A few months ago my husband, our two kids, and I returned from seven years in China, where we served with Food for the Hungry. Soon after landing on U.S. soil, we were given the opportunity to attend a one-week “Debriefing and Renewal” retreat for returning missionaries. The retreat was held at a tucked-away inn in Colorado Springs, surrounded by pines and trails and with a stunning view of Pike’s Peak. There were cozy rooms, fireplaces, big picture windows, hot tubs. It took me most of the week to get over the fact that it was all for us: the beauty of the location, the time to rest, and the chance to share our stories, reflect, and process.
Most precious, though, was that the facilitators were there solely to minister to us. They invited conversation around the themes of paradox—God is supposed to be with me, yet I feel so alone—and suffering—How do I make sense of the hardship, loss, trauma I’ve experienced during my service overseas? They were asking questions that nobody had asked us. We had, perhaps, asked them of ourselves in our silent “dark nights of the soul,” but now others were asking, and waiting patiently for us to work out our responses. Some in the room had experienced medical traumas where there was no healthcare; some had lived through bombings or earthquakes; one couple had just been released from a Middle Eastern jail and had only recently been reunited with their children. For me, one of the foremost issues was the emotional, spiritual, and physical wellbeing of my child, whom I feared was a missionary-kid casualty.
As the week went on and my body and spirit accepted the invitation to rest, I felt the urge to write resurfacing in a big way. In the maelstrom of transition and stress, my creativity hibernates, and I just do the next needed thing. But give me a chance to catch my breath and the permission to let my thoughts percolate at their own pace, and I come awake, ready to write.
Before the retreat in Colorado, I hadn’t given much thought to how the very act of creating is luxurious.
It speaks of the decadence of time. You mean I’m allowed to do this? To be given leisure time to be still, to await inspiration, to play, to sift, to let thoughts and ideas bubble to the surface, to start down one path and then to retrace my steps and choose another, and to try the taste of language on my tongue—it is all immensely liberating. And even more than that, it is essentially humanizing. When we are invited to rest, to think, to process pain, to explore what healing looks like, or even just to tell the story we need to tell, knowing someone is actively listening—it means that our humanity is recognized and affirmed. Suddenly we realize that we have moved beyond Maslow’s hierarchy of needs—beyond numb survival. Deep inside of us, we remember that we are imago dei—made in the image of God.
In New Delhi, India, a friend of ours facilitates a local artists’ group. One of this group’s activities is affirming the imago dei of some very marginalized groups of people by inviting them to create art. Our friend, Stefan, says:
We don’t just want to paint about the needy, but with them. Through art workshops, our team of artists gives marginalized people an opportunity to express themselves, to experience healing, and to begin to discover their God-given dignity and identity. Often this is the first time they have picked up a paintbrush. We have worked with destitute men, children living in slums, and at-risk adolescent girls. By giving people the chance to be creative, they become more human, more of what God intended them to be.
This artists’ group helps to provide tools of expression, ways for seemingly voiceless people to find a voice. (Read more about The Create Commission here.)
Can you think what it means to give an abandoned girl in India the permission and time to create something entirely her own? Imagine kneeling in front of her, taking her hand, putting into her fingers a pencil, a paintbrush, clay; then urging her (deep calling unto deep) to create something. . . . She is given a voice, and she is told that her voice matters. Her thoughts matter, her feelings, her perspective. It all matters. Humanizing. A powerless human being is told to exercise the power of her imagination. It is a small but significant step toward healing. Sometimes it can be a lifeline. Someone is giving her time and space to breathe. She has the luxury of this time, this moment.
Many of us in the West have this luxury of time. But maybe, even here, we need to look around us and ask: Who needs space to breathe, to story-tell, to imagine, to create? How can our faith communities seek out those (within our Body and without) who need to move beyond Maslow—those who might begin healing through exercising their creativity via writing, art, or music? We need to call out to what is deep inside each other, to invite each other into the luxury of creativity. It is there in which we find both catharsis and connection.
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Rachel Hicks writes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays and is at work on her first novel. Her poetry has been published in numerous independent literary journals, including Gulf Stream Magazine, Off the Coast, Tiger’s Eye Journal, and The Penwood Review. She has also written for Women of the Harvest’s online magazine (now Thrive! magazine).
Themes that appear most often in Hicks’ work tend to concern human suffering, poverty (material and spiritual), and loss. She likes to explore these to find traces of beauty, resilience, dignity, and the touch of God.
Hicks has lived in seven countries and recently returned to the U.S. from Chengdu, China, where she and her family lived for the last seven years as they worked with Food for the Hungry, an international Christian relief and development organization. They now live in Baltimore, Maryland. Connect with her at rachelhickspoet.wordpress.com.