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I Have A Dream

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copyright 1987 Mollie Bozarth

30 years ago today, I drew my first portrait. I know the exact date because it’s written in large, tidy letters, on that lined manilla paper you use to practice writing in elementary school. With carefully rounded “o”s, curved “r”s, and very straight “t”s, the 6-year-old Mollie wrote: “A Special Birthday Today is January 15, 1987. It is the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr.” MLK has had more of an effect on my life than I’ll ever really know. My mom’s high school was desegregated in the 1960s. Her brother was bused off to another school, while kids from the black school came to join her high school. Because of that desegregation, she gained a lifelong friend named Keith.We still keep in touch with Keith and his family. I got to meet his wife for the first time last summer when we were all at my grandparents’ house in Virginia. Keith is a joyful, honorable, faith-filled man. I’ve gotten to visit with him many times through the years and have always looked up to him.

Growing up in suburban Virginia, skin color wasn’t something I really thought about. The friends that I ate lunch with, played basketball with at recess, sat next to in class, invited to my birthday parties…were a mix of black and white. Schooltime memories are filled with color. I accidentally hit my friend Jackie in the back of the head with my flying loose tooth in kindergarten. Naomi was the quirky friend who loved to crush her potato chips before eating them at lunch. We all prayed for my friend J.J.’s family when his dad died tragically in a fire, trying to save the family dog. Elisabeth was the first friend my dad threatened to take home in the middle of a sleepover birthday party…she was a bit on the noisy, rambunctious side. Tharrin was a big and tough kid, (my hero) who was always standing up for me if boys tried to exclude me from playing basketball. These friendships, and countless memories, would never have been mine if not for MLK and others like him.

mrs-spence-1-webThe drawing above was done in Mrs. Spence’s 1st-grade class. Even Mrs. Spence is someone I can thank MLK for. She wasn’t tall in stature (perhaps that’s why 1st-grade was a good fit for her), but she taught us respect and honor. And, I can think of at least one major instance where she showed me great grace. A few weeks before this drawing was completed (Christmas holidays of 1986), she gave each kid in class a hand-made ornament to take home and put on their tree. Mine was a styrofoam mouse with a curled pipe-cleaner tail, beady black eyes, whiskers, and red plaid ears. He has hung on my Christmas tree every year for 30 years and is still one of my favorites to hang on the tree today. Now, I teach in a fairly diverse district, where kids of every color, race, and religion come together to learn on a daily basis. As a teacher, I look back on the example set by Mrs. Spence and the classroom atmosphere she created, endeavoring to foster a similar environment of respect and grace with my students.

The same week that I drew the portrait of MLK, we used his “I have a dream” me-1987-webtheme as a springboard for discussions on what we’d like to become or accomplish when we grew up. I’m only slightly surprised that at the age of 6 my life’s goal was already set in concrete (or crayon). Notice that the portrait of MLK was much more realistic than the proportions/accuracy of my hands, feet, and table legs. Students, this is why we always tell you to work from a reference photo rather than drawing out of your head/imagination! It was true when I was 6, and it’s true today. Anyway, the point is that MLK’s portrait was an intriguing foreshadowing of my life now. I have always been interested in faces. Shapes of ear and nose and eyes are puzzle pieces that (when fit together properly) can tell the visual story of a life…or if the subject has passed away, trigger memories of a life well-lived. In his famous speech, Martin Luther King Jr. stated: “I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” I’m neither ignorant enough nor idealistic enough to say that MLK’s dream has completely come true. Unless the world becomes colorblind, I’m afraid there will always be undercurrents of racial tension this side of Heaven. Newspapers, TV shows, and other media remind us of the broken ideals on a regular basis. But I am ever thankful that he dared to dream. That dream trickled down into the cracks of society, crumbling walls, shifting courses, and expanding into a river whose current continues to erode racism. The more you and I cultivate classrooms, hallways, lunch rooms, office spaces, churches, and neighborhoods where people are not “judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character,” the more his dream becomes a reality. Each doing our part in the process of erosion, we can help fulfill another lesser-known line from his speech: “With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.”

