Paint and an Artist

My pink slip isn't pink and I am pretty sure that there is more than just one slip in the packet I received at 10:45 this morning. A great way to start out a Monday. My employers have impeccable timing and my two weeks start now. For those of you new to this blog, you have to understand something—this isn't bad news. When your company is being shut down and merged into it's sister company located in Idaho—learning that you don't have to deal with the uncertainty that has been thrust upon you for the last 15 months is great news.   it's— jump in the puddles and dance in the rain—kind of news (yes, yes—I know, Adventists aren't suppose to dance) So while yes, I feel a tinge of sadness and will miss many of my co-workers as I embark on this new adventure entitled unemployment . . . I am ready to go—I was never planning on being a lifer anyway.

 This is how I currently feel. "stressed-out—wedding in 25 days—period approaching—grouchy kitty" And this is what I need. "purrrrr-fectly happy—sleeping kitty"

It is hard to let go. More so when you have spent time in the trenches. We are muddy, dirty, beat up and exhausted. And tired, we are so very tired. We are tired of the hurtful comments of those outside looking in. We are tired of being ridiculed for allowing the defeat to occur. We are tired of hearing: You should have fought harder. Done better. Been more. This is your fault, not ours. And maybe they are right—we should have, but before all of you outsiders get too smug about the demise of the Review and Herald Publishing Association—what is happening here is your fault too. If the publishing houses had been given the support due (tithe, for starters)—would this be happening? Hard to say. But likely we'd at least of had a fighting chance to succeed.  After all, our books have had to go up against bestselling authors such as Max Lucado, Beth Moore, Priscilla Shirer, David Platt, John MacArthur, Kay Arthur, Karen Kingsbury, and Francis Chan. These authors write to the masses, t

It's been a week since the layoffs ended and the shock wore off. There has been some shuffling as we have gotten used to new workloads, new routines, new offices, and additional responsibilities. Tempers have flared. Patience dwindled. Gossip is in good company. And raw feelings are still tender. The thing is, most people are scared of the idea of change. I'm not overly fond of it myself. But change has happened, so we have to adjust. And it is much easier to adjust when you put a face to the change. New Normal looks scary, but once you get to know him—there isn't much to be afraid of. After all, he is just an over-sized kitty [with unusually large teeth]. Keep a night light handy—for those dark and stormy nights, silly thing is scared of the dark.

Edmund Matthew White 8 lbs 5 oz; 20.5 inches long I can't wait to meet him.

"It's ok, I've got this. Trust Me." We had a meeting on Monday afternoon. But the layoffs didn't start until the next week. After four long months of waiting. They started quietly. Without informing us of the results of the board meeting. And lives were changed. It rained . Tears from heaven mingled with the quiet tears of those let go. And somehow, I'm still here. My stomach is in knots, I can barely eat, and my gut hurts from bouts of stress induced diarrhea. But I still have a job. For now. Of course, the deed isn't done—they might let me go next month. But for now, I have a paycheck and more stress to add to the stress that I had earlier.  "Trust Me." His words whisper into my heart. But Lord, which is worse? Loosing my job or having to stay behind and pick up the pieces? "It's ok, I've got this. Trust Me." Again He speaks to my troubled heart.  And again I feel the suffocation. But Lord, I'm scared.

Every year we submit cover and magazine designs into the Society of Adventist Communicators (SAC). And every year someone wins something. Last year I won an award for the cover design of The Miracle of the Seventh-day Ox . And I was thrilled. This year I won two awards. And when I was told—I didn't actually feel anything specific. Cool. I thought. So, can we go? I've got work to do. These days—the excitement and joy of creating has been buried deep inside my soul. I can't risk showing emotion. I am tired. Tired of the junk I have to slog through to create. Tired of the hurtful words that are hurled at us. Tired of wasting creativity on unimaginative people. Tired of the politics. Tired of it all. It is all very exhausting. And then out of the blue you are congratulated—cover committee showered us with ice cream, cookies, and cider—but apart from making my cold worse—I didn't feel anything inparticular, which was rather disconcerting. It has made