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Come In, Sit Danica Steenkamp Linocut 3
“Come in, sit.” The cold clutches my bones Feet scraping threshold I cannot enter. “Come in, sit.” I was invited A clear mistake I dare not enter. “Come in, sit.” It is improper To impose I must not enter. “Come in, sit.” I brake to knock An act of defiance Could I enter? “Come in, sit.” My hair is unkempt Face muddied I should not enter. C O M E I N , S I T Danica Steenkamp
“Come in, sit.” The door is opened The light catches my pain I must enter. “Come in, sit.” My coat is taken My burdens relieved I have entered. “Come in, sit.” I’m dried off I’m served love I am filled. “Come on, stay.” Satisfied, leaned back A song for a traveler I am at peace. “Come home.” I see in His eyes Tears like mine I am home. 5
At Storyboard, our motto is: “Our creative work tells part of God's story.” We believe that using our creative gifts glorifies our God, and that we should strive for excellence to honor the One who gave us those gifts. Welcome to the second edition of Storyboard: the Magazine. As you turn or scroll through these pages, you’ll meet vibrant, intense, joyful believers creating works of truth, beauty, and goodness in the Pacific Northwest. They are parents, friends, church members, children, and most importantly: redeemed saints bought with a price. We invite you to take your time with this magazine. By all means, do flip through quickly to find that particular writer, article, painting, or project that brought you here - and enjoy it! And then start from the beginning. Slowly. Pour yourself a soothing beverage and find a sunny window seat, and begin by reading (even aloud) the opening work. Let it wash over you and prepare you to experience whimsical, heartfelt, excellent work created by real people in our own region. We’re so glad you’re here. Enjoy. Welcome -the Storyboard crew
In this Issue Prayers of the People: Pathways for Writing a Personal Liturgy 16 Feature Article by Liz Snell, Janel Davis, and Tiffany Holden Welcome Leaves to Roots Waiting For Spring Storm/Calm Skies Overlays How I Learned to Love Love Stories Moth Seeding The Seed Planter The Small Shift Mice May His Abundance Never Scare You Mixtapes and Playlists Watch As It Wakes Whatever is Lovely The Adventures of Howard & Rosie Shalom Christ Meets His Mother Sorrow Crucible I See Love Easter 2 Wide-Eyed HOLY WEEK The Cat Tales Informal Poets Working Group Love Folded Paper Bouquets Chickadee The Great Expanse of White The Winter is Past The Art of No Compromise Rain On Saint George’s Day We Make Dandelion Wine Daffodil Contributors About Storyboard Addendum (Reflection) Local Author Profile: Cheryl Grey Bostrom 44 Come In, Sit [Prologue] 3 7 6 8 11 12 13 27 28 31 32 34 35 37 39 40 42 43 46 49 51 52 54 55 56 57 59 60 61 62 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 81 82
Leaves to Roots Collaboration by Margret Nuckolls and Jake Nuckolls Mixed media: watercolor, watercolor & acrylic, linocut Margret: My dad wanted to do something with me, so he started brainstorming ideas: Spring, rebirth, growing things... then, he talked to me while on a walk with the dog and proposed the idea we later brought to life. His half is the roots, and mine the tree. My half of it is a mix of two different mediums: the tree trunk is watercolor, and the leaves are a mix of watercolor and acrylic. It takes a tree about 30 years to grow into adulthood. Jesus was in the ground for three days, and a seed is in the ground for about three weeks before it sprouts. After those three weeks and days, the tree and our Lord rose out of the ground and into its/His full glory. Jake: It was a blast to work together with my daughter to create a mixed media piece. It felt natural to combine the flowy watercolors Maggie loves with the black and white of linocut to show underground. I always marvel at trees, even more knowing how much I don’t see. Maggie said it best when describing both trees and the resurrection… “Glory.” 9
photo: Tiffany Holden
Watching the snow waiting for melt Crinkle of water still to smelt Movement of squirrels slow on the waking Sound of flowers still in the making Last Winter storm’s finally passed All creation’s held in fervent gasp Wild Winter’s stayed in dormant hue Change to softer milder blue While wind winds through the willow’s wisp My heart on colder breezes drift O wake, you pain-soaked sullen beast From deep enchanted frozen sleep Rise from ice and tempest storm To the coming of a breaking dawn W A I T I N G F O R S P R I N G Danica Steenkamp 11
Mary Oliver’s poem rises off the page to retell the story— Galilee, and the lake roiled by that strong, unruly wind, and the men in the boat panicking, and calm Jesus with them. Their faces show what terror looks like, until. Until two kinds of power collide. And when the weather responds (each ripple an apology), fright drains from the men’s faces and their bones, replaced by awe, as the One among them shows what both weather and saving powers look like. Then purpose begins its growth among them, and a new knowing, and trust for miracle almost as great as that event enacted on Galilee. S T O R M / C A L M Luci Shaw “The sea lay down, silky and sorry.” Mary Oliver Poem used by permission from An Incremental Life, Copyright Luci Shaw, 2024
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Tuesday Oh Tuesday skies, such pensive thought you hide behind your plumes. Would that your darkness shine so bright retiring the portance of my gloom. Where hands do touch and lovers make beginnings meet While time still runs its course and sweetly bleeds. Would you but take my thinking mind and set me free, that you might think for me and I just be. Wednesday Wednesday skies are thinking eyes Hid and veiled behind the guise. River plumes the whitest shrouds Lifting heav’nward earthly clouds. Joy and beating of the heart Stored away for future art. Thursday Thursday skies are laughing spies Dawned in cumulus in stripes, Giggles, snickers, ravenous jeers All intend on baiting tears. Would that Tuesday skies return, Would that Friday’s take their turn. Friday Friday skies I saw them twice, Promise, promise Wait … surprise! S K I E S Uliana Akulenko
