Your Life is Already a Finished Masterpiece.

The smell of warm snickerdoodles and freshly cut peonies greeted me as I hauled my weary body through the front door of our shotgun house. Mom made coming home from school such sweet relief. 

This is the time of year when peonies bloom, and the moment I smell their fragrance, I am transported to my childhood in the kitchen, talking with my mom. We lost her this year.  And we lost my mother-in-law, too. This will be the first time I do not have my mothers to help absorb the weight of Mother’s Day.  My youngest son passed away almost four years ago, and honoring my mothers helped distribute the burden of the day that is otherwise complicated. In the past years, I could run away to my hometown to see my mom in a retirement home. This meant I could make her happy and skip going to church all at the same time. Church, on Mother’s Day, for the bereaved, can be difficult. Two years ago, our two oldest children and I brought a picnic lunch for Grandma and took her to the park. It was a bittersweet day, sweet because we could be with her and bitter because every other year we had spent it together as an extended family. My husband and I would often have both our mothers with us. But my mom was at the end of her traveling days, so we divided and conquered that year; I began to feel the chords of extended family loosen even then.  

When life lies so heavy, I find it helpful to paint. But the kind of painting I do differs from the kind that takes skill or artistry. Anyone can do it. I like that I can roll out a canvas, pick up a brush, find a small printed number in a small space, and fill it in. Check. Done. Move on to the next space. One small space is completed. My mind can be free to think and wander without making any choices. This can be relief to a mind flooded by grief. Some things need to be simple and straightforward. I am told exactly what to do. I can follow the instructions and move on to the next space. I feel like “paint by number” is similar to living each day on this earth. If we are in a hard season, we can see our life as a canvas in its incomplete, colorless state. Maybe all we can see is the day ahead, the next space to fill in. Though the day ahead may read #3, Bleakest Black, #22, Distant Grey, or #16 Wistful White, we can still move forward by simply following the instructions.

We don’t have to think about how we feel; we simply do it.  Grieving can be like plodding through life, putting one foot in front of the other until that day is done.  This may sound shameful to those who haven’t had to walk through such a loss. “Get up!”, “Choose joy!” they may want to say, but day after day, year after year, there will be some days to reckon with, days one can only endure.

Three years ago, I chose a canvas to honor our youngest son. This one shows a mountain lake with a boat, reminding me of Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park, a place Josh dearly loved. It is finished and sits on our mantel.

And now, I am painting a canvas in honor of my mom. It is a vase of pale peonies, a flower that will forever remind me of her. 

I want to paint with bright, beautiful colors, but on this canvas, there is a vast area of monochromatic pale tones. It can feel like I am making little progress.  It can be tedious. It is challenging to see it taking shape, though I obediently paint the next space. I see very few bright pots in my palette, but I see crimson red and canary yellow waiting for me. When can I paint those cheery colors? I wonder. I see a few spaces in my canvas reserved for those bright hues. “Why God?”, “Why can’t I paint more beautiful spaces?”, I ask. I’ve already painted in the dark and bland spaces for quite a while. These are extensive areas that I didn’t just dab at but have had to brush with persistence day after day. 

As I paint, I think of how it correlates to moving through each day. Though we paint by faith because we can’t see the whole picture, we can trust in the promise that our picture will be beautiful in the end. No one on earth can escape hardship, and for Christ’s followers, we are promised that the hard times we go through are light and momentary compared to our eternity to come. That is a promise that can be hard to believe when you’re living in pain. The here and now can feel anything but light and momentary. I know; I wrestle with this, too. But trusting the process and filling in the next space will finally complete it. We can trust the Lord. We can trust His work to be done in us. Just do the day you’ve been given. Don’t worry about tomorrow. He has your canvas already hung above the mantle. It is completed because He has already seen the number of your spaces and the number of your days, and it is beautiful. He sees how close you are to that final space being filled in. Are you trusting Him in your inky dark spaces, in your, pale oatmeal, day after day places? On days you enjoy filling in a bright patch, are you thanking him then, too? Stay close to Him, lean into Him, and let Him hold your hand while you fill your spaces together. You have brighter colors and days ahead In this life and the next. Keep painting daily by reading His word, praying, and walking in step with Him. There will be a final moment when all the spaces are complete, and you’ll see why the shadows, the highlights, the pale creams, and the touches of brilliant color were chosen for you.  It may seem far from completed, but to Jesus, it is finished, framed and hung, waiting for you.

Psalm 90:12 says, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” 

John 16:33, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”.

Ecclesiastes 3:11, “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

Psalm 139:16-17, “You saw me before I was born. Everyday of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed. How precious are your thoughts about me, O God.”

2nd Corinthians 4:17-18, ^” For our momentary, light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison, while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal.”