the Great Artist

I met Him in the art gallery, awed by the paintings depicting the stories of other lives, lives that were surely more vibrant and kept under more careful control then my own. He wanted to take my life and turn it into a masterpiece, but I was unconvinced. My life was full of ugliness, nothing that could be painted into anything special. He took my hand and spoke of vivid colors and brilliant strokes, and I was intrigued, for surely the mess of my life could never amount to what He imagined in His mind.

He assured me it could, but on one condition.

"Let me have the canvas."

Instantly afraid, I held my canvas tighter to my chest and shook my head fiercely. "Anything but that!" I begged, for my canvas was painted with shame, guilt, fear, and failure. I couldn't let Him see! He would be disgusted, and give me up as a hopeless case. I so longed to be made beautiful.

"I cannot create My masterpiece without you giving up the canvas" He said.

I was afraid of that.

"But...please! I have seen your work..."I cried. "These halls are filled with Your art! You don't need THIS canvas."

He motioned to the walls. "All these... these came from the ones who gave up their canvas."

I looked to the walls again, and averting my gaze slowly handed Him what I had been keeping so close. I winced, expecting to hear His disproval and disgust echo in the halls before sending me away.

It didn't come.

I looked up timidly, and saw Him at work already, working with a steady hand to sand off the mess that was there. He was gentle enough for me to sense His care, and yet firm enough to make sure the gunk did not return.

Sanding off the first parts were easy, for the guilt had gathered so high it raised off the page. My shame was rubbed down with tender hands that were not disgusted, but loving and eager to create.

The hard part came when He got close to the canvas, to the parts where the ugly paint clung the hardest. He began to scrape it away, and this time it hurt.

"What are you doing?" I cried. He looked at me with tears in His eyes and whispered "I know, but hold tight to me and I will bear your pain." I grasped His hand and squeezed hard, and He cried. His teardrops hit the page and dissolved the paint away until there was no trace of failure, and He was left with a blank canvas.

I watched him dip his brush into the paint, and began His strokes. Each brush was soft and purposeful, and His hand remained steady. Colors flashed across the page, blending vibrantly into a picture I had not known was possible. Then he dipped His brush into the black...

"Wait... don't do that!" I cried. "You're going to wreck it! Here... let me do it MY way." And so, I grabbed the brush from His capable hands.

At first, it looked alright, and I was happy with my work. "This isn't so hard..." I said smugly, as I painted happily away. I continued on in this manner until, not as careful as He had been, I slipped and the brush left a long, ugly stroke.

"I didn't want this to happen!" I cried. "I can't do this on my own... please... take it."

I gave Him back the brush, and He worked silently, ever softly, incorporating my ugly stroke and turning it into a part of the picture. When He finished with it, it was more beautiful than it had been before. And so happily, I continued to let Him work.

Stroke after stroke. Color after color. Each line sure and slow. I got antsy watching. "Is it finished yet?" I asked impatiently. "Why is it taking so long?"

He replied, "Masterpieces do not happen overnight. Wait, and I promise you it will be worth it."

Hours passed, then days, then weeks, then months, then years, until finally He finished.

Wearily, I asked to see what He had done.

Smiling, He turned the canvas around. In it, I saw the places where I had tried to take over. I saw traces of the places I had hurried Him, but yet He remained steady in His work. But more than anything, I saw beauty.

The Great Artist held me close, and said "You are finished." as I breathed my last breath.