Saturday Blue and blue and blue and purple. Star-filled canopy above. Fire sparks released in whirlpools Trace the constellation’s map. Shooting star a wish remaining Short and sweet, all beacons through, You I call to share these moments, Not yet had, but held in truth. Sunday On Sunday skies are hiding eyes For I’ve been looking past them. I’ve looked to God to see the truth To meet with Him to ask Him… But when I tried to climb the mount He wasn’t there at all, I looked in caverns and the sea that seemed His earthly home, I looked for moon and beach and sky to tell me where’s my Lord, but none did know And so and so I seemed to miss His court. I sat a while by the fire and overlooked the sea, and sky did seem to me a whisper yielded through burning tree. I looked to see so many that I’d forgot to ask, that God Himself would be revealed, in this … a holy task. And silence, stillness, gratitude did answer true and strong. Thy God, thy Father, Holy One, resides with you my heart. Monday Cloud, rain, and fullness of Healing but began, Walls of sands that seemed so strong Trampled on the ground. Pain that seems to tear the soul Inch by inch explained. Skies that carry endless rain Baptism for the land. I confess my heart to You, open up my hand. I can’t do it without You, sweet’s the bitter end. Holding fast to what is true, precepts of the land. I will choose to trust in You, Lover of my hand. 15
Just over a year ago, one of the most wholesome corners of the Internet erupted into cheery hubbub over the announcement that the newest volume of Every Moment Holy would be accepting submissions. In the (many) comments, writers and prayer warriors suggested topics: everything from car trouble, to postpartum depression, to preparing for a new school year. Fast-forward a couple of months to when the contributor list was published. Texts flurried when we discovered several accepted liturgies were written by people living right here, in this little corner of the PNW, so far away from Every Moment Holy’s cultural epicenter in the eastern third of the US. In November, four of the regional contributors - Janel Davis, Théa Rosenburg, Liz Snell, and Tiffany Holden (Luci Shaw was unable to attend) - collaborated to host a Volume III launch party, and were over the moon when author/editor Douglas McKelvey and Illustrator Ned Bustard made the trip across the US to join us. This project not only inspired multiple connections here at Storyboard, giving us hope that there are indeed many Christian creatives seeking community right here in Whatcom County, but also prompted larger conversation around the writing of liturgies and poetic prayers for our everyday lives. Whether published in a book, prayed in corporate worship or around a table, or written for individual worship, we believe there is both spiritual and creative value in writing prayers. And so we invite you to read these three different practices, perhaps gleaning a process, a prompt question, or an approach that might support your own writing of Prayers of the People. A Small Introduction 17
Part 1: Liz Snell Years ago, during a particularly difficult season in my faith, I struggled to have any desire to pray. God seemed distant and I was afraid to approach Him. I’d grown up in a church environment that emphasized spiritual experience, and I struggled with judging my faith by what I was or wasn’t feeling during prayer. As an adult, I’d joined a liturgical church that helped me stay grounded in truth regardless of my feelings. But I was still spinning out, questioning where God was when I felt lost and alone. My pastor, Josh, agreed to meet with me regularly as I clung to whatever bits of hope I could find. During one of our meetings over coffee at Whole Foods, I described my avoidance of prayer and my fear of God’s silence. Pastor Josh said, “I think you need to go to your pleasure in prayer.” By this, he meant taking something you already love doing and use it as a way to connect with God. At first I tried sketching, but I found myself too distracted by “getting it right.” So I transitioned into poetry. I’ve long loved poetry. Many find it alienating and hard to connect with, but I come from literary parents, and I studied literature and writing in college. I’d never enjoyed prayer journaling; it felt too stilted and performative. But in the poetic space, I felt I could be open to the mystery of God without being afraid of the unknown. In poetry, the spaces and the unsaid matter as much as the words. Silence is rich. I often feel when writing poems that something comes from “beyond me,” some surprising metaphor or connection bubbling up from a hidden aquifer. I’m able to listen in peaceful attentiveness. On mornings, I’d sit on the back stairs in the sun, drinking coffee and writing poems to God for His eyes only. Each poem became a journey, often beginning with a problem or a reflection on the Scripture I’d just read, and moving me to a deeper understanding of God and His presence with me. This has continued to be a valued part of my prayer life. Sometimes I look back over these prayers and am reminded of the work God has done in the years since that hard season. Most of these poems never moved past a first draft, since it wasn’t my intent to polish or publish them. Though I’ve written Prayers of the People for church, it wasn’t until I was writing for Every Moment Holy Vol. 3 that I worked hard to craft prayers for the general public. The two prayers I wrote for EMH are “For a Single Person Going to Church” and “When Someone You Love Believes Differently than You.” Both liturgies are based on personal experience close to my own heart, connected to many of the prayer poems I’ve written over the years. As I wrote, I prayed. I prayed that God would guide me and give me insight beyond myself. I prayed (and still pray) for those who will pray these prayers. (Maybe it’s you, dear reader.)
