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Editor’s Page So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him. -Jeremiah 18:3-4
Dear Reader, Going through each of these pieces, we noted a pattern in the themes and tones of each work. Eventually we realized that they represented the way that we as humans react to God’s hand in our lives, and divided them accordingly. God shapes our being in the way that a potter would form clay, and sometimes we feebly attempt to fix ourselves, rather than trusting the hands of the Potter. We attempted to express the relationship between our humanly desires to control, and the healing works that are interwoven into our lives through Him by the way that we divided up the pieces: Longing, Remembrance, Conviction, and Redemption. Our hope is that you experience each work in a way that causes you to reflect back on how you have felt God shaping your life. *For a different perspective on the art pieces take a look at the online version, which can be found at www.WAlitjournal.com.
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Behind the Scenes Student Editors: Christina Garrison Amanda Jackson Caroline Lauber Anna Lindus Sarah Mileusnich Barbara Rucci Sarah Schmutzer Allison Spoelhof Sam Stein Cover Design: Abbie Mercaldo and Anne Brcka Faculty Advisor: Matthew Browning
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Table of Contents EMOTIONS Sarah Schmutzer BRANCHING OUT (Gel Pen on Recycled Paper) Claire Casto FLOUNDERING Amanda Smuk TRAIN RIDES Zachariah Stenzel JONKIPING, SWEDEN (Digital Photograph) Claire Casto FALLING Grace Zander ICY CARVINGS (Digital Photograph) Luke Doncel CHICK-FIL-A BLUES Max Anliker PAINTED Sarah Schmutzer UNTITLED (Oil on Canvas) Praise Feng CONTROL Grace Zander THE LAST SUMMER Caroline Lauber TIMID BEAUTY (Digital Photograph) Bridget Koehler NEVER GONE Christina Garrison SATURDAY AFTERNOON Elizabeth Pendley DISTANT BEAUTY (Watercolor) Luke Holwerda —5—
7 8 9 10 12 13 14 15 16 18 19 21 24 25 26 27
EXISTENCE Jessica McElwee EUROPEAN HEARTBEAT Brittany Bertsche UNTITLED (Pen Drawing) Praise Feng THE CHURCH Heidi Engebretsen HIGH SCHOOL Christopher Jones LOVELY (Digital Composition) Anne Brcka CIRCLES Lindsey Benda COLOR FROM A STAINED GLASS WINDOW Rachel Spelz EUCLIDEAN BOUQUET (Digital Composition) Levi Severson UNTITLED Meghan Scanlan SUZANNE Meghan Scanlan
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28 30 31 32 34 35 36 37 39 40 41
EMOTIONS By Sarah Schmutzer
I find them in the corners of life. Those little monsters, they have parties in my mind, stirring my thoughts in their english tea, and my morals eaten in their cake. So there’s really none left for me. Sometimes They take the reins and unleash hounds after a rabbit. I run through the forest, looking too, with my tiny AA battery run flashlight. They fight with each other. Gnawing at one another to the bone. I try to stop them, I try to cage them up, but they’ve eaten the lock, too.
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Branching Out Claire Casto Gel Pen on Recycled Paper
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FLOUNDERING By Amanda Smuk
Poor little fish stuck in a bowl swimming until he hits a wall turning swimming plunk wall Walls confining him to such a life I took pity on him one day; I gave him arms and legs and lungs. Be free; No more walls No longer confined Be free He stubbed his toe on the threshold, stumbling out the door. Selfish air pinched his nose, his stomach grumbled. Rain pelted his face, water no longer his friend. Ignorant elbows bruised his arms and sides, shambling through a crowd of bodies. A covetous bench stole his warmth, his head in his hands, Pondering: Freedom is where Solid coral still stands to be a home; protecting Constant water still flows bringing food; providing Safe tank still contains confining life; securing I want to be free “But you are free,” I tell the bruised, bleeding body, now laying on the bench gasping for breath.
