Old Paintings

I came across an old painting of mine and it caused me to cringe. The colors were obvious, perspective screwy, and composition all over the place. I paint better than that, I said to myself. I must have been proud of my work, why else would I have gone to the effort and expense to frame it? It once hung proudly on a wall but now leans against other paintings in a closet of my studio.

Over the next few days, I thought about that old painting. Rather than critique its shortcomings, I reminded myself it was as good as I could do at the time. Even though it was one of my first “really good pieces,” I was just a beginner. Now, I paint better. A more recent painting hangs where the other once did, and while I wish I was a better painter than I am, now, I know I’m growing - one brushstroke at a time. 

I need to apply this forgiving attitude to other aspects of my life. Whether its financial management, physical fitness, or diet, I need to see where I once was, not just where I need to go. More important, when I look at the spouse I am, the father, the friend, I could slide down a spiral of despair. Instead, I need to find “an old painting,” one that reveals the way I used to be. Then, I can see the progress I’ve made and continue on my way with hope. 

There’s a prayer used in 12-step recovery circles which captures what I’m so desperate to remember:

“I’m not who I want to be,

I’m not who I’m going to be,

but, thanks be to God, I’m not who I used to be.”

The Call

I got the call on a Tuesday night, some time before 6 o’clock. I was a seventeen-year-old boy in khakis and blue shirt with a necktie partially tied around my neck getting ready for vespers, the evening assembly at my boarding school before dinner. 

“Bristol,” a classmate said leaning into our dorm room, “there’s a call for you.” 

I thought little of it, but it ended up being a call that has echoed in my soul for forty-four years. My mother was at the other end of the line. She said my name but couldn’t say anything else at first. There were other words sputtered: Willie . . . hit . . . died . . .  are the three I can still hear. She called to tell me that my dog, Willie, had been hit by the newspaper delivery truck and was dead. The moment froze in time. I can still remember the smell of the cleaner used on the linoleum hallway, the sound of the other students’ loafers and their adolescent banter echoing off the plaster walls, and the feel of the payphone receiver.

This was my first call, but there have been others since. I’ve heard friends tell me about their calls, and while the details are unique, the import and life-changing nature of such calls are always the same. 

Each person remembers where they were, who called, and one or two of the words that floated through the phone line like ash. Are you sitting down . . . there’s been an accident . . . I have bad news . . . your test results have come in. The list is as varied as it is endless.   

Each time someone shares about their call, it brings me back to mine. My wife says hers made her see the world and those in it as fragile. Mine made me see the world as unsafe. Either way, such calls change the way we see the world, forever. A wound is caused that never fully heals. 

My call made me want to hide and never let the world’s fickle pain ever reach me again, but it did. I tried to coil my arms around me, like a hug, to keep me warm, but life’s bitter breeze continued to blow.

My call made me wonder about life after death in a way I never had before. It made me appreciate, maybe even cherish, those people, places, and things I’d taken for granted. Their value was found in loss. 

In some twisted way, maybe the calls themselves are gifts, but I’m not there yet.

Dancing Light

I had the place to myself and I received the brief moment before the students and teachers arrived for chapel as the gift it was.  The stillness was what struck me first, then the height of the space, but as I stood there, I looked over and saw something I’d never seen before. Light shining through one of the windows painted a colorful interpretation of the window on the white walls. It was a loose collage of color unharnessed by a window frame and it inspired me as much as the window itself.

Throughout that morning’s service and many days after, I’ve thought of those colors on the chapel walls. They’ve continued to draw me back to the moment and remind me that we all have the chance to be like those windows that created the blurry artwork. In our brief time here on earth, no matter where we were born, no matter what situation, we are windows through which God’s light wants to shine. The purpose is not to draw attention to the window but to spread color on the walls around us. The results are always unpredictably loose, unharnessed by our need for control, but when we allow God’s light to shine through us, the results are always more than we can hope for or imagine.

As we saunter through these days that are slowly becoming lighter for longer, may we accept God’s subtle invitation to allow light to shine through us more. May the colors that dance on the walls around us inspire others to allow the light to shine through them, as well.