From my 3rd-grade yearbook, here is part of the crew I hung out with growing up. Note: my older sister liked to circle faces with pencil…

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A Bit of Carpentry

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For the most part, I’m a “mama’s” girl. My mom and I spend quality time together on a weekly basis. With similar interest in movies, books, shopping, and cable TV shows, we can talk and hang out easily for hours. In some ways, I’m also a “daddy’s” girl. But Dad’s favorite TV station is the Weather Channel. His interest in reading extends mainly to the newspaper. And “shopping” generally refers to picking up bananas at Walmart. So, quality time with my dad has been more purposeful through the years. Sailing is definitely on the list of things we do together. Also on that list is carpentry.

My dad worked for a cabinet-maker before I was born. As far back as I can remember, he’s had a workshop set up in the garage. There are photos of me as a kid wearing overalls, safety goggles, baseball cap, a tool belt, and wielding a hand saw. I’ve always loved the smells of fresh sawdust, stain, and lacquer. He’d patiently show me safety with everything from hammer to drill press to table saw…while I’d impatiently watch, waiting for my turn to try it on my own. While we don’t often build things together any more, he is the first person I call when things break down around my house. He’ll diagnose the issue and tell me how to fix it, or help me fix it…or warn me it’s one for the pros to tackle. He has often bravely lent me his tools (not brave because I’ll misuse them, but brave because he has 5 kids and keeping track of his tools can require phone calls to several people). He loves it when we put tools on our Christmas or birthday lists, partly because it means we won’t borrow his, and partly because it gives him an excuse to shop at the hardware store (his favorite shopping apart from Walmart bananas). This Christmas I was honored to receive his 1970s True Temper claw hammer with fiberglass handle. I’ve borrowed this hammer many times and love the feel of the swing, the weight and power of its head. He’s seen me hunting for its replica (unsuccessfully) on Ebay. So, he says he’ll use his dad’s old hammer, and the one I’ve borrowed is now permanently mine. YAY!carpentry-collage-webToday’s featured work is a product of quality time with both of my parents. Mom and I are HGTV junkies, constantly watching shows like Flea Market Flip. When I was at the flea market this past November with friends, I came across an old painter’s extension ladder. Then I found a vendor selling live-edge wood boards. Falling in love with a long board of dark walnut wood, I decided to build a bookshelf. My many hours of practice with hand saws as a kid paid off. I measured and cut the ladder in half (a very straight cut with a steady hand, if I say so myself). Old stakes from Dad’s scrap wood collection worked well as braces. These I cut to length on a jig saw, forming rounded notches to rest one brace over the ladder rungs. The vendor had already sawn the walnut board into 3 sections for me. Rounded brackets designed to attach metal pipes to ceiling joists worked well for holding shelves in place. I decided to keep the old paint spatters as well as cool extension clamps on the ladder. After a bit of sanding, I put 2 colors of stain on the ladder sections and support braces. The first coat was a dark mahogany stain, followed by a thin coat of ebony, and finished off with beeswax to seal it. The shelves had their own innate beauty. All they needed was a natural stain and 2 coats of clear lacquer to bring out rich colors and wood grain patterns.

At the moment, this gorgeous piece of furniture is housing my niece’s Lego village, including a tree-house, dinosaurs, Lego fruits growing in a Lego garden, and Lego people drinking orange juice. She has agreed to share the space with some of my books…eventually. More importantly, she spent quality time “helping” me yesterday. She placed her toddler hand on the shelf, “holding” it for me, as I screwed in a bracket. Earlier, while pre-drilling holes, I wasn’t paying close enough attention to my left hand and nicked a knuckle with the drill bit. She consoled me over the “hurt dinger (finger)” and inspected my Band-Aid. Maybe a few years from now she’ll look back on fun memories of doing carpentry with me. And, perhaps she’ll build similar memories with her daddy down the road.

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Time-Lapse Nativity

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copyright 2016 Mollie Bozarth

To view the video, click here.

