I recall over three years ago when I first read Steve's article on film quotes that were meaningful to him. Joy of Movies continues to encourage me with creative freedom, and I find it a meaningful tradition; I hope others might, as well. So, I seize this day to revisit such reflections!
"They built these tracks [over an incredibly high, impossibly steep part of the Alps] even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew someday the train would come."
– Señor Martini / Frances Mayes, Under the Tuscan Sun
I've heard scriptwriters say they sometimes pen dialogue they know will become a catch-phrase for the film: When Harry Met Sally's "I'll have what she's having"; The Terminator's "I'll be back"; or The Princess Bride's "As you wish". Some phrases even become a tag-line for a generation. What about Wayne's World's "Party Time" or "I did not know that!" The lines above, delivered by both Vincent Riotta and Diane Lane, attempt to capture that sensibility. They don't ... but they try. Regardless, I relate to them. Like Frances, it seems I repeatedly experience a gap between my hope and my perseverance. Anyone else? I find it revealing, then, that Scripture often refers to these ideas together (Hebrews 6:11, 11:1; Romans 5:4; Colossians 1:23; Psalm 130:5).
One verse God repeatedly uses in my life is along these same lines: "For still the vision awaits its appointed time. ... If it seems slow, wait for it" (Habakkuk 2:3). My first film essays were written in 1997, with online articles appearing in 2001, and there's little I enjoy more than sharing my film experiences with others on this site. Yet my central passion is film production. Even with a degree, I've had to subsidize any personal film projects with jobs outside the film industry. It's not unusual. And I haven't had a lucrative creative job in over a year. Of course, considering the competition throughout the arts, that's not unusual either. The rights to my current series of shorts aren't being optioned. Not to mention, the feature script I started in 1998 is still in development. Uh, yeah. Do I lose heart? Honestly? Sometimes.
Yet, I know the works that transcend time also endure it: the paintings hanging in the Louvre; the lavender fields of Provence; the aged wines and cheeses of the finest vineyards and farms; the fading stucco walls of an ancient villa. And if our art has something of God's reflection in it, it too will endure. Sometimes an artist is unable to write, or paint, or sing–we cannot create in the way we long to. During these times, like Frances, let's cook for three bedraggled strangers in the midst of messy construction–until they become well-loved friends. (Believe me, you're a brave friend if you stomach my cooking.) Let's deem friendship the highest love to which we can aspire–until God surprises us with a love even deeper than friendship. Let's wave at the gray-bearded man who trudges down the lane with flowers for his dead wife–until he may tip his hat. Then, let's rejoice! In these ways, we may not only endure, but–by the grace of God–inspire others with hope.
"My wife said something. She said, 'failure is never quite so frightening as regret'." "Oh, that's good advice. ... I wish someone'd tell me that." "God bless ya', Glenn."
– Cliff and Glenn, The Dish
The works of our hands are not the only ones to consider. For we, too, are works–works of God. Each of us is God's poeima: "what has been made" to point to the Creator (Romans 1:20). We are "His workmanship" (Ephesians 2:10), His poem. So, artistic transcendence is found in not only the works of oil or stone, metal or pen themselves, but in we who create them. And who in creating, are being (re)created by God. In our culture, we tend to long for the weekend, our planned vacation time, and sometimes even sick leave to break the monotony of our workplace–dismissing the idea that God uses every day to shape us. Yet, our God is a frugal, consistent artist who wastes no time in shaping our lives even, no especially, when we least expect it.
When Cliff Buxton packed his pipe the morning of July 14, 1969, he didn't know that his beloved radio telescope, conspicuously plopped in the middle of a sheep paddock in Parkes, Australia, would become the prime receiving station for televising the first moonwalk in history. The Director of Operations didn't expect a power outage to strike on July 18, necessitating his 3-man tech team manually reprogram all the computer data. Cliff didn't know that on July 21, wind gusts would exceed 60 mph–enough to topple the 1,000-ton satellite dish spanning nearly the size of a football field. The unassuming scientist didn't take for granted even that humans could get to the moon. Cliff, the widower, knew only what his wife, Helen, would say to him on a day such as this. And this knowing was enough to move him from what he knew through what he didn't.
