It was Anne’s idea to, this year, spend our “anniversary trip” in one place. Wherever that would be, we would get to know it better, see it deeper, and just have time to be.

Though it could have been anywhere, we came to coastal Oregon. We’ve not been disappointed. Even with the famous rain, there’s also the famous green, the famous forests, the wild seas and wondrous coves, the driftwood beaches, the great seafood and, of course, many interesting people. We came for three weeks, and the whole time–in shades of grey or in full color–has been beautiful.

Beauty, it’s something we need.

One friend of mine told me how she experienced that. She’d gone to Vietnam with her husband for a military reunion many years after the war. The ravages were still apparent and after some days she was feeling absolutely depressed by it. It was like a sickness of ugliness. Too bad; Vietnam in its natural state is a place of beauty. Finally, she came across a beautiful scene and her spirit leapt. She revived and was at peace again.

I once met another person who had undertaken a study of beauty. She’d earned an online PhD in aesthetics. Intrigued, I went online to find the school and look at the program. It was there, and the curriculum was both deep and wide–involving a great deal of reading. Far too academic for me. Good for some minds, but I’m afraid I’d bog down and lose the original idea. Instead of my eyes being opened, they’d be glazed over.

I like better the example of a Catholic nun I encountered some years ago who called herself “a wonderologist.” Her self-proclaimed purpose in life was to see the wonder of every moment and point it out to whoever was standing near and cared to appreciate it with her.

I wonder if there’s a degree offered in wonder somewhere.

Meantime, I can always devise my own: An independent study in wonder, with a double emphasis in aesthetics and beauty.

I could start today as we leave lovely Oregon, with a lunch stop in artistic Ashland, then through mountains and by snow-covered Shasta in northern California, stopping to see our kids in “Tall Tree” (Palo Alto), onto the Carmel gallery I’m in, then down through the majestic coasts of Big Sur to mellow San Luis Obispo for a quick  stay with sister Sue, and finally home, the best place of all.

All along the way there should be signs, “Slow, Beauty Ahead.”

The trouble is, we’d never get there.

Sometimes God’s speed
Is not what we need.

____________________________

Next: Yet more about beauty. Coming Monday.

Feel free to share with a friend.

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Netting the Night (detail), painted last year as one of a series with no reference to this psalm. But it fits, don’t you think? Click for larger view, and again for larger yet.)

I said there would be psalms (see blog description at right). When I read the following in public somebody labeled it a psalm. “It’s an inner reflection, it’s a talking to God, it’s a psalm,” she said. My sketchbooks are full of them. This one is taken from the Peter and Jesus dialogue at the end of the book of John. I’ll use the pattern of some Bibles and put the Jesus quotes in red. Oh, and one thing you’ll need to know, there are now five of us in a line named “Hyatt;” I’m the third. 

Let me know if you can relate.

So Jesus turns to me after breakfast and says
Hyatt, do you love me more than these?
Taken a bit aback I answer
Me? More than these? What These ham and eggs?
But he says nothing back, knowing I’m a smart ass
And a bit too familiar in my ways with him
At least at times.
So I’m thinking, What does he mean?
More than these others around?
Who knows if I do?
It depends in part on how much they do.
Does he mean, These surroundings?
This house we’ve put so much into?
These artifacts of our lives, our travels, our interests?
Or how about these paintings
That I love to show
And display what I love to do?
But there’s no comparison and he knows it.

Still, the question hangs in the air,
Does he mean these fish? The latest big haul?
My biggest commission yet to come?
Do I love him more than these?
Of course I do—and he knows.

So I says…knowing it’s safe, and true
(however he means it)
Of course I do, you know I do.

Clean up your life, he says,
and I don’t know what to say after that.

So he breaks the silence and says:
Hyatt, son of Hyatt, son of Hyatt,
Do you truly love me?
And I have to think, Why is he asking me again?
And why in that way?
Didn’t my Yes mean Yes?
Am I holding something back?
Maybe something I don’t even know but he does?
Still, the answer’s the same . . . or wants to be.
Yes, Lord, I truly love you.

Feed my sheep, he says.

And I say, in my mind, not out loud, What sheep?
And how?
And he says, in his mind, not out loud, but I hear it:
You know who, and you’ll know how.

