This month's painting is maybe my most unusual so far. It’s my first night scene to paint – not just in this series - but ever. I had to go out and by more black paint. And it is thus far the most abstract of my series. I must confess, I found the abstraction difficult. I like things that are neat and orderly and that I can understand.

I didn’t know why certain areas were blacked out – were there shadows or black posts – I could never be certain. Why did so much of it have a yellowy-mustardy tint to it, when the largest lights were white? Why did the “East Van” sign seem to know its exact boundaries and just stay there. All these things and more I didn’t understand when I was painting. I had to paint in faith – faith that the final product would turn out somewhat like how I had seen and imagined it.

As I reflect on my spiritual life and this season of Advent, I often feel the same. I don’t understand as much as I want to. Over the years, I have become less and less convinced of my ability to understand and live-out the Christian faith. Things that used to seem black and white now often seem gray. Not everything is so neat and tidy and easy to understand or translate. I sometimes miss the certainty I used to have  - it seemed safe; it had these nice boundaries that let me know where I stood in the world and before God.

Now I have to deal with the things I don’t understand and that don’t fit in a nice boundaried system. But in the midst of what can often feel like chaos I still believe Jesus is at the centre somehow – that He is in control of my life and this universe.

Grace has stopped being just a concept and has become an experience and extension of Jesus’s love and care for me personally. And this grace has made me more okay with the things that fall into the gray - because I often fall into the gray.

Like many of you, I am often grieved by this broken and unfair world we live in. From natural disasters and human trafficking to racism and friends who long for spouses or children; sometimes things can seem very bleak. But in this season, the darkness cannot have the last word for unto us a child is born, to us a son is given and He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace. He is not God far off, but Immanuel, God with us – who took on our flesh and our concerns who died an unfair and ugly death. Who came to mend this broken world. Who came to bring peace and equity (see Mary’s Song).

The cross of “East Van” reminds us that there is hope even amidst the darkness. Hope in His incarnation. Hope in His life that showed us what it is to truly love and live and be human. Hope in His death and resurrection. Hope that He is holding us even when it feels like we are surrounded by darkness.

I seem to have a thing for painting pictures with boats in them. I like boats. They are to me a metaphor for life. They are almost miraculous in the way they are suspended between the ocean and the sky – suspended between this life and the life to come. At least that’s the imagery I use in my boat paintings.

Both times I have painted boats were during times where I wondered what in the world I was doing – and what was I supposed to be doing. I felt lost at sea, just floating there, imagining where life might take me next. In the past and now, there are occasional breezes that refresh and surprise me and whip me around in a joyous flurry – thank God, but for the most part it feels like I’m just floating.

Both times I painted sailboats, not cruise ships, or canoes, or any other type of boat.

A few years ago, my dad and I took a ride on a sailboat when we were visiting Seattle. It was a beautiful and fun way to take in the city. One of the things I remember was our guide telling us that people don’t often get sea-sick on a sailboat because of how sailboats glide over the water – how they are pushed by the wind itself.

Maybe that’s why I like painting sailboats because they are about being in sync with nature – about letting the wind and the waves take you where they will. I wish I were more like a sailboat, but if I was to become a boat I would probably be a cargo ship or something like that – always tugging and trying to have my own way. But then again, maybe I’m being too harsh on myself, which would be very like me.

When I paint sailboats, they just sit there. I am someone who likes to do – who likes to work and feel like I have contributed somehow. It’s been difficult for me to feel like I’m just floating, but maybe that’s what God has for me right now - for me just to float and take in His creation - to remember I am His friend and His child and not just His servant. To remember He has made me to be and not just to do.

The last decade of my life have been about going going going; it might just be about time for me to stay put and notice the wondrous world around me. To know the joy and pain of floating rather than flying.

Maybe this is God’s way of preparing me for the wind He will send my way, but oh! how I hate the waiting and the not knowing what will happen next. It is good for me to float though – it may seem like nothing is happening, but I have an acute awareness that a lot is happening in me.

And so I resign myself to float, and hope for more wind and/or a change of heart.

My painting for this month is of the Park Cinema, which is at Cambie and 18th Ave – part of Cambie Village, a fun park of Vancouver. It was the closest movie theatre to my first place in Vancouver, the place I lived in the academic year of 2007-2008. I went there a number of times (sometimes by myself), and once with my sister when she was visiting.

If you know me, you will know that I absolutely love going to the movies. I love the smell of freshly popped popcorn. I love seeing whom else is in the theatre. But most of all, I love movies. I love the stories they tell. I love that in the movie theatre it is a communal story experience; you can hear others laugh, see them be shocked, or even wipe a small tear from their eye. Movies are a brilliant story telling medium that brings together visual, musical and even spoken elements in order to tell us a story. Movies capture our emotions, and they allow us to escape our current world and enter into a new one. For a few hours in the darkness of a movie theatre you can be in Middle Earth or Paris or a place where people break-out into song regularly.

