I am continuing the adventure in creative worship. I have completed the first sketchbook of watercolor drawings of the names of God. I’ll post some samples as I go. You can follow my journey at http://instagram.com/jodymayhew.
Category Archives: Creative Muse
Series: The Names of God
Jody has begun a discipline of creativity this year. Here is a sample. If you want to follow her artistic pursuits now and in the coming year, you can follow her on Instagram.
Fairview
[Written at Fairview cemetary, Anawan, Il.]
They were farmers while they lived.
Uncounted sunrises and spring plantings.
Uncounted sunsets and harvests.
Lifetimes now frozen in stone,
Set neatly in silent rows.
Like furrows in a new plowed field
Seed waiting for early summer sun.
We Are Different
We are different, she and I.
She finds delight in things that look nice or fine.
I shrug…but not where she can see me.
When she can see me, I smile and offer opinions, which are worthless.
She knows not to pay attention to my opinions.
They are sincere enough, but they are based on well-practiced confusion about how things look.
When we go shopping I am drawn to things that move or tick or hum,
Things that work, whether or not they are useful.
They are good if they have parts that fit together,
Forming a functional completeness.
[Reposted from www.danmayhew.net]
For thoughts on marriage, check out Marriage Rx: Prescription for a Radical Marriage.
Places
Today, I am a visitor in unfamiliar places. What is it that makes a “place?”
I sit in a coffee shop, a clothing store, and now on a bench in the mall. I am in a place not my own—a visitor. If I came here often it would be, in a way, my place. I would be a living thread woven into the garment called, “here.” I could put it on if I worked or walked here. It could be my place and I a part of it. But I am a stranger here, a vagrant, a loose end, not woven, not tied, so I watch and wait to move on, away from this place.
[Reposted from www.danmayhew.net]
Autumn Bicycle
Image by Jody MayhewElbow deep in Autumn
The classroom clock sags toward 3:02
Beyond the bookshelves through window glass
August bicycles catch the glint of September sun.
One leans heavy on its kickstand
Handlebar shoulders slouch toward the street
James Dean captured in spokes and steel
A bell sounds
Let freedom ring!
Children burst against double doors
“Visitors report to office.”
Writ backward on wired windows
Settling closed on Friday.
The August girl rides home
Flying toward Saturday
Summer at her back
Wind in her hair
Two wheels singing
Rare November sun
Rays, like memory
Burst through dusty windows
Warm in the musty garage
Finding the old bike
Rusty in the dark.
[Reposted from www.danmayhew.net]