Portrait

Photo by Madison Musser 

I want to be my own portrait. Every line and curve of my face formed gently by a greater paintbrush. Creases and freckles have been lightly added as time passes. The Painter is not finished with me. Over the years, He adds depth and meaning to the image. One more color, another aspiration. Pink is dabbed faintly across my skin, love has been discovered. Strokes of sadness begin to show up underneath the eyes. There is a hot and heavy red spot on my left cheek, a mark of pain. He finger paints the rest, even the asymmetrical smile, the crooked teeth, an eye that is slightly bigger than the other eye.

My portrait is near another, and another, and another. The gallery is vast and diverse. A beautifully crafted assortment of lives, hopes, dreams, futures. The Painter is great and creative, the only reason any of us are still breathing is because He chose to trace the lungs we use to inhale and exhale. He touches the picture with life. He adds your love for espresso, or your hopes to travel to India. Beginnings happen because He is the beginning, and endings are there because He is there.

I often pretend to perfect the images He paints. My own strokes are faint and imperfect. When I ask for His colors though, He never says no. Softly, the bland hues I tried to make are washed away and I am new.

We can all be new. Just one question, one act of repentance. He will take the bucket of white paint, and toss it against the deformed image we created on our own.

And then we are clean. Then we are white as snow.

"In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of His grace." Ephesians 1:7