tweet, tweet!

Don't work your way into the spotlight; don't push your way into the place of prominence. ~ Proverbs 25:6a, The Message

Hearing of Twitter for the first time, I roll my eyes with the drama of a silent-movie starlet. Egad, as if facebook isn't enough. Along with the rest of the self-employed, artists use facebook to promote themselves, an activity for which I have very little stomach. The noisiest ones post a seemingly endless stream of links to their latest gallery events and jobs done for Big Shot Clients. I try to be happy for them but let's face it: in the end, checking my fb feed leaves me exhausted and underwhelmed. Thankfully, my beloved, long-suffering agent—a tough cookie, for whom I daily pray—thrives on the game, is fed by it; therefore, I largely leave the promotion of my career to her. God's behind it all, but Anna is the front (wo)man. As for me, I love Jesus, who preaches the opposite of self-promo: "If anyone wants to be first, he must be the very last, and the servant of all," (Mark 9:35).

Imagine my surprise and the smirk on my face when I get asked to teach Self-Promotion at the esteemed and much ballyhooed Savannah College of Art and Design. Ignoring my protests they assign me Self-Promo again and again. My teaching plan includes as many guest speakers as I can wrangle into the classroom, either live or via Skype. They all say the same thing: You have to be on Twitter. It's a virtual cocktail party; any art director who is Anybody is on the guest list. Ick. Resisting the urge to fake-vomit, I finally set up accounts on Twitter and Hootsuite for my illustration business. Gotta learn it, to teach it. Meanwhile I prayerfully lament, Jesus, I wish there was a way for me to use all of this technology and the education you've given me, to promote YOU!

I sit down with my bible—or rather, my husband's pristine copy of Eugene Peterson's modern-day interpretation of it: The Message. Fred loans it to me for a year-long reading plan. Reaching for my trusty highlighter and magic multi-color ballpoint pen to mark it up, my usual habit, I think, hmmmm, better not... not my book. Maybe I'll tweet this verse instead. I create new accounts for this purpose, using my real name, and have been tweeting verses from The Message ever since. Another prayer, answered. If a Scripture interests me or touches my heart, or if I know it can help someone in need, I tweet it.

At first this is an outlet, but it becomes an actual ministry. How efficient of Him. I mean, I'm sitting here anyway... may as well be sharing. True to form, as I show up each day to do the work Jesus assigns, He blesses me in unexpected ways. Things get interesting almost immediately. In response to a series of tweets taken from Matthew 11, a young woman in India inquires: Mum, is this true? Jesus is not a fan of religion? I reply, Yes dear, Jesus wants RELATIONSHIP, not RELIGION. God is always ahead of me, providing what I need before it's needed. I follow a link tweeted by @StickyJesus that preps me to prayerfully handle the irritated atheists who eventually pop up in my mentions. Most importantly, God leads me to some who seem lost and lonely. I share the gospel, pray, #engage. Certain friendships, thusly formed, move beyond Twitter. #Jesus won't be confined to that little box, or any other.

Due to the content of my timeline I get dumped by any new *friends* who are offended by the bible. My Tweeps are largely Jesus-lovers, a global tech-savvy church who provide a steady stream of encouragement. #GoTeamJesus! To the World, these are VIRTUAL friends; to me, this comradery is very real and greatly appreciated. My job requires large amounts of time spent alone with my laptop; my Twitter Buds have become my office mates. We spend the day alternately checking up on one another, cracking wise, and discussing great theological truths. This is good fruit. Thank God, in heaven we won't be separated by oceans or constrained to 140 characters at a time. I for one look forward to that day.

Meanwhile, follow me @catherinefru, and I will gladly follow you!

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learning the art of war

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Believers have only one Enemy, The Devil. He and I have never met per se, although I'm well acquainted with several of his henchmen. They invade my dreams now and then (an experience I wouldn't wish on anyone), but more regularly they perch on my wide-awake shoulders: Heckle and Jeckle. "Caw, caw!" They chirp away reminding me of every mistake I've ever made. God convicts so that we will repent; once forgiven, he forgets. Not The Enemy though. Oh, no. Demons needle. They even try to berate the good stuff. The on-going battle of my life is a fight against these voices.

A year or so after my conversion the war was at a fevered pitch. I couldn't go anywhere without my petal-pink NIV, the one Fred gave me for Christmas, balancing it on the handle of the grocery cart, sleeping with it under my pillow. For weeks I stabbed back at my unseen foe with every verse that came to mind, but the voices only got louder. In desperation I dumped self and bible to the ground, opened to my favorite chapter—John 15—and started reading. When my eyes hit verse four, things got interesting. The familiar words Remain in me, and I will remain in you, blazed on the page. Inside, a bomb went off: KAPOW! Imagine a farmer firing a single shot to rid his cornfield of crows. Same thing. Every single ugly bird flew far, far away. The result: peace. No more mental bile.

John 15:4 has been my life verse ever since. At the time I didn't understand why God used those particular words to fight for me, but I do, now. Jesus defeated Satan. That work is done. As long as I am tight with my Savior, he will protect me. Time spent with him in bible study, prayer, and life in general is spiritual coaching. He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze (Psalm 18:34).

As it turns out, the crows weren't gone for good. They circle over head, sometimes getting too close for comfort, tempting me to fall into the old habit of self-hatred. Every day I shoo them off. Temptation itself is not a sin—Jesus was tempted, after all—it's the way we respond that matters. Birds may land on my shoulders, but I've learned not to let them nest in my mess of a hair-do. Resist the Devil, and he will FLEE, as will every member of his evil army. All it takes is a little resistance. They're only crows, after all. 