A couple weeks ago I had an opportunity to do something I’ve never tried before: a time-lapse video of painting! I’ve seen videos of sand art that morphs and changes from one scene to the next. I wanted to try that with a series of 3-4 scenes, painted in acrylics. I chose acrylic because it dries quickly. Once finished filming one scene, I could move right on to the next, painting directly overtop of the first scene. When the project was complete, only 1 painting would exist…the other 3 scenes being buried in layers of paint. This concept intrigued me as an artist. Artists usually create with the intent of longevity. It’s rather freeing to paint something that will only exist for 2 minutes. In fact, the snapshot shown above is only a screen-shot of the paused video. I took only footage (no photos) of each completed piece. Thus, this artwork is all about the process and the story that unfolds from scene to scene.

nativity-sketch

Though nothing was sketched out on canvas (I did what we artists call “drawing with a brush”), the process began with an evening of brainstorming and sketching. Looking at reference images from online, I chose 4 traditional nativity scenes and planned the layouts in pencil on computer paper. These pencil sketches were placed in front of me while painting, as a guideline for proportions. A friend helped me set up lights for filming. We used my camera, set on a tripod in front of my workspace. The footage is actually filmed upside-down and flipped during the editing process. This allowed a straight camera shot without trying to film over my shoulder or above my head. The scenes are simple, with stylized characters, partly for the sake of time and partly for the sake of children who would be in the audience. Color was also simplified down to monochromatic blues, white, greys. You’ll see me adjust to a brighter blue or darker grey as I’m painting characters, always working toward a balance of light-on-dark or dark-on-light. This way, forms and details stand out against the surrounding colors.

This project was done for my church’s Christmas choir presentation. Our worship leader planned a Chris Tomlin song (Noel, performed by Lauren Daigle) as the background music. Though I’d heard it on the radio before, I hadn’t noticed the lyrics until now. The 2nd verse says:

Son of God and Son of man
There before the world began
Born to suffer, born to save
Born to raise us from the grave
Christ the everlasting Lord
He shall reign forevermore

Noel, Noel
Come and see what God has done
Noel, Noel
The story of amazing love!
The light of the world, given for us
Noel

Personally, I’ve often pictured in my mind that transition from Creator to creation. Few books or songs talk about it. Christ was there with God, helping to create stars and moon and earth. Now, he slips into fragile human skin: sleepy eyes, tiny toes, and wholly relying on human parents. Meanwhile, his Father sets a new star in the heavens to proclaim the royal birth. “Noel” is from the French for natal – literally: birth. “Born to suffer, born to save” – you’ll see a momentary foreshadowing of this in the final manger scene, though I wasn’t thinking of the song’s lyrics when I painted it. Here, I’ll give a shout out to Jose, who edited footage for me: cropping, adjusting exposure, and timing it all to the music. Watching this video, I hope you’ll enjoy the transformation from scene to scene. More than that, I hope you’ll enjoy the story as a whole: a story woven from before time, when the “light of the world” first made plans to come to earth.

for Alex

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copyright 2016 Mollie Bozarth

How do we process grief? With words? In silence? With anger, action, inactivity? At some point these have all applied to me. Sometimes…I process grief through painting.

As a teacher, there have been times where people asked me what I dislike about my job. I may flippantly reply that I hate when students are lazy, or (when piles of papers loom over my desk) that I dislike grading. But there is really only one thing I hate about teaching, and that is losing students. In 12 years of teaching, I’ve already buried more than I can count on one hand. Four of those were within the past 2 years, and time/experience don’t make that aspect of teaching easier. I still see the back of someone’s head in school or out shopping and think (for a split second) that it’s this or that student I lost years ago. Particularly when they’ve graduated, and I wouldn’t be seeing them often anyway…it’s hard to believe they’re really gone.

A student once interviewed me for a sociology paper about faith and its positive (or negative) effect on modern teens. At some point during our discussion, I remember asking her why death always feels wrong. Whether we’re burying my 100-year-old great-grandmother, a miscarried baby, or a child of any age, the loss pierces straight to the heart. When asked, my student was thoughtful for a few moments and had no response. I told her I think the reason death always feels wrong is that we were not created for death. Before Genesis chapter 3, it wasn’t part of the human equation. And ever since then we’ve fought it with every fiber of our being. We cannot cheat or stop it. And, whether we know the person is going to a better place or not, we mourn it. At night, as tears slide down my cheek, into my ear, and dampen the pillow beneath, I cry out: “Papa, WHY!?” The silence echoes no audible answer. Though, peace descends slowly with the softness of sleep.

