Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from Watercolor by Pamela.

Silent Night

Silent night, holy night,
Son of God, love’s pure light;
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!
Die der Welt Heil gebracht,
Aus des Himmels goldenen Höhn,
Uns der Gnaden Fülle läßt sehn,
Jesum in Menschengestalt,
Jesum in Menschengestalt!

(3rd Stanza)
Josef Mohr, cir­ca 1816-1818

Photo credit for Silent Night: Sergey of Russian Ministries

In an email on my birthday, my new cyber friend, Patty Ann, wrote: “Happy Birthday Pamela. You will find your gift on my blog.” After clicking over to her blog, I read the following poem:

Strokes of Love

By guest writer Patricia A. Moore

When strokes of love are put upon a page,
It speaks the heart of the one portrayed.
With every brush stroke you tell a story,
Giving God Blessing, Honor, and Glory.

Capturing the essence of His nature foretold,
In the harmonizing colors that start to unfold.
Movement of paint, gliding across the canvas time,
Creates a beautiful picture, heavenly designed.

Inspiration can come from most anywhere—
A child in a sandbox, or a town’s old time square,
Drive in the country, a picnic at the lake,
Family gathering around for a picture to take.

Or a walk along the beach at night,
Full moon glistening off the water just right.
The soft breeze blowing through your hair,
Just God and you, in the night air.

On the palette of life, arranged and blended,
From Heaven, the pigment of color descended.
Paint strokes from God, dry brush or shading,
The beauty brought forth, always cascading.

When strokes of love are put upon a page,
It speaks the heart of the one portrayed.
The last and final painting to take place,
Is painted on the easel of God’s Grace.

Thinking about the paintings on my easel

While pondering Patty Ann’s poem, I sat down to paint. After picking up my brush, I mused—how many strokes are on my canvas? A thousand, ten thousand, or perhaps even a hundred thousand. I didn’t know.

But each stroke carries the potential to awaken the human heart. Because at times while looking at the combined strokes on finished canvases, a viewer may begin to cry. The subtle trail of the brush has power to move hearts. Patty Ann, thanks for reminding me of the mystery and wonder within each tiny stroke.

On December 5 at my art exhibition at the David DeJonge Gallery and Studio, my youngest son selected the winning registration for the prize give away drawing. Out of 72 participants, he drew Kathy’s name.

I would like to thank everyone who participated in the drawing and congratulate Kathy for winning a free art print. For her free print, Kathy (shown left) selected my newest painting, entitled, Stillness.

In November of 2009, my painting entitled, Discovery, joined the public collection at the Spectrum Health Butterworth Hospital. I requested that my painting would be displayed in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU ) because all three of our sons spent their first days in intensive care nurseries.

After 17 difficult days in the cardiac unit of the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, our first son finally came home. We also battled for our second son’s life for 23 days in Swedish Hospital of Denver. And our third son spent two days in the Helen DeVos Children’s Hospital of Grand Rapids.

Although all three of our sons experienced traumatic births, each one enjoys health today. But I know the tears and pain of the mothers, pacing the NICU halls because with each son’s birth, I, too, had to walk through the path of suffering.

Note: To commemorate this painting, I have dedicated it to my dear father-in-law. Near the painting, a small plaque reads: “In honor of my father-in-law, one of the kindest men I have ever met.”

Pamela is currently painting a series of Russian orphan children, entitled Children of the Russian Arctic. Some of these children have lost both parents. However, many of these children carry the label—“social orphans"—because of their parent’s alcohol abuse or other serious circumstance.

Russian Ministries has invited Pamela to partner with them to help send these Soviet orphans to summer camp where they’ll play games, learn to swim, and watch puppet shows about Bible stories.

During the next months, as a way to say “thank you,” Russian Ministries will give away one of Pamela’s fine art Giclée prints to each donor. Look for more details in January of 2010.

[Jesus said], ‘I tell you the truth,whatever you did for one of the least of these…you did for Me.’ Matthew 25:40

For more information, visit the Russian Ministries web site.

My tongue lit a forest fire. When I opened my mouth, fire and smoke spewed out like a fire breathing dragon. One of my friends began discussing her most embarrassing moments. And without thinking, I joined in.

But my comments brought the conversation to a new low as I mentioned a scandalous situation about a public figure. Unsurprisingly, my words ignited a blaze of comments. Fueled by me and my big mouth, the conversation intensified, destroying everything in its path.

Moments later, I realized the damage. In a quick attempt to douse the flames, I changed the subject. And the conversation was finally extinguished.

