church, and sometimes they fall asleep reading their Bibles.

As Charles Martin says, “A broken cup can still pour water” and it’s these broken, beautiful people whose cups are overflowing onto this broken, beautiful world.

I do not share these words to call attention to myself but to give hope to others who have been ridiculed and hurt, who have been told they aren’t enough.

Friend, you are enough. You are beautiful. You are His.

Although the words above do not directly reflect the final chapter of Wonderstruck by Margaret Feinberg, her thoughts were the launching point for this post. As this is the final chapter in the book, Shelly Miller and I would like to thank each one who took part in these weekly discussions. And if you have a suggestion for the next book, please tell us!

finding God in the creative by matt appling (and a signed book giveaway)

Duane Scott — Mon, 06 May 2013 13:15:09 +0000

Recently, new photos were released of the famed “Horsehead Nebula.”

The cloud of cosmic dust has been known for several decades for its distinctive dark silhouette shaped like a seahorse.

Some rights reserved by Skiwalker79.

But these new photos, using deeper infrared vision reveal the true depth of the horse head. Up close, it doesn’t look like a solid mass, but a wispy, delicate, surreal presence.

Now, that beautiful cloud of dust has been floating in space for longer than anyone knows. And for all but a moment in time, the only one who has enjoyed its beauty has been the one who created it, God himself. In fact, there are vast reaches of space that only God enjoys, out of human sight.

The further we look, the deeper we dig, the more earnestly we seek – it all leads to just more discoveries of God’s creative energy.

The Bible opens with five words, words which I have posted in my elementary art classroom: “In the beginning, God created.” But those five words are just the beginning. The story also ends with God creating. In fact, God’s creativity stretches infinitely beyond the boundaries of the story of the Bible.

God endowed humans with the capacity to do many things. But of all the things we can do, I am convinced that in the act of creating, we are connected in a special way to the mind of our Creator. When we shape and polish the world around us as we see fit, we are acting with God. When we take satisfaction in our work, we feel how God feels. There are so few things in life that align our minds in such a special way to God’s mind. It is too bad that so many great artists have felt alienated in our churches. It’s sad that so many Christians have no creative outlet whatsoever, or that churches are often sterile, uncreative warehouses of worship. It is somewhat ironic that so many public (i.e. “pagan”) schools are cutting art programs when the potential to find God in paint or brush is as infinite as God himself.

We don’t have to be creative. Neither does God. We don’t have to create to make money, or to become famous, or to show off. God lets us discover what He has created in our own time, to give Him credit or to pass Him over. For all that He has created, and for all the glory He gets from it, He is really rather humble about it.

We create because we are human, and we carry God’s DNA in us. It’s a gift from our Creator. Creating makes us human.

Matt Appling is a teacher, pastor and writer in Kansas City, Missouri. He has taught, pastored and mentored in a variety of church and school settings. You can get his first book, Life After Art, read the first chapter for free or watch the preview video at LifeAfterArtBook.com.

If you would like to win a signed copy of this book, please leave a comment below before Wednesday, May 8. I highly endorse Life After Art (my name somehow found its way inside its cover) and Matt is not only a friend, but a Creative whom I admire. Thanks for playing along!

the week in review vol. 5

Duane Scott — Sat, 04 May 2013 14:20:59 +0000

Favorite Posts I’ve Read This Week

What is a Sunday Still by Margaret Feinberg

“The Sabbath isn’t about what’s done or left undone, but about breathing in the goodness of God.”

What will God Hang on His Refrigerator? by David Rupert

“I wonder if when we get to heaven, God will have a refrigerator. What accomplishments will he hang? What matters to Him?”

I Have no Idea what I’m Doing and Neither Does Anyone Else by Justin Zoradi

“The stuff I hear most often are excuses from talented people who don’t think they have the creative ability to live a life with great purpose. They say they don’t have the vision or the work ethic. They haven’t received their “calling” written in permanent marker on the bathroom mirror. They focus on their past to purposely sabotage their future.”