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TRAIN RIDES
By Zachariah Stenzel
I am on a train. I remember getting on this train, but I am still not sure where I am going. I remember buying my ticket, but the destination escapes my mind. Where am I going? Where is it taking me? I look out the window, but none of the scenery seems familiar. The green of the trees becomes a blur as we speed down the track. The only thing clear is the bright moon, illuminating the night. The car I am sitting in is empty. I close my eyes for what seems like a moment. Suddenly, there is someone next to me. She grabs my hand and asks if I am okay. Puzzled, I can make no sound. This girl keeps talking to me, but I cannot hear a sound. Nothing comes out of my mouth, but she seems understands what I am saying. Mindless chatter goes on for awhile. I close my eyes again, and there I sit, alone. There is an aching in my heart, as if I had lost someone important, yet there is a hope in my head that tells me that I learned something. The train has stopped moving. The narrow hallway is dimly lit as I wander to the exit. There is a faint red light that beckons me towards it, calling out “EXIT”. I follow, and step onto the platform. Thousands of people scurry from car to car and door to door. The hall is filled with business men, mothers, children. There I see the girl. She looks at me, with tears in her eyes. My eyes well up like a dam ready to burst. She starts to say something, but someone takes her hand. Arms wrap around her, a mans. She leans into him, and my stomach isn’t filled with butterflies, no, my stomach is filled with pterodactyls. He wipes her tears away, and leads her towards the door. I try to call out, but no words come out. —10—
She looks back at me, and I gaze into her eyes. Her eyes swirl a dark grey, impossible to read. But they tell me all I need to know. The large station I am in suddenly closes around me. The walls close in till I am enclosed in a box. I take a deep breath, and the room is silent. I hear my heart still beating, and realize that I am okay. I am okay. Then suddenly, I am on a train.
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Jonkiping, Sweden Claire Casto Photograph
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FALLING by Grace Zander
Pounding on the typewriter key after key trying to express yourself but no words you know can show what you feel so you dump your heart into a blender and when you pour it out it looks like alphabet soup so you take the letters and create a language and you finally feel satisfied for you can now justify yourself and when people ask why you can defend yourself but just because you can explain yourself does not mean they understand so tears web down your cheeks like dying branches and they drop off the edge of the cliff faces of your cheekbones and once they reach your gnashing teeth they are shredded and drift down to rest on your collar bones like the wilting leaves of fall but suddenly they stop and you remember how you pureed your heart and you realize you’re a tree: alive but unable to feel.
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Icy Carvings Luke Doncel Photograph
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CHICK-FIL-A BLUES by Max Anliker
Stepping out into the brisk winter air, a new feeling rises among the cold. I remember that I have an affair at a time so near with a love so old: Chick-fil-a; a mere taste of your morsels will calm this great storm hidden deep inside my heart. Also you fill my whole torso with joy; a fact I can’t begin to hide. With great excitement, I hurry away but a thought fills my mind with sorrow. Chick-fil-a; I forgot. You're closed Sunday. I must settle for samples at Costco. Though you disappoint me, I’ll ne'er forget, when I dine Monday, my appetite’s met.
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PAINTED By Sarah Schmutzer
Mary dipped the brush in the paint with a shaky wrist, and stroked on a canvas her mother’s blue eyes. It was just like she remembered. Hours before that, Mary pulled on a blue dress; it squeezed her ribs. She couldn’t breathe, and moved stiffly as she set up the canvas. She felt as if the whiteness of the canvas could swallow her. The day before that, she found a dusty box that clattered with paint brushes. The smell of acrylics brought memories that were bittersweet. A month before that, Mary felt hollow and cold. Her body refused to move, so she stayed in bed for days. 36 nights before that, Mary submitted to her pitiless anger. She screamed and threw the box into her closet. The tears came effortlessly after that. A day full of meetings before that, Mary stood with a woman with soft brown eyes and her suitcase in one hand. The other rested on her shoulder. Mary’s muscles coiled under the warmth of her foster mother’s hand. A big red and black house was before her. A couple of days before that, Mary planted her numb body under the dark and naked sky. Ashes swirled around the air like snow. A firefighter handed her the box, saying, “We were able to save this.” Mary couldn’t bring her eyes away from the rubble that used to be her home, she whispered, “But you couldn’t save my mother.” A night’s worth of dreams before that, Mary laid sprawled in a chair in her blue dress. Her paintbrush was still tightly gripped in her hand and a finished project before her. —16—
A bowl of soup before that, her mother stood with a hand on Mary’s head. “You’re so talented, love.” “Thanks Momma. Could you do me a favor now and move? You’re blocking my light.” “Okay,” Mary’s mother said, but didn’t move. She touched Mary’s blue dress. “Why don’t you change into your pajamas? It’s late.” “This is my painting dress. Can you please move now?” “Okay, okay, okay. Love you, Mary.” “Love you, too.” Before that all, though, Mary’s mother turned on the stove to cook some soup. It was cheese and broccoli, Mary’s favorite.
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Untitled Praise Feng Oil on Canvas
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CONTROL By Grace Zander
There’s something strange about your sense of truth because within it is nothing but corruption. Honesty is not words with bits of truth covering the lie. Your so- called honesty is not even a half truth, it is a lie covered in a thin layer of honor. When you told me you loved me, it partially true. I have yet to find out where you got this notion of honesty from, for not only is it wrong but you are so good at deception no one has picked out the lies within your honesty. They take your words as law. Even my mother believes everything you say. I’m taking good care of her, you say. We’re very happy. I smile shakily and when asked about the bruise on my arm I say I hit it on the fridge. Though I am not as good a liar as you, it is not questioned. You told me you loved me three times, all long before these setbacks. I believed each to be true. I know now they were the most untrue truths I have ever heard. I truly do feel love radiating out of your eyes when they gaze at me, but your love is for my talent of unwillingness to stand up to you, rather than me. It is because you seemed so true that I discovered you were not: you had to be a lie. You shook my world apart with an earthquake of betrayal. That’s when I figured it out. I got lost in the cracks this earthquake caused, and I could not find my way out. I heard your voice telling me left, left, up, right, left. I listened. But it was only you. You were attempting to get me more lost than I was before to prevent my knowledge from spreading. I could be your downfall. You told me you were sorry three times, and I believed none to be true. This was the first lie you told me that I realized was untrue immediately. It angered me to no limits. In my dreams I saw you laughing, the tip of your tongue dripping with blood drawn by your lies just as mine was drawn by your truths. I was so disgusted by you, the fact that I had wiped tears from your face in times of turmoil. But I eventually found a way out: I screamed the most painful truth I knew at you. —19—