To make time for writing, I got up early in the dark mornings before I went to school. I started with aspects of my own experience that I thought were potentially relatable and important to include. Then I thought of people I knew who were in similar but different situations. For example, I’ll use my prayer on singleness: I’m single, in my 30s, and have never been married but would like to be. I know other single people who are older or younger, have been widowed or divorced, have kids or don’t, may or may not wish to be married, and receive varying degrees of understanding and support from their church communities. In writing a prayer for churchgoing singles, I wanted to encompass a variety of experiences while still making my prayer specific enough. I did a lot of crowdsourcing, from asking a group of students at L’Abri (a Christian retreat/study center I worked at) about going to church single, to sending various drafts of my prayer to friends in different singleness situations. I wanted them to experience how the prayer would feel if they prayed it. My empathy grew as I imagined what types of people might be praying my prayer, and in what contexts. This became a meaningful way for me to connect with people I may never even meet: the “communion of saints in all times and places,” just as I pray prayers other strangers have written. I always want my prayers to be grounded in Scripture, so it was also important to me to find anchoring texts. Some of these came to me easily, since I’d often meditated on them regarding my own singleness. But I wanted this prayer to consider more deeply the larger context of the church and God’s work: past, present, and future. This writing process deepened my own awareness of how Scripture places each of us in that stream of God’s story, bringing significance and love to our lives regardless of our marital status. The act of writing a prayer that both I and others would pray, unbeknownst to each other, reflected the reality of our union in Christ across borders and time. As a poet, it was important for me that my prayers be not just relatable or theologically sound but also beautiful. Part of this meant finding metaphors that could inform the through-line of the prayers and give a natural flow between sections. Scripture is full of metaphor, awakening us to unlikely connections and helping us make sense of our lives. In the singleness prayer, I worked with tree imagery, reflecting on what it means to flourish in a life some people see as withered. In the prayer on differences of belief, I thought about diverging paths on a journey. I wanted my language to stay accessible; both of these are familiar metaphors with many connections to Scripture. “As a poet, it was important for me that my prayers be not just relatable or theologically sound but also beautiful.” 19
Writing the second prayer, on differences of belief, was more difficult. I intended this prayer to encompass not just divergence in faith, but also divergence in political beliefs, values, etc. It was hard to keep it broad enough to cover all of that. I struggled at points to articulate the theology behind the prayer, just as I’ve often struggled to understand how to approach disagreements with my loved ones. How much do we push into what we believe to be true, and how much do we simply listen and extend understanding? How do we grapple with God’s often-invisible work in people’s lives? I had more back-and-forth with Doug McKelvey, my trusty editor, as we tried to hash out what would be faithful to God’s Word. In writing these prayers, I felt overwhelmed at times by the impossibility of capturing all I wanted to, recognizing how much I might be missing. At those points, I prayed again that the Spirit would be with me and use what I’d written, incomplete as it might be, to touch lives. I had to put my last drafts in God’s hands, trusting Him to be the final shaper of these prayers. The Spirit intercedes for us when we don’t have all the right words, whether we write prayers for publication or pray spontaneously alone. I hope people will pray what’s relevant to them and let the less relevant parts shape their empathy and imagination, as this experience shaped mine. I’ve found that praying liturgical prayers has encouraged me to pray in ways and about things I might never have considered alone. The experience of writing these liturgies has encouraged me to think of other liturgies I need in my own life that I might write, perhaps to share with others. You don’t have to be a poet to prayerfully consider what is important to write about. The prayer poems I started writing years ago were spontaneous one-offs; writing liturgies to share with others involves a slower process of polishing. Regardless of whether you write only for God or to share with others, God, our best editor, graciously accepts the prayers we offer Him. Some potential questions to consider as you write: What keeps coming up in my prayer life? What am I often bringing to God? Where is my experience opening me to consider others in similar situations? What Scriptures have been meaningful for me as I reflect on these things? What particular verses and images come to mind? How does this theme connect with the larger stream of God’s story? How can it help point people to what God has done in the past, is doing now, and will do someday? How is my experience of this issue similar to and different from those of other people I know? How might people in other cultures or circumstances experience this? Where does this theme intersect with the life and character of Jesus? Are there ways God might push me outside of my usual way of thinking about this theme? What is the journey of this prayer? Where does it begin and end, and how does it get there?
Part 2: Janel Davis One morning I woke up and checked my phone. I had a flurry of texts that had come in overnight while sleeping, soundly unaware. Reading them felt like I had disturbed a chattering flock of birds from their nesting tree— going from singing to wintery empty. The texts revealed that a dear friend had gone to the ER for heart problems, recommended by his daughters in the medical field who said, “Go now Dad, even though you don’t feel that bad. Go immediately to the ER.” For myself, being a daughter with a dad who doesn’t like going to the doctor, this seemed miraculous. While on the table doing heart tests, he had a massive heart attack in the artery that’s nicknamed the “widowmaker.” Death would have been imminent, had he been home. I was overwhelmed by God’s provision— that this older man had listened to his young trained daughters, that they even knew what to do, that the right staff was there in place, and his life was saved. He and his wife were in our small group and they had walked with me through the deepest valleys of my life… including a recent family death. I was flooded with gratitude that he was still with us… this man who loved his wife (my dear friend), his kids, and his grandkids so well. A prayer of thankfulness took wing throughout my body. I wanted to write something that captured God’s good provision in all the little details that flew through the texts requesting prayer and the updates on God’s provision. That was the first liturgy I wrote: “Liturgy After an Emergency Procedure Stent.” I sent it off to them, who passed it on to their family. And I was kind of shocked to see how much they loved it and were grateful for these words that helped give voice to their own thankfulness ringing in their hearts. You see, I’ve often thought that I have too many words. My dad used to call me his little chatterbox. And it is true, I need to learn to be silent and not love to hear myself talk so much. But, it’s also true that my words are a gift. I can harvest the details of feeling and sift 21