God left certain enemy tribes in the Promised Land, using them to test the Israelites who had no experience in the Canaanite wars. He did it to train the descendants of Israel, the ones who had no battle experience, in the art of war. ~ Judges 3:1-2, The Message

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bumpy terrain

Life is a road over bumpy terrain, sometimes high, sometimes low. No one on the mountaintop doubts God's love, even though at that same moment countless others are down in the valley. It's when the beaming mountaineer tumbles down that her perception changes. Her faith is tested. She asks, Why me, God? Or, if not that, at least, How long?

Valleys are all too real. Some are ridiculously deep and wide—Grand Canyon-ish—and the only way out is to trudge across. Take grief, for example. Valley of valleys. Grieving is unpleasant, but compulsory. Circumventing this necessary human process only causes other problems.

Dealing with loss is the biggie but there are countless other pitfalls into which, at one time or another, we all shall fall: unemployment, relationship woes, annoying illnesses, what have you. Stuck in the mire, we pray. Sometimes God miraculously delivers, but more often he settles into the murk with us, providing companionship, navigational aids, and morale boosters. Imagine a Park Ranger equipped with a map and compass, carrying a huge pack full of snacks, a solar-powered radio and a box of Bandaids. He may even have a tent, and a couple of those really comfy down-filled sleeping bags. He's not afraid of spiders. Or snakes. A good Scout, he will protect you as he leads the way.

It's while we're in the valleys of  life, I believe, that we can shine most brightly for the Lord. People are watching: either they're down in there with us, or are observing with curiosity from perches higher up. If I pout and wither and moan, they see this and wonder, Why does she bother with God? Look at her, she's no better off than the rest of us. On the other hand, if I believe what I read in my bible every day—that God uses all things together for my good, that he gives me more than enough grace for every good work, and that he uses hardship to hone me into the image of Jesus—then I can smile, even in the midst of the pit. Rather than pathetically dragging myself across the sun-scorched earth, I can happily jaunt along on a rented donkey, chatting away with my Guide, enjoying the spectacular view.

We received the same promises as those people in the wilderness, but the promises didn't do them a bit of good because they didn't receive the promises with faith. If we believe, we'll experience that state of resting. But not if we don't have faith. ~ Heb 4:2, The Message


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names

We have more names in my family than should be allowed. My husband Frederick likes to keep the world guessing, switching every ten years or so back and forth from Rick to Fred. Our son Graham, named for his paternal great-grandfather, goes by the nickname Gray. I was named for my cousin Suzy, so obviously my name is Catherine. (Somehow this makes sense to my Dad; talk to him for the full story, not me!)

I grew up as Cathy. Nicknames included Cathy Baby, Catalina, Cate—and the curveball—Bingo. My husband put an end to most of that on our first date. He decided I would henceforth be known as Catherine, insisting the beauty of name in it's entirety should not be wasted, and that beautiful me should have an equally beautiful name. Insert romantic sigh here. Everyone I've met since that day knows me as Catherine, except most of my Twitter chums. Along with my family of origin, they insist on calling me Cathy. Which is fine.

People endure nicknames and name changes as part of the natural course of life. An interesting twist for me, something not everyone knows, is that I have a completely separate alter-ego. In an effort to market a new style at the beginning of my career I adopted the pseudonym Violet Lemay for my illustration work. It's not unusual for illustrators to make this move. I'm not a maverick, was not trying to re-invent myself or live a double life; rather, I was simply following a proven, time-worn trail, a trick of the trade. Violet Lemay's work took off like crazy, leaving Catherine Fruisen (the real me) in the dust. Therefore, professionally, I am Violet; Vee to those I work with often; Ms. Lemay to those who enjoy standing on formality.

Lemay is the name of the St. Louis suburb in which I grew up. It's French, which could be cool. We pronounce it LEE-may in the 'hood (ha! not cool!), a linguistic tic which somehow or other didn't follow me into my new career. In fact, most of my clients insist on spelling my fake last name as incorrectly as they pronounce it: "Le May" (le-MAY). As if.

Violet defines both a color and a flower. This appeals to my artistic heart as well as the tyrannical efficiency expert who resides in my brain. Violet—name, flower, color—is velvety. It smolders. I like that. A big fan of nostalgic entertainment, I know the name Violet from It's a Wonderful Life and Leave it to Beaver. In both cases, the Violet character is rarely seen, making only occasional cameo appearances—the bad girl of Bedford Falls, and Lumpy Rutherford's bratty, braided little sister, respectively. Not role models per se, but hey, we're all fallen. Anyway, I was lost as the day is long when I devised all of this. If I had it to do all over again, I'd go for Hope, or maybe something really clever like Talitha. Alas, there's no going back. 

It wasn't until years after I registered the name Violet Lemay Illustration as a small business in Savannah that I realized the amazing similarities between me, Catherine, and the flower. You know, the whole "shrinking violet" thing. Yes, that's me. To a tee. I mean, maybe not so much any more—Jesus gives me his boldness and courage—but I am definitely most comfortable in the shade, nestled away from life's busy path behind the trunk of an enormous tree. Like the flower, everything about me is sensitive. I don't travel well. I thrive on routine. I need my privacy, or I wilt.

As I've grown in Christ, Catherine has blossomed. For a long while I was ready to be done with Violet, the alter-ego created by heathen me all those years ago. I fantasized about ways to kill her off. I've come to realize, though, that she is a rather large part of me—and not just because I've been given a thriving career through her name. This is bigger than business. I am Violet, and she is me. Violet and Catherine are one and the same. So, despite the confusion and weirdness of it all, I'm afraid Violet Lemay is here to stay. Call a rose Daisy—or even Violet—and she'll smell just as sweet.

Thankfully, the God of Heaven knows my real name. I can't wait to find out what it is.

He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. ~ John 10:3
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