gates, buffet & trump are paupers compared to He.
Yet, He shows up—not because He has to, but at His pleasure.
And He paints; i know, for others. But i like to think, perhaps just for me.
The canvas is large. Biggest one i’ve ever seen. If i don’t come early i miss it. It starts low, small, dark. Just a sliver of orange or pink, purple or yellow…really i don’t know—because He uses colors which have no name.
i always watch for the brush stroke. i’d like to see just one being made, and The Hand that makes it. But i can’t—my eyes too slow. Little by little, line upon line, stroke upon stroke, so slight i can’t see the change, but the colors begin to glow.
If i keep my eyes on His work i see dark translate to light; formless change to crystal clear.
And i hear His following, groupies if you will. They sing. They’re good, too—professionals, i’ve heard He pays them well. Like the painting, they begin soft, quiet, slow. First one and then another. Most whistle.
As colors increase so does their song. With each stroke of His brush the choir grows. Stronger. Louder. Until the atmosphere explodes with light, color and sound.
Indescribable incandescent light dances off water and shimmers through trees. Over and over He splashes color. Over and over i snap the shutter.
So bright i close my eyes. i whisper, this is Your best piece yet.
Light warms my skin and i feel His peace. i think, perhaps for others. But i know, just for me…
He’s more than enough. He shows up and it’s His pleasure. If i don’t look, and i don’t listen—i can miss it. He uses those with no name. He works, tho’ i can’t see. If i listen, i can hear His song. And if i watch, i can see His picture…
and know it was painted,
just for me.