But again, I’m silenced
Not sure I love him that much . . .
But don’t want to even think that
Because he’ll read the thought
And has already, long before I thought it.
So all I can do is remain still
And hope he does not ask again.

Then:
Hyatt, father of Hyatt, father of Hyatt,
Do you love me?

And I exasperate…
Do I? Do I?
I would have said Yes, a thousand times Yes,
But he’s not leaving me be
He’s not leaving enough enough.
So I waffle, prevaricate . . .
Never wanting to answer No
Hating that my Yes is slow
But I know myself . . .
More cock-crow denials may well be ahead
And all the more if I boast now
It’s a fool that opens his mouth too early
But a coward who opens it not at all.

So I’m left with this one,
The question I answered Yes to twice
But the third one—or third time—more penetrating
And I have to think.
The thought occurs to stall and say,
Excuse me, Lord, I’ll have to pray about this one.
But that’s absurd,
The whole thing’s a prayer.

So maybe I’ll leave it
Open ended
And start each day
With that third-time question
Looking for that day’s response
Like,
Hyatt, do you love me today?
then show with my life,
and reveal to Him
and myself
the answer.

____________________________

If you missed the sermon this was part of, you can find it here.

Still in Toledo, Oregon.

Next: A bit about beauty. Coming Friday.

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Your writing and painting friend also speaks. Click to listen and watch.

Just after the first of the year I had an e-mail exchange across the country with an old friend—a person who had been once my boss, always a mentor, and still an encouraging influence.* In that e-mail he shared with me his life goals, something he updates yearly.

At the top of his list was a detailed paragraph on love. It was beautiful. He asked me to keep it confidential, personal as it was, but I told him it was worth publishing in every newspaper nationwide. It would help a lot of people.

I was reminded of the talk I’d recently given on the same topic. I don’t get asked to speak that often these days, but when a local church suddenly had a need they called me and I stepped in. They video taped it. So, as we were on the same topic, I shared the link to the sermon with my friend. This is what he wrote back:

Hyatt, today I listened to your message on Love. I see why you said we are thinking alike. I identified with it very much, except you have taken it to a new level of understanding.

You have developed this in a most practical way. I am moved even more than ever that love is what it is all about. The message is the best thing I have heard on this passage since Henry Drummond’s little treatise on it I read 60 years ago while in college.

He planted the seeds that love is the “summa bono,” a truth that laid dormant in my soul for too many years but began to spring to life as I got older and even may show some signs of bearing fruit these many years later.

I love the way you presented it, your style, vintage Hyatt. I love it.

I will listen to this again and again and then again because it is a truth I want to grow deep in.

You need to keep talking, writing, living it out as you are doing and sharing it with the rest of us.

There it is. Like I said, an encouraging friend. We should all have one like that.

Or be one.

I invite you to check out the message for yourself, just click on the picture at the top. Or click here.

You’ll need a little time. You can always start it now and finish it later.

Let me know if it speaks to you.

_________

* Bernie May, a man of many distinctions, and was President of Wycliffe Bible Translators USA before I took over from him, years ago.

PS By now you may have noticed I tend to make up words. Let me know if you hear the one that “appeared” in the message.

Next: Jesus After Breakfast. Coming Tuesday.

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It’s our anniversary in two days (Feb 17th, again this year). Anne-aversary has a nice ring, and makes it personal. Or how about Anne-adversary? That’s how it is at moments, like iron sharpening iron. Seems that happens more in a marriage than between any two men.*

Or how about, Anne-a-mystery! Like in a mystery of a man with a maid.** I like that better.

Here we are in Oregon, trying to remember where we were and what we were doing on each anniversary–or at least each year. Read through it if you’d like, or skip to the little poem at the end.