It Begins with the Leap by Michelle DeRusha

“For me, leaping has made the difference between unbelief and faith. It’s made the difference between living passively and living passionately. It’s made the difference between existing comfortably in the box and thriving in the wild open.”

Favorite Thing to Consider

It’s that time of year, folks, when people everywhere are hanging up balloons and painting signs on cardboard in desperate attempts to sell last year’s excess. If you or someone you know are hosting a garage sale, would you consider doing it for the orphans? Help One Now will assist you with the process. Read about Garage Sale 4 Orphans here.

Also, my wife and I are running this “remote 5K”, to help raise money for a school in Uganda. Maybe you’ll run with us? It’s a great opportunity to get outside, get active, and give a little love. Sign up here.

Favorite Self-Post

What Heaven Will be Like

“This, this is what heaven will be like,” he sobs and he leans back, presses his face into the sun as if he can reach God and another patient pushing an IV pole squeezes his shoulder.

Favorite Quote of the Week

Favorite Comment on the Site

From Karmen, in response to The Scars We All Wear

“I understand the cutting, though I never cut. I was afraid I would cut too deep, go too far, so I hit. I wrote this in my journal almost 3 years back:

“I want to slash at my arms, tear my flesh. Open wound upon gaping wound. I am angry. So angry. Yet, I don’t know what I am angry about. I want to rip at my skin and release the anger in the ripping. I want to bang my head against hard surface until my vision blurs and my step becomes unsteady. Banging, banging, banging until thoughts slow. I want to run. Run hard and fast. Run far where no one can find me, but there is no where to run to, nowhere to run. I want to hide in the quiet stillness. No sounds, no sights, just light and stillness, but their is no quiet stillness to be found. I want to scream. I want to scream so loud that the world takes notice. I want to kick and to shout and to become hoarse and exhausted from the screaming. I want to be seen, to be heard, to be known, and still be loved after the knowing. I look at my bruises and they scream failure at me. They aren’t deep enough – dark enough – honest enough. They don’t adequately represent the hurts and the anger that I feel inside. So, I hit harder – again and again until I can touch the pain and feel it swollen and tender beneath my fingertips. I see the picture of me, smiling, and I hate it. I want to punch it, smash it into a zillion pieces. I find my fingers digging into my eyes and I have to stop myself. I have to stop my nails from tearing across my face in jagged streaks.”

The pain has always been there, but the hitting only lasted for a moment in time. A month maybe two. I discovered that I could never make the bruises be enough to encompass all the pain and so I stopped. It is the talking and the writing that has helped to ease the pain. The harming was a way to put visible to the invisible. It is a cry to be heard and to be seen and still be loved after the seeing. It is many things.”

Favorite Moment of the Week

When my sister called and said I was now an uncle to two perfectly healthy boys. Yes, twins. Since she lives away, I can’t wait to see them so I’m planning to drive straight down there after school to love on those nuggets.

Least Favorite Moment of the Week

When I got sick. And while I was sick, I begin this book called Start: Punch Fear in the Face, Escape Average, and do What Matters by Jon Acuff. Now, the book is very inspiring so when I lifted my hand to punch fear in the face, literally, the only thing I managed to accomplish was dislodging a ball of phlegm. Oh, the irony. Epic dream fail.

What were your favorite things you read this week? What were your favorite / least favorite moments? Go ahead, share them below.

for when your dreams don’t turn out as planned

Duane Scott — Wed, 01 May 2013 11:38:14 +0000

It’s 1:12 in the morning when I light the candle; a symbol of all-night vigilance.

I sip desperately on steaming tea, green tea, and I’m hoping it has just enough caffeine in it to keep me awake but not enough to prevent me from falling asleep.

Outside, thunder crashes loud like a battle cry, a war amongst the cataclysmic forces of nature. Rain slides down the windowpane. I watch it; how in its wake, a trail of diamonds shimmer, caught in the glow of the porch light.

