When God invented grandchildren, He outdid himself — forgive me, but all of you grandparents know what I mean. I couldn’t be more crazy about mine! They have changed my life forever, as a matter of fact, because I wanted to write books for them. After writing books for them, I was able to get a paid writing job for a local children’s book publisher. One good thing led to another, and I have my amazing grandchildren to thank.
In recent years especially, I have felt almost a burning desire to write–about my life, about my thoughts, about funny and interesting things that happen at my job, about the goodness of God, about experiences with internationals–stories slap me in the face nearly everyday and demand to be written! Writing for me is a wonderful way to really savor your life, to be able to live the fun parts over and over again, and even to invent some fun in your mind if you’re running a little short.
In the summer of 2014, I was inspired to write and illustrate a children’s book for my granddaughter. That was way more work than I ever imagined, but I also found that something intuitive or imaginative happened when I started to write: the story took a direction I never thought of in the beginning, ideas sprang out of nowhere, and the creative process, a mystery to me, made writing that book, Ariel, Princess of the Forest, an adventure.
I figured out how to publish it with an online company called lulu.com. Presenting the book to my granddaughter and her parents and seeing her giggle about the illustrations of her favorite stuffed animal going wild, was about as good as life gets for a grandmother.
Once I started for one grandchild, I was committed. Apparently my children think I need to keep busy, because they’ve since added two more grandchildren to the count, for a grand total of six children’s books due so far!
The next summer I created a book for my grandson, Joshua’s Journey: The Secret of the Chameleon, loosely based on an experience our family had in Mozambique. After going through the grueling work of self-publishing again, I decided that it would be nice to find a publisher.
One thing led to another, and thanks to a sweet friend pushing me to go to a writer’s meeting, I made some connections with a local publisher. The publisher wasn’t ready to republish my books, but she was impressed with them, and decided to hire me to write for her children’s book series!
I have just completed my first book for Baxter’s Corner publishing company! Baxter’s Corner’s goal is to create books that will teach healthy values. They hired me to write about one of their characters, Ellema the elephant. Ellema and the Big Rig will be published early next year. Baxter’s Corner already has an established illustrator for the series, Mary Ellen Stottmann, so I was hired only for the writing. I appreciated working with the “Chief Pencil,” author and editor Linda Baker. By the time my third and final draft was accepted, I was relieved, happy, and ready to do my victory dance! I was paid to write! A dream come true! God is so good!
Selling an original painting is like saying goodbye to a dear friend. Recently I sold this oil pastel of a young girl we encountered while traveling from Burkina Faso to Niger back in 2005. The buyer is a complete stranger from a far away state who came across the painting in my Etsy shop, but I was happy to hear that she had actually traveled to the region, and has a heart for the children of the area. I feel that God used the internet and my artwork to connect us– two people who have never met, and probably never will. A part of me, an intangible part that is colors and marks and feelings that are uniquely mine, will dwell with her family now, blessing that family, I pray, as I was blessed to see the beauty and the image of God in the young girl at the border of Burkina Faso and Niger.
Getting ready for the Trolley Hop this week! I’ll be there Friday night, June 17, from 6-9pm, displaying original pastels and acrylic paintings, as well as prints, cards, and my books. My booth will be located in front of VIP Quality Awards and Gifts, at 409 Spring St., Jeffersonville, IN.
Eyes That See is a great ministry that rescues women in Ethiopia who are trapped in the sex industry. Come out and support their Charity Art Show. As a contributing artist, I was asked to create a piece that incorporated words both positive and negative that have to do with their work in Ethiopia. The Open House Art Show is Sunday March 6, from 2 until 5 o’clock at 1435 South Fourth Street.
Messy? DefiniteIy! Watercolors and girl drama everywhere!
I teach a Bible class of twenty lovely junior high girls. They are too smart and thoughtful to accept simple Sunday school answers to their many serious questions. Some of these dear girls have experienced overwhelming difficulties in their lives that have caused them to doubt the goodness and love of God. Most, if not all of us, can relate. I’ve been praying that God would show me how to communicate to them that they are deeply, lavishly loved by Him.
Over the weekend as I was thinking about this, I remembered two things: One was an art technique, and the other a lesson from Henry Blackaby’s Experiencing God Bible study that I worked through years ago.
The art technique is called a resist. By drawing with crayon or oil pastel before painting over it with watercolor, you can produce a resist–the crayon will resist the paint. If you use white on white, and then paint over it watercolors, you get a surprise effect, revealing the drawing underneath as the paint runs over it.
The wisdom from Blackaby was this: View all suffering against the backdrop of the love of God, shown to us by His sacrifice on the cross. When I consider the death of my brother at age 20 from a rare form of lung cancer, it still doesn’t make sense to me; but this one thing I know:
God has shown me His love and His grace through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. His love has been the constant for me; and though I may have been furious at God for allowing my family to suffer so much, I could never deny the fact of God’s love and sacrifice for us. I might not understand suffering this side of heaven, but I know that He is good, and that He loves all of us because of Christ. Whatever happens, keeping that as my background against which I see everything, I do not lose hope.