But the embers still smoldered. The irreversible damage had left its ugly mark; my words had blackened the tone of the morning.

Only three hours before, I had asked God to help me control my mouth. But then, I blew it again. Later while driving home, my conscience whispered, “Guilty.”

I once read that if you say “I am sorry” every time you say something you shouldn’t, you will eventually learn to think before you speak. Though I sometimes forget, I am trying to put that idea into practice. Consequently, I decided my course of action the next time I met with my friends: Apologize for gossiping. 

Accepting responsibility

A week later when I saw my friends, I explained what I had done and then said, “I’m sorry for gossiping.” Although one of my friends quickly dismissed my apology, I knew that I had needed to do it. As new life eventually transforms a scorched landscape, I seized the opportunity to plant seeds of encouraging words.

My son’s painting, Orange Flowers, reminds me of the powerful impact of positive words. Though the colors of orange and yellow make up the same colors as a destructive fire—when carefully arranged—they also make a beautiful bouquet. Because of this difficult lesson with my mouth, I took the next opportunity to use my words to plant seeds of beauty. And from the old ashes, God caused new life to sprout.

Painting on right: Orange Flowers by my son, Nate (age 9) - Tissue paper on paper

At 18, I spent the summer in the Kentucky backwoods also known as the hollers. Bare-footed children with dirty faces, tattered clothing, and stringy hair ran through the woods. As part of a team of college students, foreigners to these parts, I enjoyed teaching them simple Bible stories.

Each morning, the rickety bus struggled to ascend the dirt roads. We gathered the children from their homes dotted along the mountain’s edge. Their homes were shacks with dirt floors. As the children boarded the bus, they sang their homespun songs. The whole bus resounded with robust music as it sputtered along.

We worked for an elderly missionary named Rina, who had dedicated her life to serving and loving these mountain people. She taught us to joyfully teach these children, even though chiggers pestered us all day.

Years later, one vivid memory of my mountain experience has remained with me. One day, Rina took us deep into the forest to a place so dense that the sun rarely penetrated. The forest floor as well as the rocks, stumps, and tree trunks were covered with a green moss. The trees towered above us like an awning. A stream gurgled as it wound its way through the lush landscape.

Rina encouraged each of us to find an isolated spot and spend time alone with Jesus. During this unhurried time, we quietly read our Bibles, recorded any special insights into our journals, and prayed. I soon found a quiet niche and talked to God.

I no longer remember the gentle truths that God whispered in my heart that day. But years later, this profound experience of connecting with Him on that untouched mountainside has stayed with me. For the first time, I experienced an amazing intimacy with Him. I felt as if God opened the heavens for a moment and drew me close.

Through the years, I have committed to daily develop a relationship with God by talking to Him and reading the Bible. At times, it has been a delight to get up early to spend time alone with Him; however, at other times, it has been a real struggle.

Sometimes if I felt too tired, I slept through my alarm. Or I really didn’t feel like reading my Bible and praying. So I didn’t. I lacked both desire and discipline.

When my commitment waned, I whined to my husband, Leon, “God seems so distant. I don’t feel like reading my Bible.” Discouraged, I felt tempted to give up. But Leon’s advice stayed consistent: “Don’t give up, Pamela.”

Leon gave wise counsel. And before long, my time alone with Jesus became an important part of my day. Without nurturing our relationship, I learned that long-term intimacy was impossible.

Starting with seven minutes

If I stuck to a daily routine, I found it easier to be successful. Each morning, I have kept my alarm set for the same time. In the beginning, I committed to meet alone with Jesus for about seven minutes each day.¹ First, I asked God to give me a teachable heart. And then I read a short paragraph from my Bible.

Even though I don’t live on the edge of a mountain any more, I discovered that I can still experience a daily intimate relationship with Jesus. For me, success didn’t come over night. But as I am learning to faithfully read the Bible and obey it, Jesus has revived my heart and given me a glimpse of Himself.

[Jesus said,] “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place….”²

¹Robert D. Foster, Seven Minutes with God (Colorado Springs, Colorado: NavPress, 1997).

Bible Reference:

²Mark 6:31 (NIV)

Enjoy a festive evening at the beautiful Amway Grand Plaza Hotel, meet watercolor artist, Pamela Alderman, and see her art exhibition at the David DeJonge Gallery and Studio on Saturday, December 5, 2009 from 3-7 pm.

David DeJonge Gallery and Studio
187 Monroe Avenue NW, Suite 250 • Grand Rapids, MI 49503
(Located inside the Amway Grand Plaza Hotel)  

As part of the celebration, a winning registration will be drawn to receive a FREE, hand signed and numbered, 14×18 Limited Edition Giclée print. You can register to win at Pamela’s web site.