I LOVED YOU I LOVED YOU I LOVED YOU You could not stand to hear truths, and you ran. I dragged myself from the cracks into daylight and stumbled to what I thought was away until I collapsed. I layed there for days, whispering truths to myself in hopes they would repair me. He never loved you. He never was sorry. But those words did the opposite of what I hoped: they broke me even further. I was weaker than when I had escaped the earthquake. You eventually found me, and I could not stop you. I screamed, but it came out in a hoarse whisper. I loved you I loved you I loved you You looked at me, a small tear making it’s way through the dust caked on your face. You were the one who broke me, not vice versa. you were merely trying to make me believe I had sent a crack down from the corner of your eye to your jawline Fix me, you said. Put me back together I loved you I loved you I loved you I loved yI lovedI love you. The truth that brought you down became a lie as you pressed my thumb to your cheek and the tear knit itself back together. No, I had not broken you. You had broken me, and I knew you were the only one who could fix me. —20—
THE LAST SUMMER By Caroline Lauber
Beyonce’s voice broke into my deep sleep. My head jolted off the pillow as “Love on Top” blasted in my ear. Quickly shutting off that terrible sound, my initial panic faded while I took in my surroundings. The stars still twinkled outside and the air still had that late night smell, but the clock told me otherwise: 5:00 am. The whole house was still; the only sound being the quiet whir of the overhead fan. Exhaling, I burrowed into my blankets. I felt my eyelids droop and my breathing steadied. My mind wandered off into places unknown. No, I gasped, sitting back up, you need to get up right now or you’re not going to make it. “Luce, wake up,” I whispered to my left. Steady breathing was the only response. Pulling my blonde hair into a messy bun, I tried again, “Lucy, I’m serious. We have to get up now or we’ll miss it completely.” Nothing. Rolling my eyes, I grabbed my pillow and threw it in the direction of my cousin. Did I wake her? A muffled squeal answered my question. “What the...my goodness Charlotte, I’m up, I’m up,” her words slurred slightly. With a wide yawn, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and shuffled her way towards the door. I followed suit, pausing only to grab some fuzzy socks. “Why in the world did we decide to do this?” she muttered as we quietly tiptoed down the stairs. Feeling our way into the dim kitchen, I grabbed an apple before answering. “We’ve done this every summer since we were twelve, Lucy Elizabeth. And you better believe that we are sticking to tradition,” I bit into my apple. A cool breeze blew across the still lake. Through the open window, birds chirped as the world lazily began waking up. Towels from an afternoon in the sun the day before were draped over to porch railing, drying overnight. Content for the moment, I turned back to my grumpy counterpart.
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“I know that, but still it’s way too early to function properly,” Lucy responded with a frown on her face, “Now if only we had some coffee, maybe then I would not be a zombie,” Ignoring the pounding of my head, “We can have coffee when we come back. And besides, you know, once you get moving, you’ll be fine.” Dragging my sluggish cousin off of the kitchen table where she was perched, we changed into sweatshirts and leggings, grabbing a few blankets. Stepping into the brisk early morning sent a chill straight to my bones. We set out on our mission, walking in easy silence. The walk to Skytop was not normally a long one, but it felt like a million years at this time of day. Forests surrounded the dirt road with a few winding paths, peeling off on both sides to our neighbors’ houses. My legs began to hurt from our uptempo pace. The sky grew lighter as we approached the bottom of the hill. Brown eyes met green and understanding passed between us. Taking in the long road ahead, Lucy and I began jogging. Is the air getting thinner? It’s just the early hour. Maybe I should have exercised more this summer instead of eating ice cream. Man but that mint chocolate chip was so worth it. Focus, Charlotte, focus. Oh shoot we’re going to miss it. The rising sun glinted through the trees as we continued our trek upward. Sprinting the last stretch, Lucy beat me to the top by a couple seconds. I took a deep breath; thankfully, we had not missed the sunrise. The little red house was perched on the edge of the hill, overlooking the lake below. Aptly named, Skytop, people had climbed up to see the sunrise every summer for as long as I can remember, but Lucy and I always saved the last day of vacation for this experience. Laying out our blankets, we snuggled on the small bench in front of the house. Prime seating. Only a few minutes more and everything would be worth it; nothing is quite as wonderful as watching the world come to life with your best friend. The sky exploded. Oranges, pinks, yellows, all mixing together in a breathtaking view. Trees shined with new vibrancy. The lake smiled as the world around it woke up, ready for another day in paradise. New Hampshire is always beautiful but it seemed even more so in this moment.