Hours ago, Southern Gal slipped quietly away to bed. Mr. Watson snuck away too and I could hear him gnawing quietly on a bone until slumber overtook him.

I have been doing homework for the past five hours. Writing, printing, organizing and in a few hours, I’ll take a test I have yet to study for. Thoughts of graduation, just three short weeks away, are fresh on my mind. And the big one, the fallen job market, the interviews, the waiting for a yes… will this all turn out as planned?

This is my life, as a student, and although I have done my fair share of complaining, tonight, here in the flickering quietness, as I pen these words to you, I have none.

I wrote it on a sticky note this morning, Margaret’s words and I carried them as a reminder:

My dreams, my hopes, my future… I let them go one by one and I watch the way they ascend, carried on the breath of trust. And I tie a string around my finger, a reminder that I still have dreams but they’re being held by Someone else; Someone much more capable of orchestrating my life than myself.

I pray again for strength. Because it is no coincidence, I’m convinced, my dream isn’t turning out as I had wished. And even when His voice of direction isn’t heard, especially then, I don’t want to doubt He’s holding my hand.

I am ashamed for the lack of thankfulness I have expressed over the past few months and I ask the One who holds my dreams if maybe He’ll refine this in me because more than anything, I want my life to be a powerful confession to God’s goodness.

The thunder roars high in the heavens.

The rain falls heavy against the earth.

And the candle, it seems to grow brighter, calmer, and it radiates peace like its Soul purpose, right now in this moment, is simply to give Light.

Will you join Shelly Miller and me as we discuss Wonderstruck by Margaret Feinberg? Link up your posts on finding the wonder of God in the everyday (they’ll show up on both our sites). We can’t wait to hear your stories and read your comments! For full details on joining us, click here.

what heaven will be like

Duane Scott — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 14:58:35 +0000

He’s been given six months.

Standing at the computer in the room, I wonder how it must feel to know the inevitable will happen, and soon. But really, when you weigh this short life with eternity, we’re all living in full knowledge that our lives are ending, and soon.

His hair has grown back along with the cancer and it’s moved into the other lung and into the bloodstream and chemo and radiation won’t treat it this time.

His blue eyes sparkle when he talks of his children; how his son helps him rebuild vintage cars and how his eldest daughter is pregnant with his first grandchild.

It’s going to be a boy.

“I have to live that long.” His voice is quiet, hopeful. “I have to live that long because it doesn’t say in the Bible whether or not I’ll be able to watch my family from above. And all I want is to meet my grandson before I go.”

He talks of death so sure, like he’s already standing on the banks of the River Jordan and can see his Father beckoning from the other side.

“What do you think heaven will be like?” he whispers.

The computer screen before me goes blurry and it doesn’t matter now, doesn’t matter at all how his lung sounds are charted and I stand there gaining my composure before turning to him.

“I honestly don’t know. But I know I wouldn’t miss it if I had the chance.”

He’s crying now, soft, and he dabs at his eyes with skinny, shrunken arms.

“I don’t want to miss it either,” he says, “but really…” His voice is urgent. “Do you know what it will be like?”

“I know what the Bible says it’ll be like but I believe it will be so much more. I believe the things we long for most here on earth will be what we notice most in heaven.”

“I just want to be outside.” He gazes out the sixth story window. Window washers crawl slowly up the adjacent building.

“Then we need to go outside today.”

Later, we help him out of bed and into a wheelchair. The oxygen tank needs to go, too, and as we make our way outside, he sniffs a bouquet of roses a wife is holding and says hi to a little girl in the elevator.

Pushing through those doors and into the outdoors, he just sits and cries.

The sun beams on his tear-streaked face. The wind plays with his short hair. Raising a skinny, atrophied arm, he exclaims, “Look! There’s green grass.”

