This is love: not that we loved God,
But that he loved us and sent his Son
As an atoning sacrifice for our sins.
I John 4:10
Tomorrow is our last day at the cottage
I try to drink in every detail
How I have loved being here
Spending hours upon this dock
Praying, reading, and journaling
So thankful for this place
I am not an artist
While I love to sing and take photographs
And play instruments
Art has always eluded me
Too impatient to get past my own frustrating
Lack of ability
But these past few weeks
I tried anyway
I set aside my own self-doubt
My own lack
Set aside the desire for perfection
Or even for something far less than that
And set to work at dry brush painting
About the simplest kind of painting there is
Painting a single object
True to size
Blending watercolors but with a minimum of water
Recreating what you see line by line
And angle by angle
Starting with a pale yellow outline
And then going over it with colors truer to what I see
Still not always able to find the right colors
Nor able to communicate dimension
With a deep sigh
Trying anyway
And it strikes me that this process is so much like life
One stroke at a time
One choice at a time
Some advancing the painting
And some detracting from it
Only unlike dry brush
In this case you do not see what you are painting
Until it is done
Trusting God as I make each brush stroke
That the picture He has in mind
Will be as it should
A thing of beauty
But so many times I
Drawing lines outside of what He has given
Somehow he still redeems the picture
Even so
Faithfulness in the small
Thankfulness for the small
Integrity not built by large choices
But by small ones
Day after day
Moment by moment
Entitlement impossible
When we thank him for sunlight
For rain
And for the petals on each flower
Then there is the blending
Picking colors to blend together
Can take more time than the lines themselves
If my actions align with God’s will
But my heart’s motives do not
It is like painting a rose
In a sickly color
How much of what gives a rose beauty is its color!
Dry brush requires the ability to notice
The space between the pine cone’s hard scales
The lighter ends and darker centers
The way part of it is shadowed
Lord help me be someone who notices
Notices when people are hurting
An agent of your grace
Not a harsh instrument
Cooperating with your Spirit
With gentle brush strokes