The drawing will be held between 5:30-6 pm. You are welcome to attend, but you do not need to be present to win. The winner will get to choose any print from Pamela’s Watercolor Gallery.

See Google map for DeJonge Studio

I gave a stack of my watercolor note cards to each of my friends, hoping they would send the cards to their own friends. But no one wanted to give up my cards. One friend said, “I framed your card and put in my daughters’ bathroom.” Another friend shared that she hung my series of children on the beach in her hallway.

 Pamela’s hand-signed frameable 5 X 7 watercolor cards are available at the following locations:

David DeJonge Gallery and Studio
187 Monroe Avenue, Suite 250  •  Grand Rapids, MI 49503
(Located inside the Amway Grand Plaza Hotel)
Phone: 616-540-4922

Baker Book House
2768 East Paris SE •  Grand Rapids, MI 49546
Phone: 616-957-3162

Studio B
2761 28th Street SE •  Grand Rapids, MI 49512
Phone: 616-957-4334

Creative Learning Center
1200 East Paris SE, Suite 4 •  Grand Rapids, MI 49546
Phone: 616-975-9019

By guest writer Cynthia Beach

I stood up at a Christian seminar when the trainer asked me an odd question: “Do you struggle with shame?”

What, shame? Me? Couldn’t be. I had been a long-time Christian and tried to do what was right. But the question drilled into me. Why did this man who could read people ask me—a nice Christian woman—if I had shame?

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied. “But I’ll think about it.”

Little did I know where this question would send me.

Two years passed. My husband Dave and I rode home in our Buick when I told him about a memory that bothered me. My sister and I, as girls growing up in California, visited our Michigan grandparents one summer. After a morning excursion, Grandpa and my aunt took us to my aunt’s home where she began playing her grand piano.

Two chairs sat near the piano. When Laura and Grandpa each took one, I climbed into Grandpa’s lap. As I leaned against him, I felt something strange. I had no word for it. But something like a curtain fell over my soul. I wanted to get down, but froze. If I got down, wouldn’t that mean something had happened? I couldn’t admit that. I needed to hide it.

When the music ended, I scampered down. Although something had happened, I told no one. I pushed it deep down.

Now in the Buick, I felt embarrassed, helpless, ashamed. My husband held my hand and probed my story. Yes, Grandpa had had an erection. No, he didn’t try to get me off his lap. Why had I thought that as a young girl, I should have known what to do? Why did I blame myself?

And then I knew. This was it. This was the root that had grown into an enormous oak tree of shame. This was what trainer had asked me about.

More clicked. My feeling of wanting to hide when I met new people. My discomfort with being looked in the eye. My terrible shyness that neared panic when I first started dating. Shame. It was toxic shame.

I hadn’t done the wrong. But in being used sexually, I somehow took on Grandpa’s guilt.

Soon a friend invited me to join an Open Heart’s Grace Group. Based on Dr. Dan Allender’s Wounded Hearts, the group, I learned, helps those who’ve been sexually, physically, or spiritually abused. The first week of group, I read in the manual: “The agony of carrying shame that is not yours to bear has been soul-deadening and lonely. The shame belongs to the one who harmed you. How long have you been silent?” Thirty-two years, I thought. The girl had become middle aged.

Sexual abuse, I also learned, wasn’t limited to penetration only. Again the manual instructed me: “Sexual abuse involves any contact or interaction whereby a vulnerable person is used for the sexual stimulation of an older, stronger, more influential person.” Before Grace Group, I had discounted my experience. Now, however, these new words allowed me to grieve sexual abuse.

Breaking free

My group gave me safe space while also challenging me to work through anger and shame. I began to see so much. My lack of trust. My fear. My loss of personal power. Finally, I could relinquish my experience to Christ and His healing power.

Yes, I had been a Christian. Yes, I loved Jesus. Yes, I prayed and studied the Bible. And yes, I still needed to do focused soul work. Too many years had been entangled with my wound. Praying alone or memorizing Bible verses wasn’t sufficient to heal my heart. I needed to be part of an intentional community to begin cleaning up shame’s rubbish.

When Dan questioned me about shame, I had made no connection between what had happened to my 10-year-old self and what I as an adult projected. But Christ and those who believed Him knew. They worked together in my life and my spirit to banish shame and to bring me to a healing place.

English professor Cynthia Beach is a writing and creativity coach who co-founded Soul Seasons, an organization focused on spiritual and creative formation.