through them, winnowing out the emotional truth to be subject to Biblical truth and the character of our God. When friends’ voices are choked with pain, I can write a prayer that they can use. Or maybe it’s joy and relief that leaves them breathless. My words can be used to serve, giving voice to emotions— offering them in a praise or a plea or a prayer. Emotions need to leave the body. We can do this through many means… but one of them is through our voice and breath in prayer. And to have a real relationship with God, I need to have an emotionally honest one. Writing liturgies is one practice that can help a community reckon with our human emotions and a good God who can handle them. Title - State what the prayer is about clearly. Reverently address our Lord. Add three descriptors. State the scene. State the petition. Add into your petition what you know about the character of God. Before the Soccer Game of My Young Son Oh God— Maker of bodies and fun and the very grass we stand on. In a moment, my young son will run onto this field full of joy, but his heart for soccer and his love of winning do not match his skill. There will be big feelings. There will be tears and anger that he doesn’t have the capacity to control yet. And I’m sure a major meltdown is impending. One where I will try not to be annoyed in a public situation of overdrawn tears. I am not sure how to love and lead him well, in what seems like a minor story arc. Yet this is his known and immediate world of suffering. And yet You are a good God, who is with us in all our perceived suffering, faithful and patient to me when I run onto my fields unprepared, more passion than skill, uncontrolled, and with opponents a foot taller than me. IN PRACTICE
Faithful Lord, help me remember how You parent me— full of grace, compassion, and patience. Help me listen and be led by Your Holy Spirit in the ways You have taught me of being a good parent— teaching steadfast love, drawing him close, being a reflection of calm and steady perseverance in the midst of losses. Help me hold with open hands any scene that is caused, knowing You are sovereign in all the scenes of my life and his. Thank you for his passion, our emotions, that we can cry out to You. And his young healthy body that can run with freedom, kick a ball with fierceness, and laugh with friends… and that I get to be here for it all. Amen. Pray and ask for what you know about our Lord to be true in this situation and for you. End with a simple or complex (multiple sentence) praise. Amen. Part 3: Tiffany Holden I’d been attending Christ Church Bellingham for about six months when one of my pastors approached me with a question: “Would you be interested in joining the liturgy team?” Liturgy. This was a mysterious word, one I’d only recently been introduced to via Douglas McKelvey’s Every Moment Holy Vol. 1 and the rhetoric of my still-new-to-me PCA church. In 2020 my soul had found refreshment somewhere I least expected: a corner of the internet. It was a Facebook group of thousands of Jesus-followers across all denominations who loved the arts, writing, music, hospitality, and all things whimsical. It was in this online forum that I heard of prayers referred to as liturgies, and only later that I began to learn the deeper, historical meaning of liturgy for the Christian church universal. In this sense, I understood liturgy as a carefully written, structured prayer - it followed a redemptive progression (as do liturgical church services), words were chosen carefully (as with a poem), and a liturgy could be applied to every regular moment or instance of our lives (cf. 1 Thes. 5:17). 23
Over the last three years of regularly writing prayers for worship and my own meditation, I’ve distilled my most oft-used style to a simple thought progression: Who is God? What is the topic on my heart? What is the hope I have in God for this topic? Let’s take these and break down some sub-questions: Who is God? What attributes of God are at play in this situation? What part of God’s character do I need to remind myself of? What heart-posture am I coming to Him with? What is the topic on my heart? How is it impacting me, God’s family, my community, the world? What expressions of praise, joy, gratitude, pain, regret, fear, anxiety, lament, or confession do I need to bring to God?* What is true about the situation? What is true about God’s hand in and power over this situation? What is the hope I have in God for this topic? What am I asking God to do directly for the situation at hand? What am I asking God for, for my heart, regardless of how He takes action? What can I reaffirm about God’s character to help my heart be at peace? *Don’t rush through this portion. This is a chance to embrace the gift of lament. Not only is lament a key theme of the 150 Psalms in Scripture, but individual lament Psalms often are heavily weighted to exploring its cause. We too need not fear to bring these deep pains in detail to our God - He is our loving Father who wants to hear our hearts. I invite you to grab a pen and a scrap of paper. The back of a receipt or that handout from your kid’s school is great - let’s avoid the pressure of a perfect notebook page here, and just scratch down the thoughts of our heart. Come sit with me and let’s do this together. I talked with a friend recently about the challenge of developing new friendships, so that’s what I’m writing about. What will you write about? IN PRACTICE
Who is God? What attributes of God are at play in this situation? What part of God’s character do I need to remind myself of? What heart-posture am I coming to Him with? What is the topic on my heart? How is it impacting me, God’s family, my community, the world? What expressions of praise, joy, gratitude, pain, regret, fear, anxiety, lament, or confession do I need to bring to God? What is true about the situation? What is true about God’s hand in and power over this situation? God is a relational God; he is Three in One, in perfect unity. He is not only Creator but Lord, Savior, Friend, Sustainer to His creation. God puts us in community. Friendship has the potential to sanctify us, bless us, bear one another’s burdens, confess to each other, spend time together, echo God’s love to each other, help and serve one another (maybe I’ll look up the “one anothers” of Scripture). Loneliness, not feeling like I fit in or have “my people.” Seeing others have their first circle of friends which doesn’t include me - I’m a backup friend. Acquaintance to many, friend to few. Thankful for the close friends I do have, just wishing there were more of those. How can I be a good friend that can help others be a friend to me too? What is the hope I have in God for this topic? What am I asking God to do directly for the situation at hand? What am I asking God for for my heart, regardless of how He takes action? What can I reaffirm about God’s character to help my heart be at peace? God wants me to have community and close bonds. He is able to help me work with and through my awkwardness, my insecurities, and I can trust Him to guide me in the right path. Show me how to be a friend. Show me the others who feel this way. Help me find kindred spirits, and help us have the courage to extend open hearts to one another. Help me have the humility to make the first awkward steps. Let God’s will be done; let me learn what I need to learn. Let me trust that He has a perfect plan. God loves His children and often brings friends into their lives at just the right time. He oversees all of this; I can trust Him. You’ve probably noticed that this exercise feels more like a prayer journal than a formal liturgy-writing class. But remember: in some ways, that’s what these are! Now, let’s take our notes and structure them a bit more. I’m talking big messy circles around our favorite words and lots of arrows all over the page to reorder the progression of thought. Maybe some scribbled question marks when you don’t have quite the right word yet - those will come later. 25
