Creativity: A Precious Gift

When I was a child, I had two best friends—my collection of books, and my collection of paper dolls. I was an only child whose adoptive parents were in their late thirties when I was born. Because most of their friends and relatives had children who were older than me, and because I was very thoughtful and quiet, I spent many hours alone, even in rooms filled with people.

We had no library or bookstore, so every book that entered our house became dog-eared. From the age of two, I memorized the little Golden books my parents read me and then I “read” them to myself, over and over and over again. In that way, I learned to read before I went to school. Once there, I met Dick and Jane and Sally, with their pets Spot and Puff, and found them wonderful.

A Child’s Garden of Verses, Alice in Wonderland, Grimms and Hans Christian Anderson’s Fairy Tales, Peter Pan, Little Women and Little Men, the Trixie Belden series – I read them so often that could have told each story with ease.

Along the way, I also found paper dolls. I designed new clothing for them and used them to act out stories I made up. When I was ten, I collected shirt boxes (boxes that each held about a dozen men’s shirts) from my dad’s clothing store and decorated them, transforming each box into a different room and connecting all the rooms with masking tape. This cardboard dollhouse covered the floor space in my bedroom. My stories became a day-to-day saga—an early version of the TV soap opera. Between reading and acting out stories with my paper dolls, for many hours each day and much of the weekend, I lived in a world of story.

Eventually, I put my paper dolls away, but the books remained. I have them still, on a special bookshelf in the midst of many more shelves filled with many more books. I still return to my old favorites when I’m feeling tired or unwell, or when I need the comfort of a familiar friend.

The stories I created for my paper dolls gradually evolved into more complex tales, captured first with pen and paper, then typewriter and finally computer. To this day, nothing gives me more enjoyment than a few hours lost in a good story, whether creating my own or reading someone else’s.

Of course, there were times, particularly when I was an adolescent, that I very much resented the fact that I was alone so much. Not that I actually disliked the time I spend alone, but, when I thought about it, I found it unfair that I didn’t have a brother or a sister, or even parents who could relate to me more than mine could. I never doubted my parents love for me; but my relationship with books and my endless imagination simply didn’t resonate with them. They—in particular my mother—never understood why I would choose to be alone, or how I could daydream so much. How do you explain the longing that’s in your soul to create?

However, the moments when I was unhappy about being me never lasted. Even as a child, I knew that God had made me the way I was, and I assumed he had his reasons for not making me good at sports or popular or witty or beautiful. Not that I wouldn’t have minded being these things. But I had a child-like faith that I could trust him.

As I look back, I can see that my faith was justified. In his wisdom, God was sharing himself with me, giving me precious gifts that have enriched my life and enabled me to share his love with others. Every time I write a story or an article, I’m using the gifts God gave me. Each time I think of a new way to express something, I’m dipping into his great vat of creativity. I know that in those long hours of solitude I was never alone. He was with me, encouraging me, laughing with me, crying with me, giving me the gift of himself. He’s with me still, at my shoulder as I write this, the only muse I’ll ever need. And one day when I meet him face to face, I have a feeling that one of the best things we’ll do is tell each other stories from the reservoir of creativity that flows from him.

Creativity: a gift that has existed from the beginning, the outpouring or the creator’s love. A gift without end. While not everyone has been able to or would even want to use that gift the way I have been, I believe each person is born with a large measure of creativity that is just waiting to be used in unique ways that are appropriate for each one of us.

Workshops

Release the Creative You

Do you:

* feel different from other people?

* have a dream you’re afraid might never come true?

* wonder about the role of creativity in the body of Christ?

This workshop will help you:

* accept the reality that God created you exactly as you are for a purpose

* trust the dreams God has placed in your heart

* become part of a team of people who support and encourage one another

* become all God created you to be

N. J. Lindquist's "Release the Creative You Workshop" will help you take the first step toward allowing your true creative self to develop and flourish.

Preferred time: 6 hours (all-day) or 2.5 hours (an evening)

What Could Be Better Than a Diamond Ring?

Studies show that the older we get, the less creative we tend to be. Too often, we want things under control. We emphasize rules and standards and patterns of behaviour. Rarely, do we discuss the imagination (unless it’s to complain about modern music or the lack of standards). The truth is we are often fearful and tentative about encouraging new thoughts and ideas. Listeners will be challenged to use their imaginations for good, and, more importantly, to pass on this amazing gift to others, especially children.