Alex Kierstead was one of those kids who brightens a room. Friendly, easy-going, a twinkle in his eye; I’ve seen posts on Twitter and Facebook of everyone saying how he genuinely loved people and would do anything for them. I first met Alex in 6th-grade and had him in various art classes throughout middle and high school. When he wasn’t in my class, he was one of those kids who would catch me in the hallway and check in…ask how my classes were going, fill me in on what he was up to. It was his goal senior year to gather enough students to finally make our Printmaking class run. (For many years no one had signed up for the class, and people practically forgot it existed.) Alex rallied friends and strangers together, spreading word , and encouraging them to sign up. I think about 13 did sign up for it…still not enough to run the class. So, he never got his Printmaking at Waubonsie. But the fact that he had the gumption to try, and the charisma to bring others along for the ride, was typical Alex. I can’t stand to rehash the details of his death here. There are news articles online I’d encourage you to read. They speak of creativity, a love of hiking and outdoors. They speak of a life well-lived and a young man dearly loved.

This is the first time in my life where the advent season and mourning have gone hand-in-hand. This is a hard Christmas. I am not used to crying this much or this often. And, as difficult as this is for his teachers and friends to process, it must be infinitely harder for his family. As I talked with my grandpa on the phone this evening, I asked him to pray for me…and he did, right then and there on the phone. Hanging up after that call, I was reminded of John 1:5, “A light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” That night in Bethlehem a new star appeared – bright enough for astrologers to follow it hundreds of miles. That star pointed to a tiny life which could not be extinguished. Emmanuel was here. God was finally physically with us. The darkness could fight, but it could not win. I will wrestle. I will mourn. I will cry out and question why. But darkness and mourning do not have the final word. In tears again this Sunday at church, the words of a familiar carol had new meaning for me: “Mild he lays his glory by. Born that man no more may die. Born to raise the lost of earth. Born to give them second birth. Hark! The herald angels sing: glory to the newborn king.” …Born that man no more may die. Lord, help us. Show us you’re here right now. God with us.

Beauty in Restoration

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I paused my Portraits of Scotland series the past few weeks while I’ve been working on projects around my house. Having an October that feels like September inspired me to open my garage door and set up shop where I could see sunshine and breathe fresh air! This resulted in two woodworking projects – one still in process, and another the completion of a mammoth task I began years ago.

When my great-grandmother passed away in 2008, I inherited her hope chest. The piece was practically a white elephant. As HGTV would say, it had “good bones.” However, those bones were hidden beneath layers of cream and brown paint, plywood veneer, and contact paper. Yes, contact paper! Apparently, my great-grandfather went through a phase in the 1960s or 70s where he covered everything in brown wood grain contact paper. Whether this was to “protect it” or to make a fashion statement by “updating” the look, I will never know…maybe we’ll have that conversation when I see him in Heaven some day. He also glued a plywood veneer to the top, seemingly to protect the nicer wood beneath. Looking back, I wish I’d taken photos of what it looked like then. I’ve asked family members whether they have any old photos, but no luck so far. The contact paper peeled off easily, leaving several layers of paint to strip. With an orange gel stripper, paint gave way to something that looked more hopeful. Wood grain peeked out from the shell that had encased it for decades. As I sanded down the veneer top, the glue beneath loosened. Thankfully, that veneer came off without damaging what was below. The top left photo you see above is what was below! After weeks of work, now came an even tougher task – the nooks and crannies. I was on my stomach with a toothbrush, toothpicks, and a tiny flat-head screw driver, working cream paint out of old scratches, dents, and joints in the wood’s surface. By now restoring the white elephant had become a labor of love. I knew every inch of that hope chest by the time I’d finished stripping it.

Two more years passed while the chest sat in my garage, looking thirsty and neglected, awaiting the final stages of restoration. Its potential had been revealed. Now came time for an artist to bring it back to life. Mineral spirits cleaned every surface, showing the depth of the natural grain. I chose a gunstock stain for the first coat, bringing a reddish-brown tone to the wood. Then I accented the legs and edges with an ebony stain, deepening almost to black. Finally, I sealed it all with beeswax, rubbing in two coats and buffing to make it shine. The finished piece has a home at the end of my bed, where I can see it and enjoy using it each day.

