I am busy, busy getting ready for Christmas. I have phone calls, e-mails and text messages going back and forth with the California peeps so that I know what to have around for the vegans and the baby. I have been finishing my Christmas shopping. Tomorrow, I am going to personalize and decorate brown bags for gifts that every one will be getting from us. I am looking forward to getting messy with some paint.
I thought I would share this poem that was written by a member of Trinity and was read at Lessons and Carols last week-end. I love all the artsy references.
God Uses Everything
On the stout slanted trunk of a great tree
God is painting with shadows and light,
with dry and damp, moss and bark,
falling needles and swaying boughs
set against dark poles and slivers of sky.
Beside the trunks low bend,
half-naked shrubs with slender stems
lift their few tattered red leaves –
remains of autumn glory
still useful to God the artist.
It’s been rumored that God’s an Impressionist
who savors iridescence, a Colorist
charging blue into shadows and gold into sunsets,
a master of rainbow reflections
enamored of shimmer,
glazing with dazzle and sparkle.
That’s true as far as it goes,
but actually God’s the founder
of the Ashcan School.
God sees the beauty in everything:
rusted iron and peeling paint,
faded cotton and wrinkled silk,
curdled milk and spilled ink.
Everything’s grist for God’s mill,
everything’s paint for God’s brush:
galaxies and electrons,
horses, seahorses, and horseflies,
wheat and chaff,
the blazing and the burnt,
trees like poles and trees that are bent.
It’s easy to brighten a canvas
with scarlet and crimson and ultramarine,
but God creates color and splendor
from smudges and stains, streaks and spatters
that I’d leave out or scrape off or cover up.
God omits nothing.
I’m one of the pigments God chooses;
I’m a patch in the pattern God paints.
I contribute my all to the vast composition –
my very few talents and many mistakes.
Although I can’t see the Big Picture
and frequently salt my small corner with tears,
God cheerfully scumbles in even my fears.
— Ames Dee, Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Portland, OR