Merciful God, You are in Your very nature a community, the friendship of the Trinity from eternity past. And You invite us into a relationship with Yourself. While we walk this earth, You also give us the blessing of friendship To sanctify us To bless us To bear one another’s burdens To confess to one another To help and to serve And to merely enjoy one another’s company This opening might be rather long, but let’s leave it and go on to the bulk of this prayer - the middle section. Notice that now we’re smoothing the voice to be consistently speaking directly to God. We can edit the language and phrasing to speak to the soul of listeners beyond our journal, but this is secondary to our first goal: to spill out our confessions and praises and pleas to God - and He knows our souls, not just our scratches on a page. Our notes for Part 1 included lists, so we might repeat some of that directly in our draft (I’m always a fan of indented lists): Of late, O Lord, I have too often stood in the shadows of other’s friendship circles. I hurt when I hear only a quick hello while others are welcomed with bright smiles and an immediate launch into a conversation that I have no part in. I feel liked by many, loved by few. And it’s lonely. I’m frightened by the risk of reaching out. I feel awkward and unsure of myself, and wonder if I have a friendship worthy of offering. Help me to have humility to extend friendship without _(hmm what word would fit here? - ‘reservation’ maybe?)_, O Lord, a Friend to the lonely, guide me to find those whose souls rhyme with mine. Lord, You can work through even my own awkwardness and insecurities. You are the Friend who loves at all times, and I can trust you to guide me to friends to walk with on this earth. Thank you for your faithfulness. In our ending, we counsel our own hearts and remind ourselves of God’s goodness and trustworthiness: After this, it’s up to you on if you’d like to tailor and edit this first draft further, or leave it as a beautiful and heartfelt personal prayer. “...in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
It’s asking me to dig deep when he spins the turntable of my memory back to quasars and equations, particles and anti-particles radiating the primal darkness of now that is also forever that is forever ago (inverted into one identical moment) a contortionist’s crescendo of modeling in perpetual cyclical quest for the center that cannot be known — when what I know right now, is kiwifruit in radiating discs skewered on the end of a finger probing the same symmetry of being in embryonic understanding, with radiant eyes the color of blueberries that are whole and round on an ordinary scale, in the orbits of bumbling chaotic houseflies. The cycle is everywhere. And whether it is nine-o-clock that the hall clock chimes, or eighty-clock is not a truer question than whether eighty clock is your favorite. For now. For your eyes too were made for wonders. If there’s one thing I know, it is this: that all scopes coalesce, the vast or narrow, trackless or trodden, sooner or later, into the measure of your singular infinite eye. O V E R L A Y S Laura Trimble 27
H O W I L E A R N E D T O L O V E L O V E S T O R I E S Théa Rosenburg I’ve never been crazy about love stories. I’m thinking here of the Victorian sort, where Character A falls in love with Character B but, due to a series of mislaid letters and misinterpreted glances, does not declare said affections until three hundred pages have elapsed and I have lost interest. The heroines in these stories always seem to be losing their bloom and having it restored by fresh sea winds, while the heroes ride all over the countryside on horseback, doing good deeds in secret while outwardly looking gruff and unpleasant. I had little patience for that, or for the fact that so many love stories end with a wedding, when it’s only after the wedding that things get interesting. That is how I felt about love stories three months ago. Then came a pivotal moment, ushered in by the birth of my third child, when I sat in a sunny back bedroom, nursing her contentedly and reading Treasure Island. Now, I love Treasure Island, but when one is nursing one’s infant daughter in a sunny back bedroom, one longs for something a little softer around the edges, with less swashbuckling and no rum. So I picked up Sense & Sensibility. That’s when I noticed the change. It wasn’t that I loved Sense & Sensibility— I didn’t— but that the story connected with a different part of my brain, a part that was actually up and running while the part that engaged with complex plots like that of Treasure Island had gone offline, derailed by hormones, upheaval, and fatigue. Those Victorian glances seemed simple, and all the rules, dictating who could write to whom and when, comforting. Jane Austen is the right sort of author for nursing a baby in a back bedroom. So, it turns out, is L.M. Montgomery. (I read a dozen or more of her books in a month.) Those were the taps that found the chinks in my armor, but it was North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell, that dealt the fatal blow: though the characters in North and South begin at Point A and eventually arrive at Point B, they do so only after traveling a route scenic and strange, marked by politics, economics, and religious debate (not the usual stuff of romance). The love story there fits into a larger context and its final culmination seems to give value to all the struggle and grief that came before. So, here is what I learned about love stories: as long as the story is not formulaic or contrived, as long as the burden of the plot does not rest on the question of, “Will they or An earlier version of this essay was first published by Deeply Rooted Magazine in February of 2015.
won’t they?” alone, there is something deeply satisfying about a romance come to fruition. That moment when the characters arrive at the point they’ve been traveling toward since page one resonates within us because the best love stories hit us in our softest spot— the place in our heart that can only be touched by the gospel. You see, our story ends with a wedding: “Hallelujah! . . . for the marriage of the Lamb has come, and His Bride has made herself ready; it was granted to her to clothe herself with fine linen, bright and pure” (Rev. 19:7–8). No matter which obstacles the world throws in our way, no matter how Satan frustrates the plot with his equivalents of mislaid letters and misinterpreted glances, our story is written by the steadiest hand; the ending is fixed. We cannot expect a perfect romance here, in the middle of the story. My own love story began with a snowy walk through a cemetery at dusk and culminated in a winter wedding, but when I stood on the threshold of marriage with my hand in my husband’s at last, it was not to watch the new heaven and earth descend while the heavenly hosts sang aloud (though at the time, it felt like that). Ours was a small scene in a larger story— one that ends not with our own wedding, but with nothing less than the wedding of Christ. That was the realization that taught me to love love stories. If God doesn’t find it trite to end a story with a wedding, then it must be an acceptable plot device and one that I can learn to embrace. In fact, this goes a long way toward explaining why so many of us are so satisfied with a good, old-fashioned romance, one that doesn’t treat the altar as the period at the end of a grand sentence but as a page break, implying that the best is yet to come. “Come, Lord Jesus!” (Revelation 22:20) 29
Moth Phoebe Rosenburg, age 10 Linocut 31
