“Bird of Paradise” How often did I see these in Congo growing up and now even here at the coast of California and also where I live in Fresno, California. They are so beautiful and a reminder of my past in Congo. ~ Gary Prieb
“New Years Dancing” Please enjoy the painting I did around New Years 2024. Without dancing African culture would be blasé. It’s found everywhere there. Some of us, including me, could pick it up a notch ourselves if we only let loose a bit and gleefully “fly”, as these three are. But then, my joints are too creaky and stiff! ~ Gary Prieb
This is a pinterest page with over 100 pins of TCK creative and artistic expressions, and this user has lots of other boards with TCK resources as well.
When my dad passed away in 2015, I painted the picture above as part of my grieving process. It’s called The Colors Of My Father’s Heart. My dad was a patriotic American who loved Brazil just as much, but more than anything he loved the Lord, and that’s what this picture portrays for me.
Painting by Lori Kingston, a missionary kid from Brazil who is now living in central New York.
Do you know how many times I have moved? Sometimes I count them on my fingers, fistful after fistful of tears swollen in my throat and I try to remember every single one but I can’t.
Too many. Too many times, it’s the only number that fits the emotion and I know this won’t make sense to you but my hands are full of this place now and I can’t hold any more.
When I open my palms the memories are dripping out and I’m afraid if I stay longer I will forget.
I don’t want to forget.
Do you know how many times I have moved? When I sleep I dream of muted whispers in languages you don’t speak and when I wake up I write songs about the dusty grass of places you’ve never been and sometimes when you hold my hand I imagine the worlds I have known imprinted on my palm, burning you in your ignorance. How could anyone expect you to love something as fragmented as me?
I tried, I really tried to unclench my fists of memories, to open up my hands and belong. But every time I look at my palm I see the lines of roads leading other places and I can’t stop tracing them, can’t stop aching to leave. I can’t be part of a whole world; everything is random moments and I am disconnected from the planned future.
I’m not here to stay. I’m never here to stay.
You asked me tonight to go out with you, tired grin through voice texting and I wanted to say no.
But instead I said yes and I drove on these winding roads that never lead to other places and I opened my hands to you. I stayed another day, I spilled a few more memories and let you matter a little bit more – I loved.
Do you know how many times I have moved?
Too many, it’s the only answer that fits and when I tell you I love you I want you to think of that. I don’t know how to be a part of just one world, how to hold your hand and love and be loved without being burned by the smallness of the story.
Staying here is like being trapped, and I value freedom. But even more than freedom, I value you.
This is a TCK’s love poem, telling you how badly I want to leave in hopes that you will understand how deeply you matter…
It’s okay if you don’t understand.
There is a vast difference between us, a Sahara Desert of sandy separation but I’m trying (please tell me you can see that I’m trying) not to keep my distance.
It’s my desert. And every day I stay the liquid memories leak out of my hands into the sand and I think, I think, new life is growing here. New life, small and green and fragile, hopeful and timid.
So I will grow a trail of oasis across this desert, copy for you the map of roads on my palms and let you destroy this distance I have always kept.
But I’m not making promises.
One day I will add another number to “too many” and I will shut my fists tight around these memories and I will leave.
But today is not one day, and for now I am busy growing life in a desert with you.
Just don’t keep your distance, and I won’t keep mine.
