Meeting the Artist

Now Fledgling’s family wasn’t very close; indeed, they had lots of problems.  Her mother worked very hard as a seamstress in a shop in the town center, while her dad fixed people’s plumbing problems all day and spent most evenings at the local tavern, laughing uproariously at his friends’ ribaldry as he downed his umpteenth pint of ale.   (Fledgling knew this because her mother had sent her to fetch something at the store one late summer afternoon and she passed by the tavern and heard her father’s voice.  She poked her head in the door, hoping to get her to come home with her.  But as soon as she saw him and what was happening, she scurried away, cheeks blazing red with embarrassment before anyone spotted her.)

No, her parents weren’t harsh, they just weren’t around much. And when they were, they were too tired and so obviously struggling with their own problems that they had no energy or desire to listen to her talk about her life.  Her brother, Spunk, was fun and carefree, but seemed far more drawn to his trouble-making friends than to his younger, shy sister.  

Fledgling just wanted one friend who understood her and accepted her for who she was.  So, in spite of the warnings from her schoolmates that the old artist was a fuddy-duddy and would talk her out of any fun she might hope to have in life, she decided one day to take a chance and go see him.  She knew two others at school who regularly went to his house and they actually seemed more content and less wild than everyone else she knew.  And her favorite teacher, the Greek one, also visited Mr. Love occasionally.  When she asked questions, they almost glowed when they discussed him.

So, overwhelmed by the harsh remark, she tucked her fear away and slowly tread the narrow, uphill, dirt road to his house.  (Everyone knew where it was, so it wasn’t hard to find, just an arduous journey for anyone who didn’t live nearby—and few did.) When she finally got there, she timidly grasped the heavy brass knocker in her small, pale hand and let it go once.  She didn’t hear anything, so tried holding the T-shaped knocker—unlike any she’d seen before—tapping it lightly on the brass plate behind it.  Then she heard footsteps inside.

Suddenly, nervousness gripped her heart and she was tempted to run.  But before she could, the door opened, and the tall, strong shoulders she looked up at bent over and she could see his eyes.  The depth inside of them overwhelmed her, but even moreso, she could see in his gaze a kindness she’d never before encountered.  It was like liquid gold.

“Good afternoon.  Did you come to see my artwork?” he asked.  His voice was like sunshine; it made her heart feel warmed and she was so drawn to Mr. Love, she couldn’t say anything, but just nodded “yes.”

He opened the door wider, and proclaimed, “You are welcome; come in!”

Still none-too-sure of herself, but deeply hoping he was as nice as the others told her, she stepped forward, one foot at a time.  And that’s when she saw another smaller man walk by the doorway.  She could feel his presence better than she even could see him as he quickly made his way to another room in the house. 

Watching her gaze, Mr. Love said, “Oh, that’s my brother, Comfort.  He lives here with my son, Victor, and I.  They’re really wonderful, and hopefully, you’ll be able to meet them sometime!”  She could actually feel the pure, but intense love he had for these two men in his voice, and it almost made her cry.  She’d never felt a love like that in her entire life.

Something New

During a time of quiet meditation, a story unexpectedly began to form in my head.  It quickly began to take shape as soon as I started writing, so I decided to post it in segments here.  I’m not sure how it’s going to develop, but you can help be part of the experiment!  I’d love your feedback in the comments section, but please remember, it’s a work in progress.  Herewith:

The Artist:  Introduction

There was once an ancient man in a small town some of us might recognize.  Everyone had heard about him, but very few actually knew him well.  Those who did were the ones who knew that he was caring and listened when they came to him to talk about their troubles and joyful events.  He was kind and had the warmest, deep brown eyes that it seemed you could swim in when you gazed into them.  Those eyes captivated everyone who came to visit.  They beamed bigger than his lips when he smiled and shone brightly when he looked at one of his visitors, intensely focused on them.