Dandy seeds all Seeded and seeding Sprung of Segar Am I Sprung of who Are you? Segar dandy: opposites united Dad-bird of paradise Creative extrovert Mother-lavender Practical nurturer I— Queen Anne’s lace Creative nurturer Woven of two Whose hues, contours mold yours? Seven slender, silk chutes Two flown-prebirth Sister triad Brother duo Unique yet linked Siblings have you? Of home-rooted dandy Greenhouse Meals nourishing Bonding nights Steadying traditions Dwelling, flourishing seven Was yours house or home? S E E D I N G Vanessa Ann Vis
Faith-fueled roots Saplings truths receiving Questions digging Answers rooting Christ-Tree of Life Tree of Life redeeming: Upon hope hung In Him, are you? Silken filaments wafting Uniting New dandy fusing Cycle restarting Four chutes unfurling Three whisked Fostering, pouring, shielding Am I of them Have you wee seedlings? Dandy silk am I Silken seeds are all Of legacy true Or vile come all What legacy seeded you? What legacy seed you? 33
Often we’re called to plant God’s seeds; Sometimes it seems boring to do. We’re not always around to see the results Of the flower and fruit when it’s new. But if we failed to plant God’s little seeds At the time and the place He would choose, Then the people in line to water and weed Would not have a job to do. And later in time at the spot God chose Nothing but weeds would grow; When actually God had planned for us To be the start of a glorious show. So remember we must, as we meet each day, The importance of the Seed Planter’s task. And we will share together in God’s beautiful plan As we do everything that He asks. T H E S E E D P L A N T E R Terry Harris
Hope tells a story of the future. A settled conviction of things true, though presently dim. The seed exists, but hope sees more than the seed. The invisible tree encoded in a small shell is truly there. Can you see it? Hope holds out a hand to companion you through the darkness. A shaft of light piercing, slicing the despair to point your feet to a path forward. A shift, however slight, is still a shift that ripples the dark waters making waves that bring your boat to the shore of the place you could before only imagine, through the eyes of hope. T H E S M A L L S H I F T Elisabeth Moody 35
photo: Tiffany Holden 35
At 3:00 am, sleep skitters across the room, a shy mouse, out of reach. I lie in the dark and hear more of them in the walls, the ceiling: old decisions, choices long past, regrets, sorrows, fears, yellow-toothed and dirty, chewing wires. At this rate lights will flicker, come Winter. And so I call You, Mouse-Catcher. Are You there? Will You answer? Will You come here once again, into the infestation? I’m here, You say. I’m here. M I C E Cheryl Grey Bostrom 37
photo: Tiffany Holden
M A Y H I S A B U N D A N C E N E V E R S C A R E Y O U Elizabeth Higbee My husband and I stood on the deck of our newly purchased home, taking in the beauty of the surrounding hills, towering pine trees, and blue skies (somewhat rare in Oregon!). “Can you believe we live here?” he asked. “May His abundance never scare you,” I replied, quoting the phrase that had been rolling around in my head for the last few weeks (first seen on Phylicia Masonheimer’s Instagram). For so many years, I had lived as if the Lord’s gifts were too good to be true. Surely there had to be some trial waiting on the other side of a gift, right? After all, we live in a fallen world and nothing is perfect this side of heaven. So while I enjoyed good things the Lord had put in my life, there was always a nagging thought in the back of my mind that they wouldn’t last. Whatever seemed pleasant and enjoyable was sure to have a dark flipside. Sometimes, yes, there is an unseen trial, or a situation that turns out to be way, way harder than we expect. Other times, though, we get to experience a sweet gift for what it is — a gift. There is no trial waiting, and we don’t need to hold our breath, afraid of what might happen if we fully enjoy it. Having grown up in the church, I am well-acquainted with Jesus’ words in Matthew 7:11: “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!” It wasn't until I became a parent, though, that I fully understood this analogy. It's fun to give our kids a gift or experience if for no other reason than we know they'll love it! It doesn't have to be a fancy, expensive item or even anything tangible; sometimes saying yes to that request to visit two different parks in one day puts a huge smile on their faces and creates a wonderful memory. There's a whole list of things in my life that fall into the “seemingly too good to be true” category. Some big (getting married, having kids) and some small (a long-anticipated surprise visit from friends, a beautiful sunrise we watch from our deck). The more I notice these gifts, the more I enjoy them for what they are, without letting my mind wonder what could be hiding behind them. I whisper a quiet “thank you” to the One who gave them. The One Whose abundance is unceasing, which we can only begin to experience this side of heaven. 39
M I X T A P E S & P L A Y L I S T S Jake Nuckolls Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Remember when you would sit in front of your tape player, listening to the radio with your fingers poised over the Record and Play buttons? Waiting and hoping that the pop hit you had heard last week might, just might, still be on the weekend countdown? If you’re like me, you’d wait until the first Top 10 song played, hit record, and let the tape run out of space so you could go play. Mixtapes are what we called them. Graduating from mixtapes to the world of downloadable music, then it was finding the right song, and “burning it” onto a CD. CDROM drives sounding like airplanes in dorm rooms across the country. That spindle of round discs was gold for those of us that couldn’t get enough new music. In college, I was the managing editor of a music review website and I was very proud of the connections I made at record labels. I’d call up someone at Verve Records and land an early release copy of the new Arcade Fire album, promising to review it in the upcoming publishing schedule. If I didn’t have an album I was genuinely excited about, I had only to reach into my mailbox and find sometimes eight albums, all sent from prospective Weekend Top 10 artists looking for a starred review. All this to say, music is still important. “Thank you Captain Obvious, can you say more?” Okay, okay, how about… Playlists are important. “Better, I think.” Playlists are the new mixtapes. The problem that exists is that we leave the curation of our playlists up to an algorithm. The algorithm gets it pretty right based on zeroes and ones and digital data, but there isn’t the purposefulness of someone who takes a topic, a reason, an understanding of who you are, and crafts a journey of music to soundtrack your day, your season, your moment in time. iTunes and Spotify are fun, listening to what they think you’ll like, but try it sometime. Pick a friend, a family member, a memory, and create your own playlist for them. Let’s work together on the first one: How about we soundtrack a sunny summer day at the river? What if you started with: 1.Nickel Creek - “Smoothie Song” 2.The Arcadian Wild - “Shoulders” 3.Hollow Coves - “Coastline” 4.Fleet Foxes - “Sunblind” 5.Andrew Peterson - “Isle of Skye”
