I watched intently as the artist placed her empty
canvas upon the easel, setting paints of beautiful
colors on the table. Strokes are applied so evenly
and smoothly as she moves side to side. She paints
a picture, filling it with beauty. No longer empty .
I was in awe of her ability to take a picture of darkness and
turn it into a work of art. I had some reflections, I am
not an artist in the typical sense, but I am an artist
of sorts. The picture I had painted was not a pretty
one, in fact it was quite lacking in many ways.
But then I realized there was much more to this
picture I had drawn on the canvas of my life. I saw
that God had seen my meager attempts to paint it,
but he saw another picture painted
by the Great Master Artist. For He had reproduced
what I had almost destroyed, His fine tipped
brush with splashes of colors and shapes that I
could not even fathom. He then began a picture
of my life, weaving with threads tightly woven,
carrying me through life’s bumps and ridges.