Made in the Image

In 1993, N. J. Lindquist began a journey to learn more about the God she had served for over 25 years. Though a committed Christian and church leader, she realized that much of her understanding of God came from what she had read and heard on an intellectual basis, rather than from a personal relationship with God himself. She began a pilgrimage to discover God. What she learned affected not only her relationship with God, but also her understanding of who she is as a child of God. Her story will encourage others to evaluate their own relationship with God.

The Power of Fiction to Change Lives

Think of the impact Uncle Tom’s Cabin and In His Steps had on their generation, and more recently, the Left Behind Series. While most books are helpful, it is not the how-to books or the rules and regulations books that most effectively open our minds and challenge us, but fiction and poetry that keep us human and challenge us to think. We all need to read fiction – for entertainment and for personal growth.

Surviving and Encouraging Gifted and Creative Children

As a psychology major in university, N. J. Lindquist discovered that she was gifted and creative. As a teacher, she was particularly interested in the needs of children of above average ability. Later, she raised and home-schooled four gifted and creative sons. She shares the insights she has learned and why she believes it is important to nurture and support gifted and creative individuals.

I'm an author, columnist, motivational speaker, writing teacher and mentor, fan of baseball and country music, wife, mother, and a whole lot more. I've been called a Renaissance Woman, and I take that as a complement. Another term used is Scanner (see Barbara Sher). Let's just say I have a lot of interests – and my creativity is one of the first things you'll notice about me.

I believe that although Christians should be leading the way, they are in fact often wary of, if not downright opposed to, creativity. And I believe that is one of the major problems of the church. I believe that only as we each follow God’s leading and do that which he has placed in our hearts to do will the church be able to do what God intended it to do – make disciples. So one of my missions is to help people find the courage to embrace their creativity.

For more of my personal story, you can read two autobiographical articles I wrote for the book, Hot Apple Cider: Words to Warm the Soul and Stir the Heart. One is the story of the 80-year-old man God chose to  let 8-year-old me know she wasn’t alone. The other is the story of my first published work – a letter I wrote to the editor of our local paper when I was twelve.

If you'd like to read or listen to some of my stories (some true, some fiction) just click on the following links:

The other guests at the birthday party appeared to be having a wonderful time. I was counting the minutes until I could go home and read a book or design more clothes for my paper dolls. As soon as we’d eaten the birthday cake, I said I had to leave early. Dressed in my best party dress and wearing my white sandals, carrying a little basket of candy and trinkets, I fought to hold back the tears that started the moment I closed the door.

Our house was on the outskirts of town, and to reach it I had to cross a set of railway tracks. I stopped and walked along the rails. By now, I was sobbing in earnest, and I didn’t want my parents to see—didn’t want them to worry. I also was trying to figure out why I wasn’t like other people. For a moment, I thought it might be a huge relief if a train would come along and erase the pain.

It was 1955, and I was seven years old….

Read the rest of "The Diamond Ring" - a true story which won two The Word Guild Awards in June, 2009.

Francis Chapelle maneuvered her Cadillac over the weed-mottled pavement of the circular drive and parked as close as she dared to the front door. Getting out of the car, she paused as if rethinking her intentions. The house looked the way one might expect the set of a Hollywood movie from the forties to look–unused, uninhabited, unwanted. But this particular house, on this quiet street, surrounded by flowing elms and warm-hued maples and new monster homes, was no set.

With a small shake of short blonde waves (gray banished courtesy of her appointment at the hair stylist earlier in the morning), Francis carefully climbed the steps, taking no chances with unruly weeds or rotted wood. The grey, paintless porch seemed sturdy enough. But as she unlocked the front door, she paused again. Was it really necessary to go inside?

Resolutely squaring her shoulders under her ivory leather coat, she told herself to stop being foolish. It was another empty house. Nothing more.

She pushed open the heavy door. It needed oiling. She stepped over the threshold into a dim hallway. Boards creaked and she stopped, preparing to turn back. All morning, just the thought of entering the ghostly old house had caused intangible little devils to run up and down her spine….

Read the rest of "The Day Time Stood Still," which was publlished in Wordscape 5.