The Stranger

"Well we all have a face that we hide away forever
and we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone.
Some are satin, some are steel, some are silk, and some are leather
they're the faces of The Stranger but we love to try them on."

How well can you really know a person? Even if every intimate detail of their heart is laid bare, is their soul truly exposed? What if the "truth" flowing from their lips is the truth they want you to hear? Who has not had a conversation where you say the right things and express the right sentiments, and then walk from the room, stripping The Stranger off your face?

Do I fear to trust because I am untrustworthy? Do I doubt others because I have such grave doubts in myself? Is Jesus really in control? Is he strong enough to change me? Is he strong enough to save me from myself? If he has little effect in me, what effect can he produce in others?

Will I choose to discard The Stranger from my countenance? Will my exposed face produce faith and goodwill toward others? Will those who see the skull behind the mask stay the course, or turn away? Can I stay the course, regardless of how many Strangers surround me?

A Foot in the Door

This picture (with the blueish tint) was drawn by Charles Bargue. In my Atelier training I had to copy this picture exactly.

As for the success of this venture, I'll let you judge for yourself. My replica is at the top.

Where Do They All Come From

(Another bit from the archives. Perhaps appropos for Valentine's Day.)

She looked different than I expected.
First of all, she was a he. He sat in a two-person booth at Chili's, eating by himself .
My boys surrounded me. My wife sat across from me.
He had no book to read. Seemed to have no agenda in being there.
No one came to meet him.
"Maybe he likes 'alone time'," I thought to myself. I know I do at times.
My heart ached. "What if all his time is 'alone time'?"
I felt like asking him to join my family for the rest of his dinner.
And the music played, “All the lonely people…”

She showed up again. In fact she just kept popping up, but she always looked different.
Walking alone in a mall. Gazing silently at books in the library.
Sometimes looking sad, other times looking pained, other times, looking quite normal.
Yet each time I see her, there is a profound sadness in me, perhaps more than in them.
The refrain rings again "All the lonely people..."

Loneliness grips your heart and twists and squeezes until it's hard to breathe.
The hardest part is not the physical act, but wanting to breathe.
Who do I take in air for? Who will hear me if I exhale?
I looked within and found her.
"I'm sorry....who are you? Why are you here?"
"I'm Eleanor. I have no where else to go."
Surrounded by a sea of people; does anyone know me? Does anyone reach out to touch me?
"Where do they all come from?" I ask, and the music echoes, "All the lonely people."

Fruit of My Labor

A month of hard work has resulted in...a foot.

This picture shows an early stage in the process of completing my first Bargue Drawing in my Atelier training. If you can make out the faint image on the right, you're doing pretty good. I plan on taking a photo of the finished piece tomorrow, and I'll post it here soon. Stayed tuned for the website (hopefully coming soon).

Pink Cigars

(a little bit from the archives for all those yearning for some "uncoolness" in their lives)

Thoughts strike at weird and unexpected times/places. I was cleaning up dog urine from my carpet, and I thought how I can’t get enough of sin.
When I was little, I went to a Sunday School party and Ken and Charlotte Ruchtie’s house. They had ice cream sundaes there, but these were no ordinary sundaes. Oh no! They were pink sundaes. A scoop of pink ice cream. A pink cone for a hat. Pink bits of candy for eyes and mouth. It was a cute, pink clown sundae. I made it through the cone…and the candy…and the ice cream, but when I reached the bottom layer, the pink wafers forming the clown’s collar, well I began to recall feelings of illness from earlier in the day. The feelings became stronger, until they compelled me to the restroom. What landed in the toilet was a partially digested pink mess.
To this day I cannot eat anything pink.
(although yesterday I was eating cotton candy, and when I switched from blue to pink, I noticed I had no problems. Just an interesting sidebar).
I used to smoke cigars. Not that I really liked them all that much. But on special occasions I would light up a stogie. For one bachelor party, I joined my brother and a group of his friends on the Indiana dunes. It was a great night…hearing the guys tell stories about the group while sitting around the campfire. And all the while smoking cigars. Different kinds, different sizes, different tastes. Then the rain put an end to our evening. We went to bed and spent a soggy night. In the morning, we awoke to an overcast, cool day. My work schedule during those days was pretty typical: ride the L to work and eat breakfast at my desk when I got there. I usually packed a Tupperware full of cereal and a water bottle full of milk. For whatever reason, I did not eat my breakfast that Friday morning. This meant I had cereal and day old milk waiting for my on Saturday. Disregarding the soggy clothes, the lack of sleep, and the taste of wet socks in my mouth was probably stupid enough. But what I did next, I would not recommend to anyone. I reasoned that since the preceding day was cool, and the evening was cool, and the morning was cool, although the milk had not been a refrigerator, it could not have gotten too warm, and therefore it would not be too bad to use it on my cereal. It was Life cereal. I remember that because to this day I have trouble eating Life cereal. I can…it’s just not the joy it once was. But that’s not the point of the story. After eating the cereal we went to the lake. We tried to explore the dunes, but it was just too cold, and no one was dressed in preparation for the frigid temperature. Some genius amongst the group (and I wonder if it may even have been me) suggested we stay warm by running over the hills of sand. Like bright, educated college boys we did so, the wind whipping in our faces, tearing at our clothes and shooting ice right through our veins. It took approximately 36.2 seconds for the cocktail of little sleep, bad milk, racing and an evening of cigars to take its toll on me. I lay curled in the fetal position on the sand, moaning, coughing and spitting sock-tasting saliva onto the beach.
To this day I have problems lighting another cigar.
Why is it not the same with sin? Why can’t a horrible sin experience sever all ties and create a pink cigar barrier in my life? I’ve sinned in heinous ways. I’ve even tried to get a glut of sin to produce some kind of overdose, backlash-like effect, but it doesn’t work quite like pink or cigars. I’ve crushed my wife with my sin. I’ve wounded my sons. These facts are too overpowering to even think about. I believe that if I were cognizant of these things all the time I would be too overwhelmed to go on. But then the door is left open for repeating the same mistakes. I have found this to be true:
there is "pleasure in sin for a short time,” (Heb. 11:25) and
“like a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.” (Prov. 26:11)
What is the key to remembering without being dismayed? The secret to recalling the pain in order to prevent future unpleasantness? How does one create a pink cigar barrier with sin?