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“Hey, remember the first year we came up and we almost fell asleep waiting for the sun,” Lucy reminisced, laughing softly, “That feels like a lifetime ago.” Nostalgia swept over me. A lot had changed in six years. I had grown five inches and Lucy’s once bobbed hair now cascaded in a mass of brown curls. Gone were those days of endless fun and innocence. Gone was the notion that summer was the time for playing with our cousins till the sun went down. Now we had finished our first summer jobs and were starting to prepare for “the real world.” I grabbed Lucy’s hand and squeezed it tight, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. She returned the squeeze. Trying to lighten up the moment, I began recalling the time she ate too much pie on the Fourth of July and ended up throwing up all over our neighbor, Benny MacPherson. All cozy in our pile of warmth, we giggled until our sides hurt, remembering all the good times of our childhood summers. “I don’t want to leave for college, Lottie,” she sighed, our laughter dying down, “All those responsibilities scare me and, like, moving away from everyone… but at least there will be caffeine in college,” she nudged my shoulder with a slight smirk. The lake sparkled as the sun rose higher and higher. “Okay, okay, Luce. Let’s go get you that coffee.”
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Timid Beauty Bridget Koehler Photograph
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NEVER GONE
By Christina Garrison
Pink and purple and turquoise and yellow, His rough old fingers pierced together the shards of glass. She watched him work, Melting the sharp edges together, Day after day, Night after night. He whispered he loved her. In the morning before he went to work, And after he was done for the day before bed. His masterpiece was completed and they sat together, Sipping their coffee, Watching the sun bounce in the glass. They sat hand in hand, Admiring the window. She watched his neck crane upward, And whispered in his ear, “I love you,” With a smile upon her wrinkled face. A year later she sat there alone, Sipping her coffee, Watching the sun bounce in the glass, Admiring the window. As her neck was craned upward, She whispered, “I love you.” With a single tear falling, And a smile upon her wrinkled face.
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SATURDAY AFTERNOON by Elizabeth Pendley
You no dirt under your fingernails not a single callous or scratch the curtains in your room tuning out any natural sunlight. The bright colors of technology reflecting off your glazed over eyes Look at the view: Almost feel the breeze, spine tingling from a strand of mountains with tiny white hats topping each peak. Nearly experience the concluding rays of warmth from a lowering sun with brilliant oranges, pinks, reds. Scroll through and you Hear the crunch in the back of your mind when your feet settle staring in a collage of rainbow leaves. Get a ghostly whiff of a cheesy veggie omelet set on a delicate plate with a side of OJ, fresh and squeezed. You hear-a blaring DING as an icon with an unnatural green color burns your eyes as it flashes at the top of your screen. Someone is reaching for you and trying to drag you back into reality. You remember where you are: alone, in your dark room not experiencing what was happening in the outside world on the opposite side of your window. —26—
Distant Beauty Luke Holwerda Watercolor on Paper
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EXISTENCE by Jessica McElwee
“Who, today, could you devastate with grace?” -Josh Riebock People must consist of more, Than hunks of flesh that breathe, eat and sleep. That inflict pain without intention, And can speak volumes without uttering a single word. The cheery smiles and bright eyes, That try to mask the human inside Do well for a moment, an hour, a decade. Until the guise begins to crack, then to crumble. And amidst the rubble and destruction, the individual inside begins to show. Whose soul is fed with the very poison they spew, And with every word, a portion of them ceases to exist, To protect themselves from what they say and do They anchor their guard in self-reliance, A foundation weak, and unstable And even when their shields are in place, Cruelty’s flaming arrow pierces their flesh. And the pain is intensified tenfold for every time they have raised their bows and fired a word to inflict insecurity, doubt, or fear. And when that arrow’s sharp tip impales, Do they lash out, or do they bury their pain Under deep layers of rock and nearly impenetrable substances, but all that’s shown is the false facade of happiness and near perfection, That causes others to envy from afar. Though no one approaches, to be a friend or even cordial, They stand back and observe, —28—
which leads to loneliness, and hurt, and feelings of insecurity and pain, And as the mask is cracked, little by little, the darkness inside begins to show. And no longer is it under control, Instead it is consuming. Overtaking. and the climb from the pit is long, hard, and scary, But all that’s needed to lift a soul from the darkest abyss of despair, Is a gift of kindness, a sliver of interest, a word of compassion, a breath of grace.