I think movies, like any good story, have helped me understand my own life better.

The Park Cinema has it’s own story too. It opened in 1941, and since that time it has gone through a number of owners. Recently, the Park has been acquired by Cineplex, which is a big movie theatre company. When I lived near there it showed more art-house movies, and it still has a bit of that feel. Cineplex seems to be trying to put more of the artsy Hollywood films at the Park, which by the way, only has one screen. But artsy Hollywood is pretty different than art-house. But for the Park to survive, it has had to adapt. It has had to change with the times. If the Park only continued to show Orson Welles’ “Citizen Kane,” and John Ford’s “How Green Was My Valley,” (both top films from 1941), then it would not still be a movie theatre now in 2013.

We have to move on. We have to adapt. We have to change.

Last month, my husband and I celebrated our nine-month wedding anniversary. We decided to go on a date. We went to Cambie Village and to Biercraft, a Belgium Beer restaurant, where we split dinner, dessert, and a sampler of 4 different beers. Then we went to see Baz Luhrmann’s “The Great Gatsby,” which has at its center a man stuck in the past. Gatsby is nostalgic – no obsessed – with the Daisy, who is now a married woman. It was this fantastical re-telling of the great American novel that brought me back to the Park Cinema - back into a part of my own past.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about how often I get stuck in the past. But unlike Gatsby, I’m not really nostalgic for the past, I’m more haunted by it.

I get caught in a cycle of regret and hurt. In my mind, I try to figure out what I did wrong. How I could have done better, been better. And somehow I think that if I could figure it out, then maybe I wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. All the while living in my present, making new mistakes, including sometimes being just a shadow. Often I’m in a daze, and I hear my husband’s voice coming through, asking, “What are you thinking about?” And most of the time, I'm thinking about something that happened over a year ago.

It’s easy to get stuck in the past.

But through the love of my husband and close friends (like my former housemates in Connecticut), I have been able to let go recently. It’s not a perfect moving on, but it’s progress. It’s trying to let the past have it's proper place and not to be an almost idol. It's knowing God has brought me here for a reason, and I’m pretty sure that reason is not to constantly reflect on my past failures. I’m seeking to trust in God’s goodness and sovereignty and to know the finality of His forgiveness. And through God’s help I am beginning to plant roots here – to be real here – to be present here.

If you too get stuck in the past - be encouraged. You are not alone.

So it’s now the middle of May, and my original plan for my “Finding My Place Again” painting series was to do one painting a month. Sometimes I can be a bit over ambitious. But only just a bit.

As I was painting my April picture in May, I was frustrated with myself - that it was taking me so long, that I had tried to do too much in one painting, that sometimes I had tried something that didn’t look right and had to go back and correct it. Even now that I am done with the April painting, it doesn’t quite look like what I had in my mind’s eye.

I am reminded - there is a disconnect between our desires and our reality, and I am like my painting.

When I think about where I want to be as a person and where I actually am – there is a disconnect. I am not as kind or generous or patient as I want to be. I get busy and anxious and just plain cranky. And I keep making mistakes, and sometimes I make the same mistake over and over again.

When I was a child, I thought adults had it all together. Before I got married I worried that I didn’t have it all together enough to be a married lady – to be a good wife and someday mother. I can’t believe I will be turning 30 in less than 2 months, and I still don’t have it all together. But if we waited until we had it all together and things were perfect, then no one would ever get married or have children and there would be no art.

When I look back on the transformation of my painting. There were some times when it was really ugly. I mean seriously ugly. It looked worse than it had the previous day. However, I knew what I was doing, that the there was a process. The painting was not finished yet, it still needed more time and more paint.

Sometimes life is like that too – things have to get ugly before they can get pretty. God is doing something. He knows what He’s doing. He is creating us, or rather re-creating us for something better, but sometimes we are too close to see the big picture. Plus, when things get ugly it’s hard to see anything else. It’s hard to hope.

We live in a world of in-betweens. We are in-between our reality and our picture of perfection. We are on the long path to transformation, and I like to hope that most of us are transforming into something better and not worse. I know that is the hope I have, and I hold onto. The hope that God has not given up on me – even when I have. The hope that God is victorious - even when I am a failure. The hope that God is re-creating me – even when I feel stuck in ugliness.

So, let us not give up but continue to hope - knowing we are God’s masterpiece, His poem, His workmanship, His creation.