Happy Valentine’s Day!
I really hope you can appreciate the blood sweat and tears that went into finishing this by the 14th. Painting the same thing 16 times is.. fatiguing. But I’m pretty happy with the result, so I guess it was worth it. It was very experimental mixing my portrait painting with animation. I may do more in the future but if so they will definitely have less frames cause damn. Also this is actually a bit bigger, you can see the full size here (x).
Also you can see a step by step here (x).
The importance of remembering grace when we mess up.
REBLOG IF YOU REMEMBER ANY OF THESE
Here are all the games’ links in order :)
YOU ARE A SAINT.
IM SO HAPPY
Coffee this morning at Southside with a friend from church, awesome poetry class this afternoon, and amazing worship tonight with Cru - and I didn’t take any pictures! Instead, here are two other things that make me happy: the latest Relevant magazine and my Bible study workbook. #100happydays #day3
After a great first day back at university - full of interesting classes and great catch-up conversations with good friends - I lost my brand new necklace while biking to lab. Luckily I found it by the bike racks at my college just when I thought it was gone forever! #100happydays #day1
- Take a piece of paper.
- Write down the biggest doubt, fear, struggle, or lie that persists in your life.
- Draw an X through that statement, the heavier the X the better.
- Turn the paper a bit.
- What do you see?
I don’t know about you, but it looks like a cross. Your doubt, fear, struggle, or lie on the back of a cross. It seems like a simple picture, but it’s strikingly accurate for what Christ did on the cross. He died for your sins, but he also died to give you life to the fullest. By giving you this life, he gives you the chance to put to death those doubts, fears, struggles, or lies. Life brings these trials your way, but the offer to give them to God is always present. Put it on the cross. It’s an offer that exists at every moment, so take him up on it.
The theatre was settled in a near-industrial neighborhood, off a busy street and around the corner from a small shopping center with a coffee shop and a pole-fitness studio. The lobby was surprisingly large and bustling with families and drunk, attractive young professionals, all looking for a good laugh. Our large group of friends fit in perfectly as we took our seats for the panto. It was a decent show, just clever enough to be self-aware. I even participated in a few of the audience chants to show my support for the actors who so clearly begged our approval. Their faces as they declared let’s-try-that-just-one-more-time and I-think-you-can-do-better-than-that resonated with me strangely; perhaps it was my own face that I saw reflected, seeking the approval of any who would deign to give it, performing for smiles and nods of appreciation.
At the intermission I excused myself and went to the ladies room, more out of habit than necessity. Walking around the corner, I saw a line forming and took my place behind two girls - perhaps twelve and eight, or perhaps fourteen and ten. (It’s so hard to determine the ages of girls these days, you know.) They were dressed in matching outfits - oversized chambray shirts and dark-wash skinny jeans, fashionable boots and accessorized with jewelry that caught the dim lights and sparkled. Their hair was perfectly coiffed and their makeup just so - natural enough to look effortlessly easy, but enough to let you know that some effort was indeed made for your benefit.
I glanced down at my own outfit - the mismatched stripes of my skirt and shirt, the clashing color flats that always received compliments, my long and naturally curly hair worn down had seemed so charming when I left the house - and realized how simple and childish I looked next to these girls at least ten years my junior. These girls were the spitting image of the twenty-something that I, as a twenty-something myself, aspired to become. I tried not to stare, wondering how they did it, how they achieved at such a young age that which I so desperately ached to become myself. I briefly entertained the notion that they might see me as the glamorous older girl - but one glance in the mirror and at their disinterested typing on their iPhones, and I knew that was not the case.
Later that night, after the show, I lounged in my vintage sleeping chemise and swirled my cognac around its glass. I considered my life, and the experiences I had. I could buy alcohol and cigarettes. I could stay in a hotel room by myself. I could get into clubs and buy pornographic material. I could not yet rent a car, but that would come in a few years. What reason had I to be jealous of a twelve-year-old who was probably dressed by her rich white mother? Did I not have more independence, more freedom, more choice in my life?
"Honey, remember to turn the lights off before you go to bed," my own mother called out to me. "And for god’s sake, please stop wearing that ratty old gown and buy some real pajamas."
I sighed, drained the cognac with the remains of my self-pity, and slunk to my bed for a restless night of dreamless sleep.