So we slip the socks from his feet and he reaches slowly, lifting each foot onto the grass and the tears are flowing free now because he’s been inside a hospital for nearly a month and this moment, right here, is his tiny slice of heaven.

“This, this is what heaven will be like,” he sobs and he leans back, presses his face into the sun as if he can reach God and another patient pushing an IV pole squeezes his shoulder.

We stay here together, in quietness, until I lean down, whisper it’s time to go inside.

“I won’t miss heaven.” His voice is urgent. “I won’t miss the opportunity to walk barefoot through green grass again. I need to go back inside.”

And when we get back to his room, he calls his brother who he hasn’t spoken to for five years and they cry together when he tells him he won’t live much longer. And he apologizes and their conversation isn’t long but it ends with an “I love you”.

I can’t stop the tears any longer now; they streak down my face and I hold his hand in mine and there’s a language unspoken between us, like we’re brothers. And when I tell him goodbye, that I wish him the best, he just holds my hand tight and tries to speak but he can’t get the words out but we both know; we both know it is unlikely we’ll ever meet again this side of heaven.

But when we do, oh the joy, and we’ll slip our socks off our weary earth-traveled feet and there won’t be any pain and no more trying to catch our breath from life’s blows. And then we’ll step together, onto green grass, we’ll feel it tickle between our toes…

And we’ll know that we are home.

Photos complimentary from Patricia Hunter.

*the situations, dates, names, genders etc… have all been omitted or changed to protect the identity of the individuals in the story.

Linking with Laura Boggess and Michelle DeRusha.

the week in review vol. 4

Duane Scott — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 14:50:39 +0000

Favorite Posts I’ve Read This Week

Gratitude and Grief by Alece Ronzino for Deeper Story

“Africa changed me far more than I ever changed her.”

Poetry Begins You by Sandra Heska King

Note from me: This post has pictures of squirrels in it doing adorable squirrel things. And you know me… I’m a sucker for these critters.

Eyes Wide Open by Kelli Woodford

“He’s combining hair and skin and bone and spit. He’s kissing us in his sunlight and whispering through quiet voices, timidly sharing heart-pieces. He’s singing in loud laughter and gentle knee-squeezes or hands held and backs patted. This is the stuff of His art. And this kind of art makes us bold and the ones brave enough to accept the daring art of the Creator are not only the ones most misunderstood, but also the ones closest to the wild, raging river of free.”

The Mourner’s Bill of Rights by Caleb Wilde

Note from me: This is a list for any of you who have experienced the loss of a loved one. There is no one right way to grieve and this list gives you permission to find your own way.

Favorite Thing to Consider

“Older adults in the 66–100-year-old age group are more deprived of affective touch than any other population (Barnett 1972).” So will you go out and hug someone that falls in that age bracket?

Favorite Self-Post

For When You Want to Touch the World

“And my wife, Southern Gal, has been asking the same thing and she wonders what that looks like played out in her life, how she can walk down the path for all the world and I tell her it’s only by small obediences that she’ll discover it.”

Favorite Quote of the Week

Favorite Moment of the Week

When my patient dying of cancer opened up to me about what he thinks heaven will be like. I’ll tell you more about it, next week, but it was one of the most powerful stories I’ve heard. Being a nurse has saved me. It connects me to humanity in it’s most truthful form.

Least Favorite Moment of the Week

That moment five minutes after I ate my weight in ice-cream and then wonder why I have no self-control.

What were your favorite things you read this week? What were your favorite / least favorite moments? Go ahead, share them below.

Linking with Sandra Heska King and Deidra Riggs.

for if you’re feeling disconnected from God

Duane Scott — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 11:37:48 +0000

We had canoed into the Boundary Waters wilderness, trudged over portages with heavy backpacks, and slapped at angry mosquitos. Tired and exhausted, we boiled Ramen noodle soup over the campfire and after the plates had been rinsed in the lake, my sweaty, slightly smelly friends crawled into sleeping bags.

