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The Artist

The artist’s eye

            --seeing the unseen

Dip. Stroke.

Turning on the

            Light bending a brush with 1,000 colours—

            to a cataract world.

Gray-scale becomes

azure, magenta, chartreuse.


The artist’s ear

            --hearing the still, small Voice

Weave. Blot.

A single ink dot meaningless,

            but corporately—masterfully

            fortissimo to a deafened world.

Muffled becomes

pure yellow, blue, red.


The artist’s touch

            --molding the Supra-dimensional

Fire. Bisque. Fire.

A lump spinning on a wheel,

            driven emotion takes form through

            unique fingerprints—controlled strength.

Dull clod becomes

smooth, lustrous, unblemished.


The artist


breathes life into the medium

and takes your breath away.


Written by Connie Mae Inglis, 2009.

Art by Kendra Mae McDougall (daughter).

The year was 1969. As a young girl, I loved reading and writing. Using my vivid imagination, I began to write a novel about a martian (with illustrations). My writing was private, and because I shared a small bedroom with two sisters, I tucked my manila envelope of writing in the closet, behind some games and toys. One day, while I was at school, our mom cleaned that closet. I came home only to discover that, thinking the envelope was garbage, she had thrown it away without a care--or so I perceived. Disillusioned, I stopped writing.  


Move ahead to 1997. As members of Wycliffe Bible Translators, our family had recently moved to Chiang Mai, Thailand for Bible translation work. Our eldest daughter was ten at the time—ten years old and suddenly dealing with spiritual attack. Every night an evil spirit would enter her bedroom. She could see it, sitting at the end of her bed, laughing hysterically at her. She described it as a creepy clown, but we couldn’t see it. We could only feel its presence and believe our daughter—this daughter who had always had spiritual sensitivities. The attacks continued for almost three years, though our daughter felt the effects for many years after.  


I prayed. And prayed. And prayed. During that dark time for our daughter, and for us, I became angry with God. Where was He? Why was He allowing this to happen? Why didn’t He answer our prayers? For most of the next nine years, I simply was “going through the motions” of knowing Jehovah Shammah. I knew His omnipresence but couldn’t grasp His presence—not because of Him, but because of me. And that anger spilled over into my relationship with my daughter. She became a painful reminder of my woundedness and our relationship suffered. I stopped trusting God. And for nine long years, I followed God out of duty rather than relationship. 


BUT GOD didn’t hold my anger against me. In His mercy and grace, He brought me back to Himself through the ministry of other believers, in both the spoken word and the written word. His Spirit ministered to my heart. He fed me His promises and I learned afresh who I am in Christ—my position as His child. I learned to worship again; I learned the power to war against the powers of this dark world, as Eph. 6:12 says; I learned to truly love my daughter again and God began to heal our relationship.

Restored by God, and with a deeper understanding, I began my journey as a warring worshipper. 


BUT GOD, as One who does “exceeding, abundantly above all that we ask or think” (Eph. 3:20, KJV), did something else for me during that healing time. He restored my writing. It came unexpectedly in the form of a Spirit-inspired poem written to my three, creative, teenage children—the poem that you read at the beginning of this post. The dam burst open and I haven’t stopped writing/creating since. All for God's glory.

Pouring the Paint blogpost:
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