The old man said nothing as his welcoming eyes drew me through the oaken doors into the little gallery. The place was close and modest, the walls of dark, aged wood exhibiting paintings of various size. As I pulled in a deep breath, my mind grasped for the memory of somewhere, sometime that was familiar. It drifted out of reach as I noticed the old man’s gaze had intensified, as if searching through me for answers to unspoken questions. This was made more unsettling when I noticed that his brush had not ceased its journey across the evolving canvas. With a blink and a cough, I turned to examine, somewhat uncomfortably, the nearest painting.
A young boy sitting under a dying tree, his knees pulled tightly into his chest, stared blankly into the river before him. The deep shades of blue and green wove patterns of dysphoria that settled into my heart. Anyone could see the boy was sad, but I also understood why. I once sat by a river and despaired as this boy did. My sister had passed away from an illness and I felt utterly alone, questioning the goodness of God Himself. Why did He take her? Why did I live? How could people say He was good if He let innocent people die? I shook my head and wiped my own tears from my cheeks. Embarrassed that the old man must have seen it, I quickly stepped around the corner of the L-shaped wall, leaving the large painting, and forced myself to see the smaller one now before me.
An old man, mischievous smile beaming, chasing a young boy with a screwdriver. I laughed in spite of myself and the miserable feelings within me. If I unscrew your bellybutton, your butt will fall off! The sheer terror on the boy’s face was the spitting image of my cousin as grandpa did much the same thing to him so many years ago. As I dabbed away the remaining moisture in my eyes, I wandered over to another wall and examined some small charcoal sketches. A puppy with a bow around its neck. A broken lamp. Little hands holding a turtle. The dust blown off of old memories had me a little choked up, so I moved on.
Some brighter artwork along an outside wall caught my eye and, as I drew closer, the unnerving feeling of familiarity grew stronger. Northern lights blazing over a snow-laden forest reminded me of nights out with friends in the wintery north. A wood-framed water color of a family camping by a great lake was a family tradition every summer. The dark sketch of a boy reading in the corner by himself was the very image of my high school years. And then there was the girl. A life-size portrait of a young woman stood before me. Her bare feet shuffled on the grass, her bright blue dress and auburn hair swayed in a gentle breeze, and she smiled warmly. Her sharp green eyes looked lovingly up from her downturned face and pierced my aching soul. Forgetting myself, I ran my fingers along her face. This was definitely her. The woman I loved. The woman I married. The woman I lost.
As the images of the accident started slicing through my heart, I stumbled backward and turned away toward another room that now stood before me. A darkness crept upon my mind and foreboding welled up within. This was not a room I wanted to see but, before I realized what I was doing, I stood before a black wall covered in despairing images, both large and small. A man passed out in a drunken stupor. Darkness descending on a frightened child. Bloody knuckles over an unconscious body. An angry blaze destroying every living thing in its path. Red claws reaching from below to pull a man into oblivion. My heart pounded and sweat covered my face. I couldn’t escape the horror. It was as though every evil thing I had done was before me in this room. It pushed me, pulled me, ripped at me. The room spun as I dropped to my knees and called out for mercy.
How long I stayed there on the floor of the gallery I still don’t know, but the first thing I noticed was a soft shuffle moving past me and a gentle humming of some old hymn that I couldn’t remember the name of. It was an odd sight that met my eyes when I finally forced them open. The old man had a can of black paint and with strong, deliberate strokes he completely covered over one of the paintings. I tried to remember what was there, but found I couldn’t. While I sat in my confusion, he moved on to another one and repeated the process. Once again, I had no recollection of the image that was now blacked out. As he moved onto the next, I focused on the bloody image of the fight. As he started painting over it, I felt the memory begin to fade, and struggled to maintain it. The old man paused and looked over at me in disapproval, unnerving me even more. As my focus shifted from the canvas to him, he finished his work and the image faded from my mind.
One by one, the compositions were replaced by black and brown patches (I never did see him switch out his paint can), and I slowly backed toward the room’s door. As I did, an image came into view. It was a cross. The Cross. The one I rejected. The one that failed me. The one that belonged to a God who took the woman I loved. Now, it covered up my history of darkness. It overpowered my anger, my hatred, and my fury, and left me feeling weak. I had relief from my mistakes, but at a cost I could not reconcile. Overwhelmed, I turned to leave, to run from this grace I did not deserve. In the middle of the gallery, right in my path of retreat, an easel cradled a fresh painting. It was her. A stunning image of her face, even more beautiful than I remembered, pulled me forward. She looked worn and weary, but in her gaze there was peace and warmth, and that piercing look that buckled my knees, that loving smile that made my heart race.
A gentle hand rested upon my shoulder, and I looked into the old man’s kindly face. “You may want to answer that.” As he walked toward his desk, my phone rang and I answered with trembling hands.
“She’s awake!”
What a great story...