The List

1966 Marriage . . . on four days notice, next day to job in Georgia
1967 Back to CA, working art in LA, parents still worried
1968 Beginning to get serious, setting goals
1969 Goals reached early, life’s disappointments realized
1970 Searching trip in Mexico, found God (or vice-versa), new start
1971 First child born, new everything again
1972 Left Surfer Mag for Wycliffe Bible Translators, to Guatemala
1973 Climbed volcano (and much else)
1974 U. of Washington for linguistics (and much else)
1975 Second child born, in Guatemala, Jungle training in Mexico
1976 Calif. again, to work in Wycliffe home office
1977 Scraping by, $$ prayers answered, 2nd job (Surfer Mag)
1978 Third child born, larger house bought
1979 Raising kids, working two jobs, begin degree program
1980 Fourth child born, no time for anniversaries
1981 Life continues
1982 And continues
1983 Still continues
1984 Transfered to Papua New Guinea, all six of us
1985 Discovering another world, co-wrote book
1986 Transfered to Texas, VP of Wycliffe Intl
1987 Continuing education for both of us
1988 Anne Dir. of Women’s Ministries, my traveling much
1989 Life continues
1990 And continues
1991 Anne receives BA, U of Texas, discovers printmaking
1992 Child adopted, I become President WBT USA, back to CA
1993 Children growing, in their turn graduating, life continues
1994 And continues
1995 MA finally completed (Leadership)
1996 30th anniversary trip: Switzerland
1997 Painting spirit hits, fired as President, moved to Canada
1998 Org. fund raising, Student Ministries, painting
1999 Living
2000 Children leaving home, college, marrying
2001 Return to California, still with Wycliffe
2002 Traveling, writing, painting
2003 Painting, printmaking, at office less
2004 Resigned from WBT, begin making a living as artists
2005 Life of faith begins again, first grandchildren born
2006 40th anniversary trip: back to Guatemala
2007 Anniversary trip to Santa Fe, NM for galleries
2008 Living and praying and working
2009 Living (don’t remember what else)
2010 More not remembering
2011 Traveling, almost monthly, visiting family scattered about
2012 Art-making anniversary trip to Oregon (1st annual?)

That’s it to date, much glossed, much left out, but it gives the idea. A marriage adds power to a life, gives it value, not to mention the sharing, which makes everything more meaningful. And all the more the longer it goes.

The Poem

Here’s a little poem I just came across in a 2007 sketchbook—

With Anne and God, that’s all I need . . .
Another trinity, really, we three.
God knew a man without a woman would be incomplete
And I knew without Him I am,
So, there we are, the three of us,
Man, Woman, God.
It’s all I need to succeed.

____________________________
Celebrating in Toledo, Oregon.
*Proverbs 27:17 “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”
**Proverbs 30:18-19 “Among the things too wonderful for me, best is the way of a man with a maid.” (My paraphrase)

Coming Saturday: Love, the greatest power in the universe. A talk.

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When Claude Monet painted his series of haystacks he wasn’t looking at the hay, he was looking at the light.

What more mundane subject could he have chosen? A haystack. No one leaning against it as in a Van Gogh or a Millet. Just a haystack. He did 25 of them. All are luscious and each different because of the different time of day and season he chose to paint them in.

Monet saw the light.

He saw how changes in light changes reality, at least our sense of it. He learned to paint fast. In plein air painting “reality” keeps changing. Shadows shift from one side to the other. Different colors come out or recede depending on cloud cover or the sun’s angle. He would finish a painting in an hour and a half, or come back the following day to the same spot at the same time.

Light is essential for painting.

More, light is essential for living.

It’s not for nothing our eyes are called “organs of light.” Without their counterpart in nature, they’d be nothing but little dust catchers, annoying soft spots in hard heads.

Eyes and light dance together. Without light there’s only night. With it, everything is ours.

In all creation, light was first, and the way opened for the rest.

Because of light, every morning is a new birth; and for its waning, every evening a little death.

The ancient writer never considered whether light was particle or wave (nor are we very sure) but he did know this:

“Light is sweet, and it pleases the eyes to see the sun.”*

He who sees it is enlightened.

And enrichened.

It’s another gift that’s free.

_________

*Ecclesiastes 11:7

Currently painting in coastal Oregon where the light shows its wonder in infinite shades of gray.

Next: Anne-aversary. Coming Wednesday.

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It was fun, the last post, with the hypothetical response to a Nigerian scam. Don’t worry though, it’ll never be sent. I avoid quicksand whenever I can.

But today I want to speak up on behalf of most Nigerians, certainly all I’ve ever met.

Nigeria is a country made up of the lawful and the unlawful . . . pretty much like another country we know. One difference is they see America as a whole country of one-percenters, while they’re very much in the ninety and nine–and the lower part of that. So the temptations may be greater to even the score.