Admittedly, this is a start and maybe you already see something, some band, you don’t like. That’s the glory of it all. Kick it out! Put in something new! Put in something old. Every playlist deserves a nod to the past as well as the now. Your choices could be based on lyrics, topics, feel of the music. Don’t get stuck on one aspect of the music. As holidays come and go, search for playlists that already exist and use what you like and change what you don’t. We’re fast approaching the Easter season. Spring, the passing of Winter, new growth, gray to green, the crucifixion, the resurrection. This season is ripe with possibility. Let’s start another playlist. I’ll give you a prompt and a couple songs… you do the rest. And by all means, share what you come up with. With me, with your friends, family, online, social media accounts, your church, etc. Songs for Easter: 1.Keith Green - “Easter Song” 2.Son of Laugher - “Little Sheep” 3.Michael W. Smith - “Hosanna” 4.Andrew Peterson - “Risen Indeed” The world needs your mixtapes, your burned discs, your playlists. Let’s get some playlist seeds starting to sprout this year. 41
Is there a holier season than Spring? If so, I would not know it Designated days for resurrected life celebrating empty tombs, longer days as daffodils and lilac bloom in fragrant praise Yes, it is a time of rain of washing away what has passed O, how my soul needs it Soon the robin’s eggs will hatch God will know it, and smile Welcome to the world! Watch how it wakes I will marvel at Rainier’s peaks as she weeps away the snow Both of us eager to let go W A T C H A S I T W A K E S Ali Noël
Whatever is Lovely Lorna Rande Photo & word art 43
L O C A L A U T H O R P R O F I L E : C H E R Y L G R E Y B O S T R O M So opens Sugar Birds, the award-winning novel by Cheryl Grey Bostrom, an author living and writing right here in Whatcom County. As a reader who finds herself often delving into the same small niches (Fractured fairytales! Square Halo Tiffany Holden It’s a bit of each. What stood out to me through this subtly crafted story included the author’s deep knowledge of the plants, animals, and rivers of the Pacific Northwest, coupled with a keen understanding of autism, trauma, and narcissistic behaviors. I’d already seen some of Cheryl’s photography and read some of her poems, so I knew that she pays close attention to the natural world, and yes, that characteristic shines in her writing: This love for the natural world intersects with both Cheryl’s art and her faith, and is informed by a master’s degree in English, decades of both teaching and writing, and marriage to a (now retired) dairy veterinarian. Over coffee on a Thursday afternoon in Lynden, Cheryl spoke passionately about how she has made it a lifelong practice to be a keen observer of the natural world, how she “draws what [she] hears with word and with photography,” and how the character of God is illustrated in the natural world. While Sugar Birds was technically Cheryl’s first novel, Cheryl has enjoyed writing since she releases! Regency classics!), I found this coming-of-age novel a stretch to define— is it a mystery? An outdoor adventure? A romance? “When a dowdy, striped female flitted past her, she found the bird’s launch point: a nest of the tiniest rootlets, tinder, and horsehair, probably from that sorrel mare upriver. A smooth cup of fescues and dusky contour feathers--from some duck she guessed--curved around three perfect, perfect eggs, all pale blue with black specks.” ““You stay on the ground, Agate!” Aggie scowled as her mother shouted across thirty rows of foot-high corn. Teeth clamped, the girl slammed her gloves into a bucket, then lengthened her stride until she reached the four-wheeler beside the barn. The words lay sharp against her spine. Mama must have seen her eye the crow’s nest near the alders they cut that morning. Of course she did.”
was a little girl. As her kids grew up and she reevaluated priorities for a new stage of life, writing took more precedence. She began writing columns for the Women of Faith blog, from which work she later developed a devotional that was published in 2001. Cheryl describes The View from Goose Ridge as “presenting truth in fresh ways without compromising the Gospel.” In 2003, she co-wrote a nonfiction work, Children At Promise, with Tim Stuart. In 2014, a writing class sketch began to take shape, and over the next four years, Sugar Birds took form. One editor told Cheryl, “if you pursue this, your learning curve is going to be arduous, and your revisions steep.” And Cheryl pursued it. She published Sugar Birds in the general market, and as its success grew, so did the lineup of awards. The novel won more than a dozen industry awards, including the Christianity Today Award of Merit in Fiction. Now, she’s approaching the launch date of the standalone sequel, Leaning on Air. Along the way, readers have grappled with how to categorize Cheryl's work. Do some of her characters' beliefs about the Creator’s hand in the design of healing, or of Pacific Northwest flora, or of prayer restrict Bostrom's novels to the Christian fiction genre? Does the Tyndale House colophon? Does Cheryl's yearning to be a Bezalel, weaving thought and word into verbal tapestries to adorn God's kingdom? Fortunately, no: readers aren’t pigeonholing her books. With enthusiasm from both the general and Christian markets, Cheryl’s book club/literary/contemporary women’s novels have acquired yet another moniker: cross-market fiction. Themes of creation, broken relationship, redemption, faithfulness, and reunification run deeply through her stories. She doesn’t shy away from questions without easy answers, characters in the depths of pain and doubt, and relationships torn by sin— in short, life in this world. These are the characteristics that resonate with readers: we’re offered a novel-world that believes without naiveté, testifies without flippancy, responds with grace, and hopes even in the darkness. And whether or not it fits tidily into one small genre definition, isn’t that what Christian living should be? 45
“Here you go.” Rosie ladled the steaming soup into a white bowl with gold trim and set it on the small dinette, her wrinkled hand trembling. “Is everything out of the house?” “Yep, I’ll lock it up tomorrow before we pull out of here. Fifty years and somehow this is all we have to show for it.” Howard gestured to the small trailer they now called home as he sat down. “But we’ve had a lifetime of memories with more adventures ahead of us.” Rosie’s eyes shone as she took her place across from him. “I can’t wait to see the Grand Canyon.” “If this old rig doesn’t sputter and die halfway through Colorado.” Howard took off his hat and they both bowed their heads. “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, and let these gifts to us be blest.” “Make our bodies well and strong, cause our souls for Thee to long,” Rosie repeated her portion of their traditional mealtime blessing. “And make our truck strong, too!” she chuckled as she stirred her soup. “I just hope that young man in town did a good job on the transmission rebuild.” Howard looked up from his bowl. “If I hadn’t broken my arm I could have done it myself and not entrusted the job to a highschooler.” T H E A D V E N T U R E S O F H O W A R D A N D R O S I E Elizabeth Higbee