The funny thing was that he was always welcoming, so those who knew and loved him always wondered why everyone didn’t want to get to know Him.  But the rest of the town was kind of afraid of him because he seemed to just know too much about them…and they didn’t all lead good, clean lives.  Some were ashamed of things they did and others were just very wounded people who couldn’t see much hope in the road ahead.  Still others didn’t want anyone with whom to discuss their lives because they were living with complete.

abandonment, accountable to no one, running up huge debts they could never hope to repay, not taking life seriously—or the people with whom they shared it. They seemed to care about no one else, not even themselves.  And they certainly weren’t interested in any old artist living at the edge of town—because they didn’t have love in their lives and didn’t believe it even existed; in fact, they thought, “Who cares?”

Sometimes, one of the townspeople who knew him would tell someone they saw struggling that he was really easy to talk to and that he always seemed to have something wise to say after a long period of taking in whatever was being shared.  And he was always home; that in itself was remarkable!

“He’s really smart; not like you and me,” one visitor proclaimed.  “I mean, sometimes I can kind of figure out how to do something as I take one step, but even then I’m not sure.  But HE seems to understand things before they progress and can actually help me to see which step to take next.”

One young woman, Fledgling, visited the artist almost every day, whenever she’d finished school and all of her daily duties at home.  She skipped to his house most of the time, just so happy to have someone who really seemed to understand her and appreciated things about her that she didn’t even know existed until he pointed them out.

For her, it all started one day when she was troubled because someone at school told her she was stupid and an antique.  She wasn’t much of a fighter, but she quickly responded to her accuser, “I am neither of those.  I know much more than you think I do and just because I don’t want to do everything the ‘in’ people do, doesn’t mean I’m old-fashioned.  I simply don’t need to do things just to impress others.”  But internally, the words stung and she didn’t feel at all confident that what she’d just said was even true.  She began to feel stupid and backward.

Bananas & Babies

During worship (at church), I wanted to focus on the Lord more than on the song, so I sat down and told Him that I just wanted to meet with Him. Then I saw a “picture” in my mind’s eye (i.e., spirit)—a banana peel laying on the ground—and wondered what it represented. I “heard” the Lord speak inside of me, saying, “What is that?”

I kind of laughed, and said, “Well, Lord, it’s a banana peel.”

“What good is it?” He replied.

“Well, it covers the banana and protects the fruit inside.”

“You can’t eat it,” was His comeback.

I was stymied. Huh? “But Lord, without the skin, the fruit can’t ripen and isn’t protected. It would be no good at all, if there was no skin on the outside to help it ripen and to be safe from things that could harm it.”

“If the skin was bumped, what would happen?”

“Well, if it wasn’t too bad a bump, the skin would absorb it and be bruised, but the banana inside would still be safe.”

“What if it was nicked with something sharp?”

“Well—same thing, Lord; as long as the nick wasn’t too deep, the inside would still be okay.”

“What if it was cut deeply?”

“Well, then the banana inside would be cut, too, and would quickly be inedible.”

Then the picture changed, and I saw a baby inside a womb…really! I was looking at it, enthralled, when the Lord spoke again.

“If that baby feels too cramped in there, can it get out?”

“Well, Father, it can only get out when it’s Your timing for it to be born.”

“What if the parents are tired of it being inside the mother and want it to be born?”

“Well, Lord, that wouldn’t be good because only You know when that baby is ready to be born. If it’s too soon, it will be underdeveloped and will either be very sickly or will die.”

He spoke again. “That’s exactly what happens to each of you when you try to do things before you’re ready. Only I know when the earth is ready for a wave of My glory to sweep over it. Only I know when each of you is ready to launch into something new. I know the process you must go through and how long it must take, depending on your responses to the trials and circumstances in which you are living.

“If someone tears a banana off its tree before it’s ripe, it will be inedible; if they pick it and don’t eat it, it will eventually rot or be banged up and become rotten. If a baby is born before it’s due, it will have lots of problems. And so it is with each of you. You must wait for My timing to do the things I call you to do. You must be ready when I’m ready to use you. But you can only do that if you abide in Me and wait for My timing.”

“Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.” (Psalm 27:14)