I’m not defending. These scammers are a criminal element, bent on identity theft. They see us as rich and gullible. That’s what I read in an article where one was interviewed. In the same article, however, I read how mothers down the alley were very concerned that their sons would get pulled into these devious doings against God and country.

It’s lamentable that a whole country gets a bad name because of a few. Just like America that way, by what we export in cyber media. etc.

But I found a lot to love when I was in Nigeria. I’d gone for some writing, reporting on the work of a multi-language, nationally-staffed Bible translation effort which was going gangbusters (and somehow that term fits well here). While there I met one Nigerian who, since then, I’ve seen every day. His photo is the screen saver on my computer.

(Above) My screen saver, a commercial artist’s studio in Nigeria. Even his work shirt looks like mine, and his jeans a good bit cleaner. Click the picture to view larger, and again.

His name is Ambi and in him I see something of my counterpart in Nigeria . . . a fellow artist and entrepreneur getting by on his wits and his works. I was invited to impart to him some basic figure drawing, knowledge he needed from time to time as a commercial artist in a small city in Nigeria’s outback. He was Muslim and a man of noble character.

I was most impressed with what he was able to do with basically no art training and only rudimentary materials. That hole in the wall is his complete studio. His paint comes in large cans, the kind from which we paint houses. From that he painted the portrait behind him. If he gets an order for an address stamp, he carves the tiny letters and numbers out of a piece of rubber tire with an x-acto knife! He makes any kind of sign. If you need a three-dimensional display, he builds it out of scrap anything.

Before I left, he wanted a photo of us together saying he’d felt he’d met a great man. But I wanted a photo of him because I KNEW I’D MET A GREAT MAN. With my screen saver I’m continually reminded of something significant, and humbling. It’s how my life might be, born and living in another part of the world . . . and what somebody who was and is, is doing with it.

So, that’s what I have to say today. My announced topic will have to wait.

Today I propose a toast:
To the good people . . .
Yes, particularly the good people . . .
of Nigeria.

Will you drink with me to that?

____________________________

Currently writing and working in Toledo, Oregon.

PS For more about Nigerian scams, including the account of one person who really did respond to one of these, see websites offered by Emma Clark in Comments, “Letter to Nigeria,” upper right.

Next: Light is Sweet. Coming Sunday (maybe).

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Do you get these letters offering a portion of some fantastic sum if you’ll only begin a correspondence with the author? They’re typically from Nigeria, which is too bad, as I have been to Nigeria and met some very lovely people. Even painting some of them. The letters are often long and full of some story of hardship or intrigue, sometimes even pulling at “spiritual” cords. There’s usually a patent over-trying for “correctness,” and “officiality.” Misspelling and infelicities of grammar also add a certain flavor. The e-mail I’m proposing to respond to here was uniquely short, however, and more precise than most. It’s me that’s longish (please forgive me and I do beg your indulgence, etc., etc.).

I haven’t quite decided to push the “send” key yet. Perhaps you’ll have some comment, advice, or additional information I should supply. Feel free to offer it at the bottom. (I will be most grateful.)

On Jan 28, 2012, at 5:58 AM, MR Ernest Brooke wrote:

Good day,

I am contacting you once again, regarding a substantial amount of inheritance funds (approximately $287,000,000) belonging to my late client whom you share the same last name with and I was wondering if you are related to him. Will forward more information to you in this regards, in the interim, kindly forward to my email below the following information so I can give you more information about the astate:

Full names:
Physical Address:
Telephone numbers:

Regards,
Ernest Brooks
Lagos, Nigeria

PS If you are not any the person to whom our late client is related, please do not respond to this letter or tell anyone else about it as there are a lot of scams out there. I say this for your portection.

HERE’S MY DRAFT RESPONSE:

Dear Mr. Ernest Brooks,

First of all, I want to thank you for your kind remembrance of me, though (and for this I apologize) I’m afraid I don’t recall your first writing. That, however, makes me all the more grateful…that you have not lost interest even though I have not been responsive…but you have now, in your kindness, initiated this second writing, if indeed it is (a second writing), which I believe, because you have said so, and I’m sure you are a person of integrity or you would not have taken the time and effort to contact me.

