How does one share life? How can one describe all the mess and beauty and months of moments in one brief page?
I’d love to invite you into this gallery. I’d relish walking with you in these halls, admiring God’s artful touch in a life. I want to point you to every framed painting and tell the riveting tales that propelled each brush stroke. We could even peek at some unfinished works and wonder together what they’ll become…
I desperately want to study these corridors with you. Let’s admire the artist who hangs moments in galleries for our eyes - and hearts- to feast.
But I don’t know where to start. There are so many frames. The corridors stretch beyond sight. Each artful stroke would be impossible to describe…
So let’s start anywhere.
Just come in, and let’s glimpse them together work by work.
Come in and feast on the master behind the piece.
He is good and skilled; playful and brilliant.
Look, here’s one…
It’s June. Pen in hand, I trace the handle of a coffee mug. “Holy Spirit, what do you have to say to me today?” Pen is poised to record what I’d otherwise forget.
I scrawl the words.
… coming soon …
What’s coming soon Lord?
… newness … The word is palpable. It swells with feeling, like a seedling under soil not yet having touched light. And finally it bursts through, bent, and unfurls stretching for the sun.
I lean forward and lick parted lips.
… four …
Four days? Four Weeks? I sprinkle questions about what will happen in the next four days, but hear nothing. Until finally,
… you’ll see…
It’s hard to leave it there, unfinished. But the artist has moved on to another painting. He’ll return when the time is right. He does this all the time. The wait is hard, but I love discovering the brushstrokes he adds quietly when I’m not looking. So I wander the halls, admiring his work while I wait.
Months pass; hard months of struggle and aching. I feel wrapped in a straight jacket – restricted and pressed down. Arms tied, I walk the halls to remember hope and give thanks. My arms fall asleep. They tingle and hurt. Finally, when I can’t take any more, I am released; freed to move. As I rub arms awake, the mouth turns up and I remember how to smile.
Deeply relieved, I walk the halls, admiring and giving thanks. I pause in front of that unfinished frame – the promise of ‘newness’ – and notice it’s complete. I lean in to examine added brushstrokes and I see it. June. The promise was made four months ago. And it felt just like He said it would.
He knew. What would happen, how I would respond, even when I would come and stand in front of this frame again – he knew it all. More than that, He planned it. I don’t know why or how. But if you’d ask, I can imagine what the Playful Artist might say.