he speaks to me in pictures.
december dawn, he showed me a desert. i was john the baptist, roaming wild, sand in toes and stretch of blank ahead. that sunday, a sermon at church, i went alone as husband and baby were ill, i went and i cried as pastor told of desert-times, and then, the promised bloom at the end of it all….
the miracle of bush and flower when skies break over desert and rain finally falls.
i’ve been waiting all month for the rain to fall.
my mind has been blank. i’ve had no pictures, save for the desert. no desire to paint–none. canvas stared at me, begging, and i turned away. empty. begging, fill me.
why? and then, the heavens wide-stretch, and clouds fill grey, and the water starts to fall, and it’s as though i’ve never felt the rain before.
and flowers bloom, timid at first, then solid bright, and i tremble for the joy of paint, layer it thick
feel pleasure in fingertips
and i rejoice. wandering until he says “stop, paint this,” and then i stop, paint that, and i am glad. for this is the day.
broken writers, artists, believers… spill crumbs below… in a communion of the imperfect.
1. link up a post that you feel is ‘broken’ or ‘imperfect’ or somehow redemptive
2. put the ‘imperfect prose’ button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. don’t feel as though you need to comment here (really), but please, read other’s offerings, and encourage them!
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(“blooming” is available here.)