Besides, you have warned me about scams. That makes me know that you are not a perpetrator of such, or you wouldn’t have brought it up. (And thank you for that warning, too, as sometimes it’s hard to know.)

(Most times, in fact.)

(Well, at least a lot of times.)

I’m grateful, too, for the brevity of your letter, and as one that does not over-promise because I may not be the correctly named possible relative of your diseased client. I would not want to get my hopes up for a life of riches and ease, nor to get your hopes up for same after I supply all the information you’ll be shortly asking for.

I am curious about one thing, however, and that is, since your late client had the same name as me, how is it that I’m to supply my name? It seems you would already know it.

But these things are trifles between trusting friends.

Perhaps, though, before I offer my name, and this is just to keep us from confusion and to save time and multiple e-mail exchanges for the sake of veracity (as you must be very busy, sending e-mails all over the English speaking world like this in your thorough and honest investigation) perhaps . . . as I say . . . you could reveal to me the name of your late client. Then I’ll be able to tell you if it matches my name.

The truth is, I’m quite sure already that we are indeed related. And I think you’re confident of this, too.

For that, after you’ve supplied the name in question, I will be most happy to supply all the information you may be lacking for the sake of the honest and efficient transaction.

I know you don’t take me for a naive person. So, as I am not naive and would like to save us both time on this, I will supply, in response to your affirmation of the deseast, dis-east, dead man’s name, any and all information you will be needing. Please let me know if you need anything besides the following:
Bank name, account and routing number
Any pin numbers
Passwords
Social Security numbers
Passport numbers
Safety deposit box combination
Bank balance
Investment balance
Any property owned
Referrals for any other rich same-named relatives of the desteest, deathened, devestated, the dear poor man
Referrals for any rich friends who might have the same name as the deadened, depraved, (the same man) once that name is known.

With this, I sign off,
with all gratitude, again for your thinking of me and your faith in me that I will have faith in you which I realize is beyond question so I won’t (question it).
Since truly we are like brothers already.
Most sincerely,
With a handshake,
Until I hear back,
And with apologies again for not responding after your first writing
(which I didn’t get),
Good bye for now.

[name withheld until verification of name of the dissisted, mouldered, moneyed, dead client]

PS Just curious; did your client really die of tardiness?

____________________________

Currently writing from Toledo, Oregon.

Anyone interested in a few paintings I did after being in Nigeria about a decade back, click here, and here, and here, and here.

The stamps kept from correspondence in the days before e-mail.

Next: Light is Sweet. Coming Thursday.

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Hello friends.

How many caught the typo in last week’s post, “Seeing the Future—Not”? It was in the reference to the passage in Ecclesiastes. I could say I put it there just to see who’s checking. Fortunately (or unfortunately) no one looked it up. I meant 10:14, “No one knows what’s coming.” but what I wrote was 10:4. That one says, “If a ruler’s anger rises against you, do not leave your post; calmness can lay great errors to rest.”

Maybe no one brought it up because they thought I’d lose my temper.

That’s a joke!

But you know how some people get all worked up about some trifle and make you feel like throwing in the towel. Very quickly it becomes flight or fight and either one can only make things worse.

If we’re smart we’ll put weights on our feet, a filter on our lips, and stand there like a statue . . . like Michelangelo’s David, with stone in hand but never throwing it.

It’s not easy, but the person that can keep his cool while in the direct path of a blow torch may come out the one least burned.

It takes two people for a fight, and if one just won’t, the finish bell will sound and no one will be knocked out, or even bruised.

I don’t know about you but I’ve been on both sides of this equation. All three, really, if you consider the angered, the angered back, or the angered-at that’s calm.

I will say that when I’ve been angered, justified or not, and acted it out, it’s rare when I haven’t felt the worse for it later. Or even earlier if the person receiving the brunt took the quiet approach and chose to be altogether gracious. That tends to change everything.

So what if the commander is onerous; don’t go AWOL. It’ll be worse for everybody, and you most of all.

As Jesus said, “Be angry and sin not.”

Accusations happen, but don’t walk off the job.

You’ll be the bigger person.

_________

Next Post: The e-gallery, the “monthly” art update.

Also, this Thursday evening Anne will be the featured artist in Sandstone Gallery at the Laguna Beach Art Walk. All welcome.

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Here’s Mom, still a teenager, painted from one of Dad’s old black and white photos, which he took himself when he was young and in love (which he still is). Click for larger view, and again for larger yet.

My mother is in the hospital. Happily they can’t find anything really wrong with her. I think it might be candles. Last birthday there were 93 of them on her cake . . . or would have been but for fire code. My dad is ahead of her, with 95.

They live in the same home I grew up in. They have full time help, which keeps them out of trouble . . . and the dreaded nursing home. The hospital, however, gets to be kind of a familiar place.

There’s a certain justice, or is it injustice, about my mother and hospitals. My mother is the most hospitable person I’ve ever known, outside of my father (by association, because he went along with it). We kids didn’t think anything of it; we thought everybody’s house was full of people every Sunday after church, or evenings of ping-pong (two tables in the patio), or new friends staying the night, or the week.

It wasn’t unusual for her to bring someone home from the supermarket who needed a place to stay. She wasn’t lacking in discernment; she just saw the needs and met them.

One family, who was remodeling their home, stayed with my folks, all four of them, some sleeping in the living room, rent free, for a year! That length was never the plan, but that’s how it worked out.

Looking back, I don’t know how my parents did it, or why. It’s a gift I didn’t inherit, not to that degree. (My sister Sue has it and is writing a book on it, and a blog. If you’re interested, it’s here.)

Another story: Once she met a missionary family in town who ended up not only staying at the house for a season, but left a trailer full of their worldly goods in the yard for the four years they were away. It was all the kind of thing Mom and Dad took joy in, and they made a lot of friends.

Once, when I was in Australia, I met a family heading for California and Disneyland. As my parents lived within an hour of Disneyland, I invited these travelers to give them a call when they arrived and see about staying with them. It was sheer audacity, but I knew Mom well enough that she’d not only rise to it but consider it a compliment. I learned later that they did call and, sure enough, were invited to stay the days they were in town.

HAHHSPITABLE. That’s Mom. So now it seems odd that the hospitality she’s receiving is at the hospital. It is the place she needs at the moment. They are welcoming, and caring. Happily she has the staff smiling with her witticism and general good temper, at least when they’ve got the pain under control.

Actually, I think the pain is mainly from that Arthur character she’s got in bed with her. (Don’t tell Dad.) Arthur-itis, she calls him, and doesn’t like him much.

One of these days, or years, the candles will take over and she’ll move on to another place. It’ll be hospitality beyond her imagination. And reward.

But she’d say she’s been rewarded right along.

_________

A NOTE ON THE BLOG: The schedule for these posts will change from three times a week to every three days.

Speaking of posts, the next topic will be about your post, and staying by it, regardless. Coming Tuesday.

Feel free to comment, and share with a friend.

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Sooth Ruth, painted from the model earlier this week. Not really a fortune teller at all, but thought she could stand in for our soothsayer here. Maybe a little younger, maybe a little prettier. But who knows? Click on the picture for a larger view, and after that, again.

I read an account in the news about a dope ring broken up. The lawmen followed the transport lines, including the movement of two truckers, ferrying legitimate goods with the ill. One of them was religious, the other superstitious. The latter never trucked until a tea reader said the time was right. Actually it wasn’t tea, more like the exoskeletons of dead bugs—something like that. All for a price, of course.

When it all busted up the trucker squealed, implicating the fortune teller. They questioned her and she defended: “I only told them what they wanted to hear; I can’t see the future!”

There we have it, folks: The true confessions of a fortune teller.

As for the religious one, he should have checked his book. “No one knows what is coming—who can tell him what will happen after him?”

That’s another from Ecclesiastes* that frees us up (as truth always does). If we can’t know the future, and know that we can’t, then we can quit stressing about it and get on with things.

It’s the present that’s a gift. Maybe that’s why it’s called that.

It’s a funny thing about us and God. We who are stuck in the present are all preoccupied about the future; God, who knows the future, is more interested in the present.

Remember last week’s post, “It’s NOW that God favors what we do.”**

The future’s coming fast enough.

Open your present.

It’s a gift.

_________

*Ecclesiastes 10:14

** [1/15/12]

Next: Hospitality with a capital “Hhaa.” Coming Friday

Feel free to share with a friend.

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