“He’s not in high school. You know that.” “Well, he’s certainly not an experienced mechanic.” “You know yourself that he has a reputation for doing quality work, and you inspected it very thoroughly before paying him, remember?” Howard didn’t answer as he brought another spoonful to his mouth. Rosie looked affectionately at the man she had called hers for over five decades. Ever since they met, she had admired Howard’s unwavering, steady spirit. For so long, that had been the daily work of sheep farming, thrust upon him suddenly when his older brother had passed away, leaving two ailing parents and a farm in need of a caretaker. “Did you tell Steven that we’re leaving tomorrow? You know he’s going to worry about us driving the whole way there.” “Yes, I called him while you were finishing up in the house. He wishes he was here to drive with us but said he’ll see us Thursday afternoon at the campground. The wedding rehearsal is that night at seven o’clock.” “I keep telling him I just broke my arm, not my back, and that it’s healed now and we are perfectly capable of getting ourselves to Arizona.” Howard took a swig of milk from his glass and set it down as if it were the period in his declaration. “And we’ll be out of the house a day early, so that anxious real estate agent should be happy. I just hope the new owners don’t burn the place to the ground before the end of the year.” “I’ll call Cynthia in the morning and let her know we’re out. The keys are on the kitchen table?” “Yep. And you have the paper maps in the truck? The last thing I want to do is need directions and be without signal for those confounded Internet maps.” “In the truck and have the Iowa and Nebraska sections ready to go.” “Hard to believe this is finally happening, isn’t Rosie girl?” He flashed a rare grin. “Just took fifty-two years instead of three like we’d planned.” “I’d make the same decision again, you know,” she reassured him. “Staying on at the farm when George passed away so suddenly was the right thing to do. It allowed your parents to live out their final days at home and I’m glad we were able to give them that, even if it meant we got tied down.” 47
“You sure sacrificed an awful lot for my family,” he shook his head, “too much, I sometimes think.” “Not too much.” Rosie glanced at Howard. “We’ve had plenty of adventures, they just took place in Iowa instead of around the country like we planned. But now we’re going to have some of those adventures as we get to our new home. How’s your arm feeling?” “Fine. I keep telling you that I don’t feel broken anymore.” “I know, but the doctor just cleared you to start using it again. Sometimes I think we should have waited to make such a long trip, especially since we’re moving, too. But with Ella’s wedding coming up and the house already being for sale it seemed like the right thing to do. I promised Steven we would give him updates on our trip. I know he feels badly that he was needed at home instead of driving with us.” “That boy needs to stop worrying,” Howard declared. “Ever since he moved to Arizona last year he’s constantly worried about us. At least once we’re closer he can see for himself that we haven’t fallen apart yet.” “It’s his way of showing that he loves us.” Rosie spoke tenderly of their oldest son as she finished her dinner. “And as much as I’m going to miss everything here, I am looking forward to being closer to him and his family.” Rosie stood up to clear the dishes and started washing them in the small sink. “Want to go for one last walk around this place when we’re done?” Howard asked as he grabbed a towel and waited to be handed a dish to dry. “I’d love to.” Rosie was caught off-guard by the tears that came to her eyes. “Now that we’re about to start traveling and seeing some of the places I’ve only read about, I can’t help but think how much I’ll miss our lives here. I don’t regret it, but it’s ironic how the life I thought I didn’t want, ended up being a life I loved.”
(Excerpted from Hilde and the Bad Poets. A giant mallard has just brought Hilde the Enchantress from Medieval Europe to a town in the Pacific Northwest nowadays. She comes to herself in a bookstore where a group of poets is meeting. Hilde is on a quest for something she is missing. When she finds it, she will be transported home, able to resume her full magical powers.) T H E C A T T A L E S I N F O R M A L P O E T S W O R K I N G G R O U P Elizabeth Scot Tervo I decided to start making myself known. I walked to the end of the aisle of shelves and stepped out from behind the bookcase. Nobody noticed me except one man, and he didn’t say anything. He had a most mournful look on his face and he was looking at the floor as I stepped onto it. His face was a little flabby, like the rest of him, and he was resting his head on his hand as he thought what to write. His expression should have belonged to a tragic hero, but since his face was a little silly-looking to start with, he did not look tragic, just more silly. The rest of the poets kept writing while I stood there. The flabby man was looking at my shoes, as if he were expecting my shoes to appear in that exact place at that exact time. They are quite nice shoes, with a little heel just right for me, and black with a buckle. Then his eyes rose to the blue cloak and my dark blue skirts and dress, up and up. Nobody could really tell my figure through my outfit; it stands out from my body and is stiff and embroidered and had so many pockets holding my useful supplies. His eyes went to my collar of linen, amber necklace, and my face which is white and rosy and just a little bit plump. My earrings of obsidian and my hair, which as I said is raven but every so often I get some white hairs and I quickly turn them back. Usually I do this every morning but a night must have passed since I left home with the giant duck and a stray white one or two must be showing. I usually keep my hair neatly under my hood and out of the way but of course the hood fell back in flight, and so my hair was in the usual wild tangle it preferred. Our eyes met. The man still did not seem surprised. For a second I saw the sparkle of magic in his eye, and I wondered if he were a wizard who had summoned me here— if all the problem with my magic and the book I was trying to work on and the duck were a ruse on his part to get me here— maybe he heard tales of me and fell in love with me, as so many do, and summoned me to him— but as we looked at each other, the sparkle winked out. He was just an ordinary person. Then I saw the item that must be the thing I was looking for. “Oh my!” I shouted out. “What is that?” I charged across the room to it so I could grab it. 49
The poets all jumped and looked at me with that foggy expression that comes from being far away in poetland. But what did I care if a crowd of poets stared at me? I ran across the room to catch the beautiful object from its shelf. I couldn't reach it. I tried to make it come down to me by magic but it would not. I wasn't having that. I stamped my foot and pointed at it and called to the flabby man, "Get me that!" He got up and ambled over. "Uh, okay." He pulled it to the side and down and off the shelf and I took it in my hands. It was a beautiful, beautiful round thing, blue and green and brown and white and it had a kind of handle and a stand. It was just a little bigger than that egg the giant duck hatched from. I held on to the handle and spun it around and around. "Oo!" I said. "I need this. What will you take in exchange for it?" "It's not really for sale... it's just decoration for the store. And who are you? And why do you want it?" I marched over to the table and put the round thing down. Now that I had it in my hands, I could feel that it was not magical. It was just made of some kind of crushed tree pulp and painted. Pretty, though. "Never mind. I don't need it." I turned to the poets. "I am Hildegunde the Brave, Double-battle as I am known! I am on a quest. For a moment I thought this thing was the thing I am looking for. What.. what is it?" "It's the world." I laughed. I explained to them that the world flat, not round, and exists in a ring around the central sea, and they explained to me that the world is not flat, it is round. Let's skip over that discussion. Suffice it to say in the end they convinced me that their representation of the world was correct. They pointed out places that I know, starting with the Baltic Sea and ending with the Greek islands. I took a moment to just stand and see if, within myself, I could sense whether this was true. My feet stood on the wooden floor, and below that was a short empty space and a stone foundation, and below that dirt, clay and rocks. Down, down, my feet rested, and