The Journey of The Heart

I am very excited to present my acrylic and watercolor painting:

 The Journey of The Heart

It is now displayed and for sell at Intermezzo Gallery in www.intermezzogallery.com

Re-Birth

The hoarse voice broke through the silence that had gathered, crumbling over the dusty bookshelves and dresser backs. It was the first time in years that the sound within had shifted. 

The door had cracked.

A scarlet line dripped down the corset she had worn on the day that she sealed the door shut, locking herself in. Untouched by the ferocious, roaring lion outside, she had bled. Now the blood is rust upon her back, a stain from years of betrayal. You see, rust only grows on things that feel forgotten. 

The voice cracked.

She had heard him before. Once. "Lies. All that He had said. All lies", she hissed. Betrayal had become a rabid beast within her. Drawing from her hind legs, she intended to kill. Her brokenness, her tower had not made her weak. No, it had made her strong. It had made her bold. It had made her into a beast. She lunged across the room. 

The floor cracked.

Wood splintering into particles of dust, and falling. God-forbidden sunlight breaking through. She roared. She screamed. Her brokenness was only beginning. The wood panels split open beneath her soft, pink feet. 

The Sun cracked.

"What have you done?" She screamed. "What have you done to me?" The light blinded her eyes. She flailed; weak, pink, soft, a naked child, falling into the arms of the sunlight. Her skin was ripping apart. The sun was cracking through it. Soon there would be nothing left. 

"It is not what I have done, but what you have done to yourself." The voice replied, now solid and smooth. 

She cracked. 

She knew that the lies she had believed were truth and the truths she had loved were lies. He had been right. All along. And now he was the light tearing her to pieces, making her new; Her Father, bringing re-birth.

She opened the door.

Lost Again

By Nakita Bickle

Everyone is gone now

And you sit there

Alone

In the dark.

You can feel yourself sinking, slipping,

It's 2 a.m. and you're slipping away.

"Don't let go," you tremble,

"Don't lose yourself again."

But your soul is a beast

Pulling away from your body 

Falling into the night

And you have to let go

You have to slip.

Your soul wasn't created

to be controlled.

It's something wild

Made to be set free.

So you lose yourself again.

The Fall

by Nakita Bickle


splintering heights

on the respite

of dignity

trembling

cascading

down

falling into me

hope
pours in

beautiful,
swirling
Alive.
Regardless

of time.

Change
chastising
remembering
embracing.

Love
dented
and
stained;
forgotten.

Hope
relentless

mistaken
dreams
while you're sleeping
Awake.

Eyes wide open
Hope Alive.

Shocking truth
within
my soul

clings to reality
that is not
real

Love
encounters
change.

Forgotten
uprising
forgetting and
lifting into the sky
where hope is a lie

change encounters

love begins

hope forgets

faith besets

and life turns
around again

as love encounters
sin

The Sparrow

Kayaking Chaos

Let me just say, my dear friends, that the last two and a half weeks have been trying. It has been my opportunity to live up to what I have been writing about.

Saturday, April 12th, I went on a kayaking adventure with a couple of friends. It was a sunny day, and couples and college students were out enjoying the weather. My friends and I were goofing off in our kayaks. I didn't do my typical routine of trying to turn my kayak into a surf board or a floaty. I was happy enough talking with the girls that day. We were safe.

But at one point of unbalance my kayak flipped over. I came up out of the water, laughing, right before the other side of the kayak came around; and landed on the top of my head, shoving me under the water. Upon emerging, I was dizzy and disoriented.

With a pounding head I reached for my kayak for safety. My girl friends were helping in a heart beat, grabbing oars and throwing them my direction as I threw my body back onto my boat. My head was pounding, I was laughing, and grabbing oars. I told the girls if I started acting out of character to be mindful in case I had  a concussion.

Later that night, we went for a walk just outside of town where my girlfriends lived. It was a glorious evening and I remember soaking it up and internalizing our deep conversations. After going home, I even made a few phone calls with a couple of old friends before bed. "Today has been lovely," I thought unaware of what the next day would soon bring.

I woke up for church the next morning, poured a cup of coffee, and drove to service. I was exhausted and my thoughts were foggy from staying up the night before. But by the time service was over and I was visiting with a few fellow missionaries, my foggy headache hadn't left. In fact, it had worsened, and in mid-sentence my mind was going blank, and my vision was blurring. After a moment, I shook it off. My new friends prayed for me and I, feeling as if my head had floated away, decided to drive home.

We had my brother and his family over to the house that afternoon. With the noise and constant conversation, the random shock of pain in my head became more consistent throughout the day until I decided to take a nap around four p.m.

I collapsed onto my bed, and didn't wake up until two p.m., Monday afternoon. That's when my brother took me to the hospital and it was confirmed that I had been experiencing Post Concussion Syndrome. By then, I was slurring and forgetting words and names. I was laughing a lot, and Krystian (my brother) told the doctor that I had been delusional. I slept for a week straight waking up only to eat, and use the restroom.

Easter morning, I readied myself for the hustle of celebrating relatives. I visited a while through one-on-one conversations, avoiding the groups. I ate Easter Dinner in my bedroom, and came out only for dessert, and a last one-on-one visit with my grandmother before bidding my relatives farewell; and retreating to my room, to my bed.

Noise and light were like an electric shock to my mind, an overwhelming pain. But not soon after our guests had left did I have an anxiety attack. I made my mother stay with me because I had been gripped with an overwhelming fear of being alone. I cried, and cried, and cried.

There was only one thing that seemed to comfort me. It was a rug my mom bought me as an Easter present. It was an embroidery of a lion, and his lioness. She knew how much the symbolism of the lion meant to me in accordance to the verses in the bible that refer to Christ as the Lion of the Tribe of Judah.

For years, I have felt as though God had told me that I was as bold as a lion. And the moment that I saw the rug from my mother, I began weeping because I realized that I was the lioness in that picture, and I knew that my lion would never leave me alone.

As I sat on my bed that afternoon, holding my mother's hand, weeping, filled with fear, I begged my dad to unroll that rug, "because" I thought, "That will help me calm down." So he did that, and I wept, and rambled incoherently; and my mom held me. Then we sat there, and stared at the rug for at least five minutes before they took me back in to the hospital.

I was diagnosed with the same as before: Post Concussion Syndrome.  I struggled with physiological symptoms all that week.

By the weekend of the 26th, I drove my car for the first time in two weeks. I was really unstable, and driving was a bit overwhelming. I probably shouldn't have been on the road, but I was home alone and no one could stop me. I let my black lab, Lacey, come along for the ride. We drove to the local gas station and bought a pint of ice cream and a Netflix.

I drove myself to church the next morning. I stayed away from the crowds and only talked to a few people one-one-one. I bought a root beer with my childhood friend, Kevin. Then I drove home, exhausted, drained, overwhelmed, ready for bed.

I had hoped to return to work this week. I went in Monday evening for a three hour shift. It went smoothly. I only slurred my words once after a conversation with an on-call employee that went a little too long for me to process. But that night, driving home gave me a headache. And by the time I was home, I was slurring, and mixing up the arrangement of my sentences; and my head was pounding. The next day was the same, and the next, and today. It's like I went backwards.Needless to say, I didn't go back to work.

They say that new situations can cause concussion symptoms to be triggered again; and that the only thing you can do for recovery is to wait, to take it slow, and only do little things, a little at a time. I had hoped that working three hours a day would be my little thing this week, but it looks like it isn't. And I must wait longer.

One of my friends at work looked at me and said, "Nakita, you're a mess." Because the day before I had hurt my hand bad enough to have a deep tissue contusion. My Grandma came down and said, "So you're confused and contused." But that's just it. I am a mess.

These last few weeks have been full of pain, and confusion, and trauma; but I have learned something through it. I have learned that life is going to happen, and sometimes there's nothing you can do about it. I have learned that me and my life really are a mess at times, but  sometimes that's exactly where God wants me to be. And I've learned that although it is difficult,I need to be okay with the mess I am.

I've also learned that the reason I can be okay with my mess is that my Lion will never leave His Lioness. And in that I shall be satisfied because in that I know that I will never be alone.

I am ever so thankful for my Savior who prepares life for me even before it happens. My mother had been planning on buying  that rug weeks before my concussion.

