Faith.In.Life
The Mural
I am walking toward a desk. I see the image of a person sitting at it, but I cannot tell who it is. Maybe the person is simply an apparition of a loved one. Maybe it as the image I saw in my last breath. Maybe this is what it is like to die.
The ghostly figure looks at me, then down to the desk that separates us. I see different writing utensils; pens, markers, paint brushes, chalk, and anything else an artists might use. No words are spoken, but the figure looks to its right where I see a blank wall. I am instantly reminded of white boards used in classrooms. Even though no words are spoken, I know what I am to do.
So I take my writing utensil. I was never a good artist and always relied on stick figures, but that does not matter here. My hand is in motion, and the images of a life once lived come to life. Yet, the images do not lie. They are images of my life.
First, I am drawing a scene where my single mother is being rushed to the hospital. She is crying uncontrollably. For the first time in my existence I see and feel what she did. Then we are in a hospital room, and a baby is handed to my mother. Though a tear still comes down from her eye, she now smiles. It’s a boy. His name will be Paul, because he does not have to live the life she and her ancestors did before him. This boy will be a new person entirely.
My name is Paul.
Then I am nearly three, maybe four. I am looking at a nest. I can’t remember how I got to the nest, but I clearly remember the next thing I do. I take the eggs and I begin to throw them. I don’t know why my young mind decides to do this, but I remember enjoying it immensely. I am about to throw the last of the eggs when I hear my mother yelling, “Paul, what are you doing!?” I turn around, tossing the egg aside as I do, hoping she did not see what I was doing.
But she does. She saw it all. Mothers somehow can see what no eye can see. I am now listening to her. I learn for the first time that eggs in trees will give life to birds. She informs me that in breaking the eggs I have also killed birds. I am suddenly sad as I realize what my actions meant. If only I knew, I would have least thought twice about throwing the eggs.
As I draw this, I realize that I am combining my desires with my memories. I realize that I would not have thought twice. I would have still thrown the eggs because it was fun. I can’t help but be saddened by my odd condition.
Never the less, I keep drawing. I am drawing into middle school. I am at my uncles in the country. He owned a lot of equipment. I am playing around them with my cousin. We are pretending that the tractor is a fort, and we are protecting our maidens with our toy weapons. The fictional onslaught is too much, so we have to retreat into our castle.
We enter the tractor. Where my cousin had been in the tractor before, I am in awe over how complicated this machine is. I am playing around with the different buttons when my cousin speaks up. “Check this out!” He pulls out a magazine. The front cover has a woman on it like none I have ever seen. The woman calls us to open the magazine, so we do.
What I draw next are the images I saw that day which I am completely ashamed of. What if someone sees what I saw? What if someone found out about what I did? Then I realize that this was not the last time I looked at such images. I realize that I will be drawing those images too. For a moment I am terrified.
But I keep drawing. I am drawing a camp I went to between middle school and high school. The camp had my kind of musicians. I loved the music they played. I am drawing many parts of that summer. The tubing on the lake. The water fights on the shore. My summer fling. My first kiss.
Most of all I am drawing one night around a fire. One of the musicians is playing acoustic guitar singing about Jesus. We sing about Jesus’ love. We sing about God’s forgiveness. We sing about our need for both. I realize my need. I go to one of the young adults that had gained my trust. I let him know that I need God. I need Jesus. So we prayed.
As we pray my hand begins to draw an image I had never seen before. I see angels coming down around us. They descend upon us smiling. I hear singing, a heavenly chorus like none I had ever known. I suddenly realize how much of an impact that decision was. I suddenly realize that God was incredibly pleased.
Then I am drawing my college search. I am ready to head out on my own. I am looking at different colleges, some better than others. Then I arrive at the big state school I ended up attending. I see the frat houses. I hear about how awesome the parties are. I realize how lazy I can be and still pass my classes. Going there was going to be a blast. So I go.
I am now drawing a time I woke up in the middle of the night. It was the middle of my second semester at the university and I haven’t had a full night sleep for ages. I am sweating and my head is pounding. I knew I drank a lot, but I had never felt this horrible. Where I physically feel incredibly sick, it does not compare to the emptiness I feel. This was supposed to the experience of a lifetime. This was supposed to be fulfilling. Yet, I had never felt such a hole in my being.
My mind realizes that I could have remembered that night at camp.
But, I don’t. I cry myself to sleep that night.