Before class, I drew the cross on Calvary’s hill in white oil pastel on four panels with white backgrounds. Then I invited my girls to paint their sufferings all over the board with watercolor, just letting it all run down over the background. They had many words to paint over the cross, expressing their loss, grief, and disappointments in life. The resist didn’t show up as much as I had hoped, but isn’t that the way it is in life? Sometimes it is hard to see the love of God in the cross of Christ behind all of our troubles, but it nevertheless remains, and we must look for it.
My little sweethearts seemed to genuinely appreciate the significance of the activity. Their beautiful eyes were bright and glistening as they fought over who would get to take the art work home. They are messes, yes–and so am I. Our lives are messy, but if we look carefully, we might be able to see that our lives are a beautiful mess, painted against the background of the love of God.
This year I have published a second children’s book and opened two online art shops! It’s been a crazy busy year, but I am very thankful for the opportunities available to me on the internet. One day maybe I’ll write a blog about how the internet makes it possible for shy people to sell themselves and their work in ways not possible in the past; but in the meantime, I’m too busy painting, writing, and selling. Thank you for your interest in my work.
“We may be culturally different and even messy, but there are some things, such as art, that unify us in a way that can’t be denied.”
Peacemaking through Art
by Susan Brooks
It’s incredible how impactful a few hours of interaction with someone from another culture can be! Our State Department sponsors various cultural groups to visit the U.S., and sometimes those groups come to our city, Louisville, KY, through the local chapter of the World Affairs Council. Because of my husband, Martin Brooks, and his work with Peace Catalyst International, one such group visited my school on August 26. The group included 12 Iraqi high school students and their sponsors who had come to the states to explore “peacemaking through art and sports.” Our students were so friendly and gracious to them! I began to wonder if the angels had taken the souls of my eighth graders away and inhabited their bodies for that afternoon. We broke up into groups of 4 or 5 and discussed questions about culture, family, political struggles, hobbies, school, etc. Then when the principal asked what my students had learned, one of our boys shouted, “Iraqis are awesome!”
The last class period of the day, half of the Iraqi students participated in my art class. Doing art together turned out to be a fantastic, fun time that exceeded all my expectations and brought about the perfect ending to our great day of peace building. At one of the tables, two Iraqis and two of my American students decided to work together in such a way that their tile paintings became more than just individual designs– each tile was an important part of a larger whole, making a more beautiful and complex design when placed together. I like to call it the “unity” tile. One of our students said it well in a tweet she sent out that evening:
“We may be culturally different and even messy, but there are some things, such as art, that unify us in a way that can’t be denied.”
The next day, my eighth grade writing class processed the experience through blogging, and they had some great comments:
“By the end of our time with them they felt like friends, even one of us started crying.”
“They also came over here to let people know that not all Iraqi people are terrorists; and they don’t want war; they just want peace. The experience of meeting our guests yesterday changed the way I think and react to stories on the news and to life in general. I think this time with the Iraqis was very inspiring.”
She was a refugee from Syria, a beautiful young woman, dressed in black from head to toe. A patterned scarf was tied around her head and tucked into a lightweight double-breasted suit coat that skirted the floor. She spoke passionately in a language I couldn’t understand, and her young interpreter had to stop a time or two to choke back tears.
The refugee was a young mother, and she told of her struggles during her recent pregnancy in Syria. Her country was falling apart. As her time drew near, she scheduled a c-section two weeks before her baby was due—she needed to make sure the baby would not be born in the middle of the night. A night time trip to the hospital would have been too risky. When the time came for the c-section, the soldiers stopped her family on their way to the hospital. They detained her husband for no apparent reason, leaving her to deliver the baby without him.
Upon her arrival at the hospital, the warring factions were bombing the area, and her heart was racing. Because of her condition, they couldn’t give her the medicine she needed to relax, so she had to find a way to calm down without medication.
“I can do this; I can do this,” she repeated, realizing she had to be strong for the baby.
In spite of the horrific conditions, she delivered a healthy baby, and some time later the husband was released. The family returned to their home, but the situation in the area only worsened. Soldiers harassed the husband when he would venture out, until one day they beat him with sticks so severely he feared for his life. By the time the baby was 4 months old, the family decided it was safer to flee the violence than to stay in their home. They had no passports and no birth certificate for the baby, so they would have to escape across the border illegally. Their best chance to survive the journey was to race through the forest under the cover of night. It was extremely difficult to see their way through, and at certain places they had to run, or the spotlights would expose them. If caught in the spotlights, border guards would shoot them on sight. The young father carried his two-year-old son, and the nursing mother carried her four-month-old baby. It was nearly impossible to keep the children quiet during their flight, but somehow, by the grace of God, they made it. This young Syrian family is now living in the states, building a new life.