"Sundays"

Echos

Tonight, I am realizing the depth of grace. It echos in eternity, the eternity that was set in the hearts of men, before we were born. I am seeing how our lives were destined to be a mess from the very beginning. Because if it wasn't, grace would't be quite as beautiful.
Today, listen for the echo in your heart because I don't want you to miss eternity.

 I simply had to share this picture.
It echos. 

Don't miss [the Echo in You Heart]

Grace

Sometimes life, in its entirety, feels like such a mess. It's like a thousand puzzle pieces all trying to fit together at once with little success, except for the couple of pieces falling into place here and there. And yet you have to wonder what those pairs and trios have to do with the rest of the puzzle.

Until someday, someone comes along and reminds you of something. And the answer that they give isn't what you expect. It's not a great revelation to the end of your story, or the greatness of your calling. But it is a bud that, when well tended, will bloom and blossom beyond your greatest imagination. It is a tiny truth, but it is colossal. It is the truth that life is a mess, and that it will always tend to be. But what you do with the mess that you have been given is what makes a difference.

 Then you take a moment to see yourself for who you are, and your life for what it really is, it is overwhelming at first, but you wait just a little longer to see what will happen. And in that last breath you breathe in before giving up, you see grace. It flutters with wings of the homiest sparrow, and yet the most prestigious eagle. And in that moment; life and yourself, and a thousand puzzle pieces all collide, and it doesn't make complete sense, but somehow it's okay, and your free, and your alive, and you have the ability to embrace what you have been given.

So very many times have we been told that our lives must be perfect, that we must be flawless; and so many times, as I have attempted to build my own white picket fence, I have learned the very opposite from what I have been taught.

"But He said to me,'My Grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'"-2 Corinthians 12:9

Birthplace Of Art

Brave Enough

We were outside in the dark; innocent smiles, under the stars. The summer night air never grew old to our young hearts, just like how the stars felt like meeting a million new faces every time. It was always the same, yet we never lost that feeling of wonder. We were laughing and free, and singing the songs of crickets with the roofs of our mouths.

 It was hide-and-seek-in-the-dark, while the grown ups settled in around a bonfire. And then it was daring each other to stand in the field behind my house, which, in order to get there, you had to traverse the scariest path; but once there, it was the most beautiful place in the world because of how the stars shined so brightly. Only the bravest of us saw that view. And those were the days where we learned that bravery was running the right direction when you were afraid.

And now I go inside and I turn on the lights, and I stare at my computer screen. I read a book. Maybe I do some writing. No blanket tints, or flashlights in the dark, or sneaking out to catch a glimpse of the stars. I realize that I can't hear the crickets from my bedroom window. And I never turn off the lights unless I'm going to bed. 

Have I grown afraid? Where is the girl who takes the time to run through the woods at night just so she can see the stars? Where is the girl who dims the lights and listens to the world fall asleep? 

Sometimes, I forget to let things be what they were meant to be, even the stars. I've realized that it is bravery to be able to accept who you are. It's bravery to turn out the lights and just sit there with yourself and your own thoughts, and your own feelings. Something about the darkness makes a person vulnerable in more than one way. And perhaps if we can learn to be authentic in the mirror of the night, then we will have more strength to be when we step through the door of a new day. 

I know that I am brave enough to see the stars. 

Wild Heart

Freedom stance,
Taking chance;
And the thrill of something wild.

In my heart,
Blooming art;
Nothing here is mild.

Breaking glass,
Days that pass;
Chiding the heart of child.

But freedom now,
Things in tow;
In the heart of the wild.

The Lion Of The Tribe Of Judah

I ran away that day. My white dress was stained with blood. I had been smiling all afternoon so they wouldn't worry. But then I broke and I hid in the woods, and wept.

Daylight faded as I cried. I knew I couldn't hide forever, but I was afraid of turning back, afraid of what might still be there. Crawling to my knees, I looked at the treetops for comfort. Then I was up and wandering through the dark. I traveled for ages in the night, sorting my thoughts and hopes and shattered dreams; and I wondered what it would take to make me free.

 I collapsed against a wooden post at the top of a hill. Exhausted, I leaned my head against it to rest. The night glowed with fire from the last of the sunset. And I cried in my sleep. I had hoped to find the strength to go on on the top of this hill. But still I felt forgotten, yet over-worried about.

 And I placed my heart in the hand that was reaching down to me. I felt the flames glowing around me. The wood post was burning. I leaped back, waving a flame out of the hem of my dress. And the cross burned without me.

I cried as the cross burned, it hurt my heart and I didn't know why. As my face fell to the ground, the earth began to shake. And a creature watched me from the other side of the cross. He was silent except for the roar I heard in his heart. And I loved Him, even though I had fallen apart.

He watched me in the silence, and the darkness, and the crackling of the flames as I watched the cross and my heart burn away. He only nodded as if He knew this was all yet to come. He had ordained it, He had prepared it, He had opened the way. And as I cried, my hair in the mud, He touched me with His soul. I felt my heart laying wide open before him, all the hurt, all the pain, the fear, the misjudgments. He saw me, He saw everything, and I was not ashamed. He knew me and this knowing, it healed me.

I painted this August 2012. The above story was based off of the vision I had for this painting. 

A New Heart (The Lighthouse part 3)

As I watched it burn, all I heard was his voice saying, "run, run to the lighthouse." Smoke curled into the night sky, and the tide pushed against the shore. The time had come. It was time to run. I didn't know why he wanted me to, all I knew was what He had told me. Nothing more, nothing less. And He was the only voice I trusted.

The wind whipped against my body, cold off the ocean. Tears from the cold fell from my eyes. I was, at last, all alone. But I sought my refuge in Him. So I ran.

I ran to the fiery, burning lighthouse. The flames blurred my vision. I was sweating on a cold night. I burst through the broken doorway and stepped into the smoky stairwell. A wave of heat washed over my body. But I climbed anyway. Half way up, I could hear the crackling, it was a roaring above my head. I climbed further. I didn't know why I kept climbing. It was as if something had possessed me from the inside and now all I could do was submit to this inner urging "to run," and then, "to climb." I had lost all control, tears streaming down my face. Whether they were from the heat, or the cold, or my own loss I didn't know. I just climbed, furiously, my white hands clutching the railing, step after step.

Then the flames were before me and around me, the roaring in my ears was agonizing. I wept. I stood on the burning tower of the lighthouse, looking over the ocean, weeping. My soul was crumpling up inside of me, onto my knees, but I stood strong and proud, and tearfully in the flames.

I stayed that way for eternity it seemed, I saw everything, and remembered all of my life, now gone in the flames. Then I was back, the heat was real, my flesh was burning. I had control again and screaming, I jumped off the tower.

The water wrapped its arms around my soul and loved me again, but this time it took me with it. It took me down to its very depths, a new, more intimate love. Everything was silent there as I sank slowly to the bottom of the ocean. Air was not needed here, only spirit. I could hear His voice again and his hands on my skin, "my God, my God, you have not forsaken me," I cried as He held me in his arms. Then a flash of pain, and I was suffocating. I was dying. In the depths of the ocean, I saw one burning coal. Blackness, and a burning coal. It was time. I would not survive. So I let go. I gave up my soul to the one who judges justly, ready, ready to die.

Suddenly, life surged into my wounded chest, coursing through my veins. I could hear the burning coal beating with life in it, and that life was in me. I stared through the dark blue water, at my chest that was glowing red from the inside out. A new power came over me. It was love. It was freedom. And I knew that I could live. I was swimming towards the surface. And the only thing that I could feel as I immerged was the overwhelming heartbeat of God's love.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you," He said, " I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And this new heart, it will be the fire in your bones that you will be unable to contain."

                            This is a painting based off of a vision that I received from the Lord in 2012. I was reminded of this vision after writing this story.

The Past Is a Blade

They lived in a house, a box, where they kept their secrets safely hidden away, the shadows in their souls forever forgotten to the world, yet rotting flesh inside their hearts, their ever hiding, cursed hearts.

They thought the secrets would go away once everyone had forgotten, once time had passed and they had lived new lives and done new things; but the past will always haunt the one who hides from it.

It is a blade in the coward's hand ready to slice and to kill any living thing that attempts to pry at its door of secrets.

Then the coward is running, running farther than he had ran before, hiding behind hidden doors; another secret to bury.

God gives the knife to the brave because He knows they will use it for good, and He gives it to the cowards because He knows that, through it, they will learn what is good.