I stayed awake; walked to the edge of the lake. Finding a large boulder, I sat and the water lapped below me in utter darkness.

The moon was just a sliver that night, ripping at the dark canvas of night while the coyotes yapped in the distance and the loon yelled across the silence.

I switched off my flashlight.

Blackness. And the water was below me and the sky was above me and it all seemed to press in and I couldn’t breathe and there was nothing, absolutely nothing about this life that made sense to me and I wondered what kept me alive and my skin crawled as the loon called sad and mournful again, like it was signaling the end.

Separated from love. Completely empty.

And I wondered if this was what hell was like but I wasn’t scared of hell because I didn’t know if there even was such a place. I wasn’t sure about heaven, either.

“God,” I whispered, “this is my last try.”

I thought about how I had grown up a Christian, how I could use the right words, dress the right way, and remember the right Bible stories. How I would pull from my religious box a mask each Sunday, then promptly take it off come Monday. How I had seen so many people in my church do the same thing; how I was tired of being a hypocrite.

“God, if you’re there…”

And the rocks rose up about me and the pines swayed and a cloud blotted out the moon. And the wind, it screamed in that desolate land and I felt my tears hot on my cheeks before they fell on the rock beneath me.

Then the wind slowed and I heard it so clearly: “Write.”

Kneeling, I pulled from my backpack a pen and some paper and I scribbled my anger, my questions, my hurt and after I was done, I wrote “Dear God” across the top, like it was an afterthought.

I reread it then, like a prayer, in the glow of the flashlight and for the first time in years, my life, my every breath, my will was on the Rock and I had a Father again and this connection with him was like none I’d ever felt.

And I could breathe again so I stayed there in that space, breathing in and out, breathing Him… breathing restoration.

Margaret writes:

My pen, this conduit I hold in my hand, has become my way in beating back hell and it has scribbled its way into glimpses of heaven and I’m so thankful tonight, so very grateful that my Father didn’t give up on me, that He pursued me, chased my rebel heart, followed me into the wilderness and there, showed me the way…

With just a simple pen and paper.

So if you’re feeling a little lonely, friend, if you’re feeling separated from love, if in your heart, you find emptiness… I want to tell you something:

I admit I don’t know how God will find you. But one thing I am sure of is that He will.

Will you join Shelly Miller and I as we discuss Wonderstruck by Margaret Feinberg? Link up your posts on finding the wonder of God in the everyday (they’ll show up on both our sites). We can’t wait to hear your stories and read your comments! For full details on joining us, click here.

for when you want to touch the world

Duane Scott — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 12:00:33 +0000

We’re somewhere between Omaha and Des Moines, next to a sign that welcomes us to try Boondocks Cafe when she whispers it.

“It’s like I’ve finally been willing to walk into the woods,” she continues, “kneel down and there in the silence, ask God what He wants me to be.”

She dabs at her eyes; dabs at her life overflowing with love and the sun shines in behind her, reflects on the tears spilling down her cheeks.

I want to tell her that this willingness is the truest form of Jesus someone can take. Because it’s what he did that day, so long ago, when he knelt alone surrounded by nature and asked, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” And within a few hours, he was walking down the path for all the world; for you and I.

And my wife, Southern Gal, has been asking the same thing and she wonders what that looks like played out in her life, how she can walk down the path for all the world and I tell her it’s only by small obediences that she’ll discover it.

She sighs, leans against the window and admits she only sees the beginning but I smile because when the Bible talks about “on earth as it is in heaven”, it is talking about people like her who find the perfect pair of shoes in the mall but say no because there are children elsewhere without.

Arriving home, she makes a phone call and asks if she can start volunteering where patients receive chemo and radiation and her face, it beams when she tells me that she starts next Tuesday.

And this is what her face looks like, and the tears and willingness and humility?

They are breathtakingly beautiful; like a tiny glimpse of God.