Remember that
painting that made me cry? Well, I think I’m finally ready to talk about it. It hangs on the wall in my bedroom, still unframed, and greets me every morning when I wake up. My dad (bless his heart) decided to get it for me as a gift. When it arrived my husband looked at it and said cautiously, “Why did it make you cry?” When my dad came to visit I brought him to see the painting and he looked at it and said quietly, “Why did it make you cry?”
Well, let me tell you. (Just what you’ve always wanted.) My first impression was that it was beautiful. I stood there looking at it and I felt like I had been there, physically. It was like I could smell the air when I looked at the painting. I knew that feeling of anticipating the coming storm and the wind whipping my hair around me and hugging my body. I knew the feeling of the warm air turning cooler and the moisture creeping in. I knew the distant warning sounds that give me a little thrill knowing that change is on the horizon.
Next I fell in love with the colors and the way
he captured the light. Even in the darkness of the coming rain, there is still light and because of the darkness the light is intensified in a way that breaks my heart with its beauty. Whatever the light is shining on becomes a focal point. The trees and grass that were indistinguishable moments before are now shining with light and their independent beauty becomes like its own little one-man-show in a spotlight on a stage. The field full of grass that is taken for granted gets painted with sunlight that helps you appreciate it all over again.
Then I noticed his technique. Look at the brushstrokes! I love it. I love how close up, it doesn’t have to be anything specific; it is dazzling in and of itself with its perpendicular strokes and varying display of color. But when you back up and look at it from far away, you see a masterpiece.
There is meaning behind the art itself—the concept of a storm. The way it comes and interrupts life. It makes you stop what you’re doing and take stock; look around you and actually recognize what is going on at the present moment. It seems to wreak havoc, but when all is said and done, what it has done is nourish—replenishing the earth with life giving water, feeding the ground with fertility, allowing growth. When the storm has passed, the air has a clarity that wasn’t there before. There is evidence of the storm, but all is quiet and safe. Sometimes there has been destruction, but we know that new beginnings always occur from that. Sometimes all that has happened is a nice soaking and now the earth is refreshed.
Is there a better parable? Isn’t this what a loving God does during times of trial? There have been times when I am laying in bed feeling extra sorry for myself and I catch a glimpse of June Rain and it helps me see my trials for what they are—a chance to prove myself. A chance to choose to live in faith; remembering that I am okay, I have unbelievable blessings that I have been taking for granted, I am watched over, there is still joy to be had and beauty surrounding me, there is a chance for growth sitting right in front of me, a loving God is nourishing my spirit.
Sometimes if you see all that at the right moment, it can make you cry.
