Straight Lines

He puts His hand on top of mine. My fingers gently hold the charcoal, pressing it to the paper. He guides my hand. I follow Him and make straight lines. Releasing my hand, His trust in me prompts my hand to keep moving.

I try. I draw straight lines.

Every so often the charcoal slips between my fingers. In those moments, the drawing loses structure. Some lines are perfect, some attempt to be, while others fail.

I fall through the unfinished drawing, the black dust dirtying my clothes. The perfect lines gather together and I see people- my examples. The attempted lines shuffle together to form more figures that represent those whom I worry for- I’ve tried to care for. The failed lines slowly stumble together-I wait for the lines to take shape.

All I find is a reflection of myself.

My heart grows heavy and my breath stifled-the charcoal dust filling my lungs with increasing thickness. I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. I turn around to find myself back in front of my drawing, His hand upon mine. This time I hold an eraser. All the failed lines are gone. The drawing maintains its structure. I pick up the charcoal and with His hand upon mine, I begin again.

My Canvas

A blank, white canvas. That’s how I was born.

I breathed in rich, earth tones. My soul was filled. A sketch began that gave life and meaning to the seemingly plain ground. Foundational layers of black and white separated the shadows and the light. Light was dominant in the scene. A painted background brought attention to the sketched subjects with thick brushstrokes. The objects gained dimension as values were added. The last to appear were the small details.

Most notice the details first, classifying the painting as a “pretty picture”. They fail to see the layers and symbolism. Some acknowledge the layers, but under-appreciate the symbolism. Others critique the painting, with or without understanding the art. The patient learners give it time. Collectors and masters give it love through criticism and praise.

But the artist knows it best of all.

Whispers

Powerful whispers resonate in your heart. The heart pumps a steady rhythm, the sculptor’s beat of a chisel against stone. Ears throb as the sound vibrates steadily into your mind. The mind fills with light pouring through translucent veins of pure white marble. Eyes absorb the light until it fills your lungs with crisp air. The arms breath the air, traveling to the strong hands. Hands firmly grasp their tools and form the whispers with all the love and passion a single spirit can hold.

As each whisper was felt, each whisper was formed. Over time, your hands molded many whispers with the assistance of determination, integrity, love. Chipping off the countless hours, stood tall from marble dust, a timeless legacy.

I too, have felt these whispers.

As the whispers blossom with color through the end of my brush, I think of you. I know the whispers will not fail me. But I must move with the rhythm, light, air, and love. Singing a different song, the whispers guide me elsewhere. I do not see a legacy of marble. I hear a legacy of joy.