Cliff's strength was contemplation: quiet, slow-moving, unobtrusive. And this humble, consistent strength moved his team along with him. A team that experienced how "one small step for man" could become "one giant leap for mankind." A team of four Australian blokes that shared this experience with the whole, wide, television-watching world. All because these few men were faithful in the "little things." And, one week in July 1969, these little things added up to something big enough for all humankind. Cliff was wise enough to listen–to daily experience, to those friends and coworkers around him, and to a wife whose words touched his life beyond her own–even when these words applied to him. Like Cliff, let's stop to listen, everyday. Let's always assume the words we hear may apply to us. And let's never take the "little things" for granted. Realizing God uses the unexpected to shape us, we can face each day with hope.
"Did it hurt?" ... "I've never really talked about it. To doctors, but not to anyone else. You're the first person who's asked."
– Janine and Conrad, Ordinary People
"I think I know why I came here. I think I came here to talk about myself." "OK, why don't we?"
– Calvin and Dr. Berger, Ordinary People
Yes, our God is an artist of the everyday. And for all of us, this encompasses not only our strengths, but our weaknesses. Into every life, like that of Calvin, comes the day when "little things" become overwhelming, or when a spurned pain, long-ago pushed aside, returns larger than life itself. Abruptly, a formidable tragedy or unspoken outrage subverts our life; or perhaps, like Conrad, we deem our lurking darkness or a long-hidden deceit inescapable. Even so, God splashes grace on our fragile lives, especially when we least desire it–when we don't want to feel, or when we can't bear it. When this fitful life spins into chaos, God's gentle hand intrudes–most often, through other, ordinary people. People who're willing to be uncomfortable, to look to the needs of others, and to ask questions. Even without having the answers. People like the world-wisened Dr. Berger or the young, self-conscious Janine. Too often, I don't find I'm one of these people.
Too often, I don't roam far from my basement office–where I currently write, watch movies, and make steaming cocoa on rainy afternoons. When I can, I leave the mail pickup to my roommate so I can have uninterrupted time punching the keys of my laptop. One day this past week, I even spent till early afternoon in my pajamas. I admit this with a certain chagrin, yet I don't believe I'm the only one. I regularly must push myself out the door to face my 10-12 member Bible study group, knowing that I need human companionship–especially when I least want it. But, how often do I realize that God may want to use me in the life of someone else? And how often do I ask Him to do exactly that? If I was following the custom of the best teachers, counselors and doctors, I would ask questions. Not to mention, if I were mirroring Christ Jesus.
"Who touched me?" "Who do you say that I am?" "Do you want to be well?" Clearly, even He who held all the answers asked questions. Christ Jesus asked questions to reveal people's needs. Or, more truly, to rouse each person to him or herself–the physician prodding the sleepwalker to wake from misbelief. Sometimes we avoid questions because we don't know the answer, instead of trusting God to work in between. And often we repress questions because we know there's pain around the answer. Recently, I've had deeper discussions about God with non-Christians than with other believers. My non-believing friends aren't afraid to step on my toes, over the boundaries of orthodoxy, or into church politics, and they have an acute awareness that questioning needn't garner suspicion. Indeed, it may even merit praise. In this same way, let's ask questions not merely to know–but to be known. Let's allow ourselves to be vulnerable, uncomfortable, and imperfect. For only then will we recognize our need–and the needs of others.
"... right now, we're gonna' sit down and talk this over." "This talk is like all the others. It gets nowhere–nowhere. And it's painful." "Alright, let it be painful."
– Big Daddy and Brick, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Seeing the needs of others may allow us to become the hands of our Creator, bringing hope to those in despair, forecasting long-term commitment where there was once an outlook on only short-term survival. But, it's never easy. Particularly among those with whom we're most familiar. Those whom we used to admire. Those whom we may assume we understand. Those whom we want to love us–or, at least, to approve of us. At least for me. I have little problem speaking the truth to my family; however, I struggle with Scripture's qualifier "in love." As the storm of a tempestuous anger, resentment and despair grows, faith, love and hope are obscured. Like Brick, the fallen athlete drowning in disappointment–with himself and with those closest to him–I can't see past my pain. And despite many useful books on the subject, no human being likes pain.
Several months ago, my dad had a farm accident that might have proved fatal. After all, when you lump together an 18-foot combine header, a slipped jack, and a sloppy mire of muddy earth once called a farmyard–with a person somewhere underneath–it's a foul arrangement. God blessed my mom (who found him there), the paramedics, and the surgical team, and my dad's recovering. At least physically; but, emotionally is altogether different. He's angry and disappointed ... with the new limits to his physical activity, with his caregivers, with the advice of others–even those who have been through similar complications. He repeatedly says, "I don't know why I didn't die," and it breaks the heart of each family member who hears it. For he says this not with a sense of awe, but resentment. We humans are in agony.
Like Brick, I'm sorry for the pain this mishap has brought my dad. Yet, I'm strangely thankful for it, too. First, it's given my parents another opportunity to slow down and "see" each other. Instead of my dad spending most of the day working around the farm while my mom is house-bound, he's had to extend his time inside to rest. Second, it's brought my brothers and I a fresh understanding of how fragile life is–and that our parents are aging more quickly than we like. I made a two-week visit to my parents' home in the spring, and my brothers have dropped in regularly. Most of all, it's offered my parents a chance to empathize with one another. My mom has extensive back trouble, and her body doesn't allow her to do many things she'd like. Now my dad's body is rebelling against him, as well. Like Brick and his mixed-up loved ones, if my parents persevere through this painful season, seizing on those things for which to be thankful, there's hope. "Reckon it did some good?" May we be able to say, "Some good."
"If you want your dream to be, take your time. Go slowly. If you want to live life free, take your time. Go slowly. Do few things, but do them well. Heart-felt joys are holy."
– the Brothers and the people singing, Brother Sun, Sister Moon
Despite a few setbacks, emotional upheaval, a tragedy or two, some people still think we have it all: a lucrative job, a solid family reputation, a bit of real estate. Like Francis of Assisi, they might envy our designer clothes, our standing in the community, or our front-row seat at church. Those close to us know better. They see the sleepless nights, the short temper, the strained conscience. When we're not following as closely as we may to what God has for us, these are often the symptoms. And regret. Always regret. Yet, it's all too easy to stay here–in the familiar hometown, with the bridge drawn, where protection and comfort abound. After we've fought a bloody war, it's much more difficult to set out on pilgrimage. Because, now, we're acutely aware of what we stand to lose. We hear God calling, but there are other voices, too.
Many of these voices scoff at what we believe God has called us to: "Oh, that's Bernardone's son." "She's just a farm girl." "Isn't this the carpenter's son?" Some go further and call us crazy. Like Francis, the nay-sayers may be our parents and friends; coworkers might spread the word; or, perhaps it's our neighbors. A very few express admiration, but they refrain from adventuring along. After all, there are bills to pay, kids to support, and that great health insurance package. And self-employed artists, like 12th-century monastics, aren't known for making money or, even, for eating well. I suppose this is why–despite clarifying when I returned to my administrative post that it was only for a short time–I was asked if I'd had a "change of heart" about staying. Caught between what I haven't done lately (ie, a film project) and what I don't have (ie, my own home and business), it took a coworker's kind words to refresh my aspirations.
"You're one of the few people I know who is following her dream." I'd forgotten that I remain on a journey; I'm still moving toward something–however haltingly. By amplifying the creative restrictions of my administrative job, I diminished the skills I've maintained, the projects I've done previously, and even the friendships I've been given. When job ads, résumés, and bills become an overwhelming white noise, my emotional and mental equilibrium is distorted, detracting from the films yet to be made. ... Surely, as Henri Nouwen writes, "Patience involves staying with it, living it through, listening carefully to what presents itself to us here and now" (Embraced by God's Love). What of Francis's example? Let's not note those who call us crazy. Nor those who call us saint. Perhaps we only want to follow the words of Christ Jesus. Maybe we simply hold fast to a holy dream.
All kinds of people listen for God's voice: writer, scientist, student, soldier; divorcée, widower, younger sibling, monk. Both men and women have visions. And all of us must, at some time, wait ... for the dream. May we allow that God shape us in the waiting.