Restoring this hope chest reminded me of our own need for restoration. Each of us have layers of paint and grime that build up over the years. We become thick-skinned to protect ourselves from harsh realities we’ve experienced. We put on a veneer facade, like a face mask, showing the world only what we’d care for them to see. The potential for true beauty is there, lying just below the surface. But we’re hesitant to expose that potential to the elements. Perhaps we even robe ourselves in wood grain contact paper, trying to keep up with the cultural fashion of the times. If nothing else comes of this, at least our scratches and dings have been covered, hiding hurts and weaknesses. By the end of it all, we’re a mess. So, we sit, wondering whether anything can undo all that’s been done to us, or undo all the choices we’ve made. We cry out silently for an artist, a craftsman to come. We long for One who sees beyond our surface to the beautiful beneath. We hope for One who loves us enough to tackle the hours/weeks/years of restorative labor. Part of us hopes he’ll be able to relate to our wounds and scars…because, (perhaps) if he can relate to them, he’ll understand rather than despise them.

As we head into Thanksgiving and the advent season, I’d like to encourage you that there is One who came into the world just for that purpose. He came as an infant, in vulnerable beauty (Luke 2:1-20). He grew up in the same world we live in, with its harsh realities and ever-changing cultural times (Luke 2:41-52). He stayed true to his purpose, unafraid of harsh words or biting accusations. He never hid behind facades, though he often stripped away (sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully) the facades of those around him (John 4; Matthew 23:27). Finally, he carried scars (our scars) to the grave. All the dings and dents, failures and festering wounds went with him to Sheol. But the grave could not hold him down. He rose in beauty, fully restored (John 20:1-18). Like my hope chest, he is known by his scars (Revelation 5:6). But his aren’t scars of sin. They’re scars of a love so deep it would sacrifice itself for the sake of restoring a broken world.

Portraits of Scotland – Edinburgh Piper

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copyright 2016 Mollie Bozarth

Opening the window of your apartment on the Royal Mile, you’re met with sights and sounds of a bustling city. Tourists and lorries, street vendors and shop owners create a chatter of activity. This cacophony is part of the music of Edinburgh. However, it’s merely the backdrop for a ribbon of song that floats and weaves through the city street. For, on several corners stand Edinburgh pipers whose bagpipes screel the notes of the nation.

During the several days we spent in or near the Royal Mile, we saw (and listened to) pipers of all ages. Each wore a traditional kilt, some in full regalia. And most played traditional Scottish bagpipes. Then, one day we came across a young piper whose music carried more harmonies, without the shrill drone of Scottish pipes. I asked the young man, whose name is Rex, whether these were Uilleann pipes – an Irish form of bagpipe I’d heard once in college. The Uilleann pipes look a lot like those Rex played. Turns out I was on the right track! Rex was playing a lesser-known instrument called the Scottish smallpipes. In preparation for this blog post, I emailed Rex, asking for more information about smallpipes and his experiences as a piper. Rather than summarize what he said, I’ll share his responses here:

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copyright 2016 Mollie Bozarth

Specifics: The ‘Scottish smallpipes’ as played when we met are a less commonly played form of pipes. The more traditional ‘Highland Bagpipes’ are most common. They have a huge link with Scottish culture and are referred to by some as an ‘instrument of war’. The ‘Scottish smallpipes’ are more quiet and usually played in pubs and at local gatherings. Very few people play these and so it takes around 6 months to a year to get a good set from a maker. They have the same finger work as the highland bagpipe although look and are played differently (with a bellow instead of a blowpipe). They are great for playing with other instruments, particularly the guitar whereas the highland bagpipes are more of a solo instrument (unless of course played with drums) The Uilleann pipes, also known as Irish pipes are, in my opinion the holy grail of piping expertise. There is a saying which is: “7 years learning, 7 years practicing, 7 years playing”…21 years to master. They are usually played sitting down and have 2 octaves with wrist actions to hold chords at the same time as playing. These are extremely complex to play and indeed make, which is why it can take several years to get hold of a set.