I heard this story at our most recent peace feast, and I had the privilege of hugging the young mother who had been through such trauma. She wants everyone to know about the suffering of her people. Her story reminded me of another flight by a family of refugees. They too fled under the cover of night to a neighboring country. They fled to Egypt, to save the life of their child from a murderous ruler. The child’s name was Jesus. I wonder who helped that refugee family. Who took little Jesus in and provided diapers for him and food and shelter for his mother and father until Joseph could find some carpentry work and an apartment? Mary, Joseph, and Jesus stayed in Egypt until Herod died. I wonder if the Egyptians resented Joseph coming into their country and taking their jobs? I wonder if the holy family feared being put in jail for illegal entry? Einstein once said, “The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know.” I’m finding that to be true.
Dang it, I was going to have to practice what I had preached to my Bible class girls, “social anxiety” or not!
I heard a lady say the other day that she suffered from “social anxiety.” That’s me! I thought, and now I have a diagnostic-sounding word to describe my reluctance to go the mosque! Doesn’t that make it okay to stay home? I wonder if Jesus suffered from “social anxiety.” If he did, he overcame it, because he went anyway. He went to the synagogue, to Levi’s house, to the sick and needy, and to the well to talk to the enemy-Samaritan woman. He was often surrounded by clamoring crowds.
My amazing husband claims to be an introvert, but I don’t believe it for a minute—he certainly doesn’t suffer from my “social anxiety” disease! Somehow he has managed to become good friends with many of the Muslim leaders in the city, including the imam at the big mosque downtown. Martin told me earlier in the week that the imam had invited us to a dinner and celebration for his newborn son on Friday night at the mosque, so I bought a cute little outfit for the baby, and hoped that it would be the rare occasion at the mosque that allowed men and women to be in the same room together, letting me be with Martin that night.
By the time Friday rolled around, as usual, I was exhausted. I love my teaching job, but after being surrounded by one group of students after another all day for a week, I needed some down time. I confess that I was really grumpy getting ready to go; and I wasn’t sure I would know any of the women there, so I was suffering from that “social anxiety.” But here’s the thing: all week I had been teaching my girls’ Bible class that Jesus was always eating and socializing with all kinds of people, often defending and honoring those that the majority didn’t like or approve of, people that were different.
“Ugh! I have to find something that covers from head to toe, try to tame my thick mane and make it stay under a scarf, make a salad to take, and they probably won’t let me stay with Martin, and I might not know anyone, and I’m tired, and I just don’t want to go!” I grumbled to myself, all the while thinking, “But this is just the kind of thing that Jesus would go to, and he would love the people that the community may be tempted to reject right now….”
So I put on a long dress and stuffed my hair into a scarf, and I grudgingly went, a very poor excuse for an ambassador of Jesus.
As we drew close to the mosque, I panicked! Oh man! “I forgot about socks!”
You have to take your shoes off before you go into to the mosque. I was wearing boots, and my hidden socks looked awful— you know how dark socks grab those little white lint balls in the dryer somehow— these were droopy and lint-balled, short, disgustingly ugly, and didn’t match the dress.
“So go barefoot?” said my husband.
“My legs are hairy! And it’s freezing cold!” May sound pitiful, but my sisters get it. This was an emergency!
“Okay, we’ll find a store and buy you some socks,” said my patient husband, who wasn’t letting me get out of this.
After spending a ridiculous $16.00 on socks at the nearest pharmacy, I was on my way, grumpier than ever.
We pulled into the parking lot and saw no one else carrying food, so we decided to leave the salad in the car for the time being, along with the gift. It was a dark night, and Martin started to walk me around to the women’s doorway when a man flagged him down and said,
“Men enter back here!”
So he couldn’t even walk me to the door. I walked up to the door that I thought was the right one. No one was around. I tried the door—it was locked.
“Maybe I’ll just go sit in the car,” I was thinking, “I’ll just go listen to my audiobook”—but then I noticed some women being dropped off out front, and I followed them into the right door, resigned to facing my social anxiety crisis all alone.
It’s awkward, or I’m awkward; the ladies at the mosque are welcoming, but they don’t know what to do with me. One lady is excited about what we do with Peace Catalyst, and we had a great conversation. Others ask if I’m a Muslim, and I say, “No, I’m a Christian,” and I try to explain.
They introduce me to the American convert, and I feel like a project. (Forgive me, dear Muslim friends, if I have ever made you feel like a project!) No one else has brought food; it’s catered, but they graciously say they will serve my salad, so I go out to the car to get it. I’m trying not to be, but I’m a little nervous as I walk out to the dark parking lot in the back of the building. The other women were dropped off at the front door—
I get my salad and the gift, and as I’m walking back up toward the front of the building, a truck passing by on the main road out front yells,
“Go home, you #$%^&* Muslims!” They yelled at pasty-white-blond-American-Christian me!
They didn’t know whom they were cursing, and that would have been true, even if I hadn’t been at the mosque that night.
The cussing out was obviously meant for the Muslims, and I wonder if they would’ve yelled those caustic words had they known I was an American Christian; or maybe they would have been even angrier and would have cursed me even more since I chose to be there making friends with Muslims because that’s what I think Jesus would be doing if he were walking in my city today— and I’m terrible at it, and grumpy because I’m tired; but I really do love my Muslim friends, and I want to be like Jesus, even if it means stupid sock issues and head scarves, and occasionally being the victim of a drive-by-cussing-out at the friendly neighborhood mosque.