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EUROPEAN HEARTBEAT By Brittany Bertsche
I crane my aching neck, squinting to capture The stories so delicately painted From the Creation of Adam to the Rapture By an artist who left his legacy untainted. Into the belly of the Great Roman Beast I gaze At the bricks crumbling under the weight of The lives of the martyrs who set their faith ablaze Jeering crowds unable to break their fervent love. The clock blackened by bursting bombs chimes six My pulse beats in time with the heartbeat of the city Alive and breathing, no longer a mess to fix A nation that knows what it is to be gritty. Now, back home, I realize it must again become fashion To inspire, to ignite, to impassion.
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Untitled Praise Feng Pen on Paper
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THE CHURCH By Heidi Engebretsen
Each week, when the long hand strikes eight, hundreds of lost souls flood in. They sing they laugh they weep with one another. A worn man with wrinkles lining his cheeks and forehead croons a few ditties that tomorrow he will forget. One hundred mouths open and close crying out to a man in the sky somewhere above the cross-shaped steeple. And then the hour passes, the double doors are sealed and all freshness is extracted from the breeze, as the smell of freshly lit cigarettes becomes prevalent. The local boys gather on the back steps behind the fastened double doors for an afternoon smoke. —32—
Five mouths open and close speaking humors and just as well they sing they laugh they weep with one another.
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HIGH SCHOOL By Christopher Jones
And so they were herded each without knowing What he was supposed to be, like cattle without a care. Each paraded proudly, lowing, Avoiding anything that might cause a battle. And so they marched, each too absorbed with Their nothingness, showing off to each other. The trot of their hooves echoed the myth that their mates loved them, like a brother. And so they followed, with each step closer to the unknown prize, marching in unison and to the spot where it would all be over, But none of them realized their perfect union And so each student moved right along none realized each hummed the same song.
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Lovely Anne Brcka Digital Composition
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CIRCLES By Lindsey Benda
Your dizzying circumference built our enclosure. Day and night, day and night, night and day, day and night. Stargazed to supply our expected exposure, You spun ever present in our sight. You were fixed in a circulating motion We crawled then ran, stumbling between every few trees Racing your heartbeat with all our devotion. “The day is not enough” we wheeze. One, eleven, seven, then noon. How blind we were to your shaking hand, With fingers that pointed to the hurricane, now showing us who controls the plan. Oh Earth, you’re broken, bruised, splintered and cracked. There will be new you outside of time, intact.
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COLOR FROM A STAINED GLASS WINDOW By Rachel Spelz
The window-maker looked back To observe his intricate design. Bit-by-bit the colors of the delicate window Became more and more vivid inside the church As a beam of sunlight shined through the clouds. The gentle colors of red, yellow, blue, and green Seemed to warm and penetrate the window-maker’s heart. With a tear in his eye He said, “This window is mine, And what is mine is beautiful.” The stain-glass window stood that year With the bitter winter winds, The heavy rains, And the hail storms, But not without chipping and cracking. The sun did not shine that winter. The warm light That the window was born to shine With it’s graceful color Was nonexistent. Just as the darkness began to set inside the stain-glass window, The window-maker came back To light a candle within the church. —37—
Meanwhile, I was cutting through the church property To arrive home. My eyes were to the ground Observing my own shadow on the untouched snow. Just then, In the darkness of my shadow, I saw the flickering lights of The soft reds, yellows, blues, and greens. I lifted my head to find the source of such delicacy. I looked up and saw the colors of glass pieced together. In the window I looked at my reflection, And I saw the same delicacy on me. The soft reds, yellows, blues, and greens Flickered onto my face. The colors seemed to melt my face into a smile. And that smile remained all the way home.
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Euclidean Bouquet Levi Severson Digital Composition
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Untitled Meghan Scanlan Digital Photograph
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Suzanne Meghan Scanlan Charcoal Drawing
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