Where I Sign My Name

I don't know why some things happen the way they do.  I don't understand the inner workings of God in bodies of those around me. 

Today we accepted a rare and amazing gift.  Our dear friend Rachel asked to take the boys today to play with her four children. 

When she emailed me with this request she stated that the spirit moved her to offer this, I was surprised, and humbled.  Her generous spirit is obviously touched by grace. 

So after I took Aaron to work, I dropped the boys off at her house, chatted for a bit, then came home to tackle the list of things I needed to do, and now would finally be able to do, without the interruptions of small men needing food, or fighting, or spilling stuff on the floor, or wanting in on our office, among other things that challenge my productivity during the day.  Maybe I would write the first chapter of my new novel, or maybe I would finish those blasted watercolor ballerinas that I've been picking away at for a year.  Or perhaps I could finally get out my drill and wall shelves from Ikea stacked the garage, and hang them in the playroom for the boys' games.  Possibilities were endless.  I was eager to start this productive day. 

But when I came upstairs to my studio I saw the cut-out image of Jesus that was given to me on Tuesday by Lorrie, who needed it redrawn to twice the size for her project on the bulletin board at church in the children's hallway.  At the time, I was more than willing to help out, feeling that this is what my gifts are for.  I told her I'd have it done by Thursday.  It's now Friday.  I had panicked and planted myself at my studio desk and scaled it out, inked and painted it as fast as I could to get it to the office at church before they closed. 

Three hours later, my Jesus was awesome.  He was beautiful.  I only later thought of taking his picture to share here.  But his pasty pink skin on the cut-out was replaced by a deep desert bronze glowing with quinacridone gold, his flat brown hair updated to a more appropriate black walnut with deep sienna undertones.  Where on the cut-out his face is mature, sallow and hard, my Jesus has the expression of hope and compassion in his eyes, and the face of a young man only thirty years old. His complexion and hair almost identical to my husband's, a Mexican American, who has many times been the face of Christ in my life.  I compared my version with the original only briefly as I drove like the Dukes of Hazzard to church as fast I could before the doors locked, and thought to myself, this is how I see Him.  He is warm, gentle, the hint of a smile on his lips, his hair long and black.  He makes me want to sit with him and drink wine under a tent on the sand.

I had never drawn feet.  Toes or toenails.  On this project I worked them for a long time, worried they wouldn't look right, or resemble hooves rather than human feet.  I dressed them in sandals.  Carefully the ankle bone, the big toe, then the knobby index toe, followed by the straight and nondescript middle toes.  The smallest toe, the baby toe, I drew it curled in such a way it was if I was viewing my father's feet, or my own, or my boys', we all have the baby toe that is tucked just so into his brother, he's nearly laying down.  It was with all this effort that I rendered Jesus' feet, the attention there more than his face or the curls in his hair or the bend of his fingers.  Of all the places I found myself focusing, it was his feet.

By the time I was done with Jesus, three hours of my long day to write had zipped past me.  I felt a sudden claim on my work, on my first Jesus that I'd ever painted.  I knew it wasn't really my image, but copied (and improved, if I say so myself) from a collection in a book.  I had never put my name on something like this, on a thing that goes on a bulletin board at church, as if I'm a proud first grader announcing to the world it is my crayon drawing of Abe Lincoln.  But with this, something pulled on me.  I needed for some reason to claim this painting.  I needed to sign him.  I had cut his body away from the white cold press along the inked lines of his figure, and I examined the space available to write my name.  In folds of his gown could be to distracting, along the inside of his hand may blur the lines of palm and fingers I worked so hard to master, and ruin their form.  There really was only one place that made sense to me.  Along the bottom of his sandal under his round toes, I wrote my name.  It's small enough that no one will notice unless they're looking for it.  But it's there. 
At the end of my long day home alone, we picked up our boys.  I felt a bit vexed that I didn't get more done, that I wasn't more productive on this long day alone.   

"Did you get a lot done?" Rachel had asked with a tired yet loving smile when we picked up the boys.  I looked to the floor and nodded, ashamed. 

Tonight the boys are sleeping in the next room, exhausted after a day of hard play with good friends.  Jesus is in a dark room at church waiting to be displayed on a bulletin board.  And like all artists who labor over a figure, we come to understand both the subject as well as ourselves a little better.  We find ourselves in our work. 
I did what I was supposed to do today.   I understand this now.  I was meant to humble myself at His feet.  And I did.