My piping life: I have been playing the pipes for around 7 years now, starting off at around age 8. Having lived in Scotland all my life, I have been surrounded by piping since as long as I can remember. But it never occurred to me to play as I thought it was too “mainstream.” I couldn’t have been more wrong! Piping is a passion for me now. My grandfather was a piper in the black watch regiment, so he played a role in getting me motivated. My first teacher was ‘Alasdair’, the piping legend of Dunbar (east coast). He taught me for 5 years and in my opinion is one of the best teachers that one could ever hope for. A truly amazing man! Not only does he play fantastically well but also makes his own instruments. Next I moved to Paris at 13 and joined the ‘Paris & District Pipe Band’ for 1 year which was fascinating. They’re a group of piping enthusiasts from Brittany who used to play the Breton pipes but had moved over to the traditional ‘Highland Bagpipe’ as the repertoire was larger. This was when I first started to realise there were different branches of piping. Whilst there I met a man who reconstructed pipes of the Baroque period by gathering information, specifically from paintings. This was really an eye opener to me and prompted me to expand my playing abilities. Since then I have started the Scottish smallpipes and also the tin whistle (guitar also for accompaniment). Busking (street performing) is something I love. I often go out with a friend and we play together. We have done so all over, in Edinburgh, London, Paris, and Italy. These have been self-paid-for trips that we have covered with busking proceeds. This is what keeps my love for piping going. Not only do I get a chance to improve my piping and get more confidence performing in public, but I also meet new people all the time. Piping has a real impact on people. It conjures powerful feelings of patriotism and is also very emotional at times. It gives me a real kick to see people so happy to hear the pipes and to be so supportive of them! It is an incredible tradition that has been around for centuries, and I hope it will continue be so.

Deep Waters

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copyright 2016 Mollie Bozarth

Says the LORD, your Creator, O Jacob, and He who formed you, O Israel, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine! When you pass through deep waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, you will not drown…For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your savior.” ~ Isaiah 43:1-3

This painting and post are for Ava – an 8-year-old little girl and her family who have been trudging the deep waters of cancer. I cannot fathom what they are going through. Yet, though I only know them through a mutual friend, their story and faith have brought me to tears and put me on my knees in prayer continually over the past several months. I won’t try here to retell their story. Instead, I encourage you to read it yourselves. Ava’s mom has chronicled much of it through a Facebook page called Team Brighter Days.

Many of us know children or loved-ones who have faced debilitating illness. As we walk with them through the impossibly hard days/weeks/years, we fear drowning…drowning in sorrow, anger, exhaustion. Hope can either die or become a rock to cling to in those times. There is no training manual that prepares parents for talking with their children about the possibility of death. Ava has already had those conversations with her parents. More than most children her age, she understands that this world is not her ultimate home. And, while she continues to fight for her life, she also manages to sing the lyrics to one of her favorite songs: “You can have all this world. Give me Jesus.” While we plead with God to touch her cells, heal each one, and allow her many more years on this earth, we also pray that she and her family feel His arms carrying them in the midst of this.

No matter our walk, be it easy or heavy, we all need a savior who will walk beside us, able to relate to what we’re going through. One of the last words I painted in this illustration was the word “with”. As I filled in the letters with a flesh-tone brown, the name Immanuel, which means God with us, came to mind. God came in the flesh to be one of us. When Jesus was 8 days old, a man named Simeon took the baby in his arms, spoke of what his life would one day be, and said to Jesus’ mother, Mary: “A sword will pierce your own soul too.” (Luke 2:21-35) What words to give to a new mother! I’m sure those words came back during the week of Christ’s crucifixion. Beaten, mocked, stripped, and hung on a tree, her boy (age 33 now) would have been barely recognizable. He had the power to heal, walk on water, raise people from the dead – yet he allowed himself to be overcome by death. Did Mary understand that death could only hold him down for 3 days? I think many mothers can relate to Mary, guessing that she wrestled with warring emotions of hope and despair. Michelangelo, in his sculpture Pieta, depicts Mary holding herpieta son after his body’s been retrieved from the cross. While Jesus’ body seems limp and lifeless, his calf-muscle is tense in the sculpture. Michelangelo, who dissected cadavers and knew muscle tone better than any painter or sculptor of his time, would not have accidently carved that muscle in a flexed/tense position. I believe (as others do) that he used it as a foreshadowing of the resurrection. Yes, Mary’s son was dead. But death could not hold him down. He would soon declare permanent victory over the grave. (1 Corinthians 15:54-57)

The man Jesus who walked on water, who walked through Hell, and defeated death itself, now walks with us through the deepest waters. Rivers cannot overwhelm us. The grave cannot swallow us. Because when we lack the strength to stand, he carries us. And when we’ve lost even the will to hold on, he won’t let us go.