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.
No comments:
Post a Comment