I am now married. My wife is expecting. I am drawing our typical Sunday, where we would sleep in. We occasionally go to church on special holidays, but it is not important to us. My wife thinks we need to start going. She remembers how she enjoyed VBS, Sunday school, and the like, but I am not so convinced. I push back. She ends up going and finds a church home. I simply stay home.
Then I am drawing one of my worst memories. I am drawing the day my mother died. I am devastated. We knew it was coming. Cancer. But you are never ready. In looking for any type of counsel, I find myself in my wife’s church talking to one of the pastors. He is incredibly empathetic, having lost his mother just a year before. I realize that I could put up with this pastor from Sunday to Sunday. So, I join my wife in going to church.
I keep drawing. I draw the birth of my next two children. I draw them growing up, going to better schools than I did, and really being involved at church. I draw each of them getting married. I draw the birth of my first grandchild where I am beaming in excitement.
Then I am drawing the day I found out I had cancer. I am in my seventies, but I am still unprepared. My wife cries. I cry. My children stay strong in front of me, but I know they are devastated. I draw those final years.
I am crying now. I am wondering if I gave it all. I wonder who will take care of my family when I am gone. I am afraid. My wife reassures me, reminding me of that day at camp and my recommitment to the church.
I draw the final scene. I am looking at my wife, she at me. I realize how much I love her. How much she means to me. I remind her. She smiles, but begins to cry with me now. I can barely see through my tears as I draw her leaning in for that final kiss. I take one last breath.
Then I am here. I make my last stroke. I take a step back and am amazed at what I have drawn. My life is laid bare before me. Where I am satisfied, I see that there was no amount of good that I could do to make it worth it. I realize that ultimately I would throw eggs and look at inappropriate pictures. I try to rationalize it. I realize I was blessed. But something is missing.
Then someone is standing beside me. I look over at a very kind face with incredibly deep eyes. His eyes beam of love and support. He has tears in those eyes. But, even through the tears, he grins like a child. I see that his hands and feet don’t look quite right. As I see him walk towards the mural that I have drawn, I cannot help but be embarrassed. This isn’t like having a kids drawing on your refrigerator. This is my life. Someone else is looking at the worst and the best of me. He is going to see the most vulnerable places of my life.
I quickly step up to him, but he looks back holding his hand up to me as if to say “No, It’s ok.” I see what is different about his hands then. He has a circular scar on his lower palm. Suddenly I am comforted. I realize it is all right for this man to see my life. He saw it while I was living it.
He starts with my birth. “Your mother was so worried; so anxious. She had considered an abortion, but I had other plans. I weaved conversations into place so that she would have you. When she held you was the first moment she knew it would be all right. That was the first moment she paid attention to my counsel.”
Then he was at the time when I broke the eggs. “You never understood why you did this, did you?” He looks back with the edge of a smile. I shake my head no. He then walked forward to my time at camp when I first got to know this man that now stood in front of me. “You did this,” he pointed back to my egg incident, “so that you might understand why you needed this.” He pointed to my time at camp. “You understood you needed something more. You understood your actions would never save you.”
Again, I nod. He continues to talk to me about each part of my life. Casually, he remarks about the good and the bad, the miraculous and mundane, and even the times I really screwed up. He never judges me though. He simply speaks as if reading a book to a child.
Finally, he arrives at the point where I was diagnosed with cancer. “This was a very scary time; a very difficult time. Many tears were shed over this disease.” He looks back at me and I see that his face is wet from tears as if he had been balling, but this is the first hint I have that he is crying. He looks me straight in the eye, “I wish I could heal everyone. I wish the world could know how much my heart aches over diseases. Paul, I never left you when you had cancer. I was always there just as I am here with you now.”
He looks back at my mural as he walks to the end. He sees my wife kissing me one last time. “She misses you dearly. She laid with you until the paramedics told her she had to let you go.” Now I am crying. He looks back at me again, “I will take care of her. She will be blessed in her mourning.”
He looks back to the mural one final time. He kneels to the ground and without looking back, he lifts his finger to the canvass. I can see his finger moving, but I cannot see what he is writing. He stands up in front of what he wrote and turns back to me. He lifts his arms up beckoning me to him and I practically fall into his embrace. My tears are flowing freely, but I feel his warmth. Then he speaks, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”
I open my eyes as my soul rejoices. As I do, I see what he wrote. In a dark crimson red, two words stand out far beyond all I drew. They simply read: