The value of Transformational Threads for an artist like me is enormous.
A story of what is was like for a white male working in an environment where he was a minority.
Some simple principles for honoring God at work using resources you already have.
While meditating on Mark 14 one morning, I almost fell out of my chair.
Can you move on from your old comfort? I ask myself. Can you test what you think is a boundary?
L.L. here. Next week is Random Acts of Poetry. Write a poem about a certain street or street address (see 56 Irving Place, Gramercy Park as an example). Post your poem by Thursday, March 18, for links and possible feature here at HighCallingBlogs. Drop your URL into my comment box so I don’t miss you.
Cork City Street photo by Kirsten Michelle Petermann. Used with permission.
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You have a passion for art, and for encouraging and promoting artists. It’s been your dream to open an art gallery – a place to infuse your passion. But a gallery takes resources – a lot of resources – and it looks as if it’s going to remain a dream.
That’s when Maureen Doallas started conversations with Duc and Ly, two Vietnamese friends who are brother and sister. Duc is a painter and sculptor who owns a gallery and framing shop; Ly is a graphic designer. Maureen told them about her dream and they encouraged her and offered to help. Yes, owning a gallery is a difficult proposition, Duc confirmed. It takes considerable resources and a lot of business and marketing savvy. It’s not just about art.
So Maureen found another way and thus was born Transformational Threads. [click to continue…]
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Continuing with meditations on Mark 14:17-42 for the season of Lent…
During the last supper and his time in the Garden of Gethsemane Jesus made some predictions must have crushed his disciples. While Jesus had told them on many occasions that he would die very soon, Jesus told his disciples that not only would one of them betray him, but that all of his disciples would desert him. [click to continue…]
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Two Sundays ago, I took Communion with my almost-six-year-old son. It was his first experience with the bread and the cup. And it’s something I’ll never forget.
Jackson fidgeted as we listened to a hymn and waited to receive the elements. He cuddled up next to me, held onto my arm, and looked up at me with big, blue eyes. “Is it our turn yet?” he whispered.
“Almost,” I replied. [click to continue…]
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I grew up in the South, in the waning days of segregation. I can remember separate water fountains and public bathrooms; separate seating at the movie theater and on the bus. And separate schools.
I knew these things as a child; they were what was.
Integration had started the year before I began high school. It was ugly that first year, and you could watch it on the news every night. The next year, it was no big deal. It had become part of what was. [click to continue…]
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