Excuse me, ma'am

When my girls were little and I was a single mom, I mustered up the courage to go back to college. My thought was to get my Associates Degree in Graphic Design. Our local community college had a program and I'm good on the computer, I love art, the two seemed to be a good compromise.

What happened next can only be compared to flowers blooming in the deserts of Chile.

I got to be creative. Not just 'oh, you're always good at arranging flowers' or 'your meals are always so delicious' kind of creative. I had the opportunity to paint, to sketch, to write, and then to turn code into websites. Little seeds of talent were sprouting up within me and turning me into a meadow of wildflowers and smells that I could hardly contain.

I had always loved art, but now I appreciated art. And the trials of my life made me look at art from an entirely different perspective. When I studied art history, the life of the artist melded into the background of every painting, every sculpture. My heart ached for the tortured heart of van Gogh in each of the paintings he stroked from his window of the asylum he voluntarily entered. His life was one trauma after another, yet his works and his name are known world wide even to this day.

I finished school. Life took it's course. Art stuck with me.

When the noise and chaos of life got to be too much, I would pull out my sketch pad. If I needed a weekend of sanity, I dug out the watercolors. I even started playing with photography. God put us on an entire planet full of beautiful things, including people, there's no lack of subjects.

One weekend when I needed to clear my head, I spent a day at the museum in Omaha. I had never been there. I'd visited a handful of other museums within driving distance or while vacationing, but this one was a new adventure. I was particularly intrigued because they had advertised some famous paintings on exhibit temporarily on tour. It's not every day you get to see a Monet or a van Gogh... I was all in!

I had chosen to make this trip by myself. I know it's selfish, but not everyone consumes art in the same way, and I needed to put my head together - no distractions. The architecture of the building alone was awe inspiring! Marble, majestic columns, sunlight through glass walls. It was a hidden treasure that had been within my reach for years and I didn't even know it.

I politely accepted my map of the layout from the greeter, made a game plan, and began my journey. I spent the first hour doing what I always do - judge. Why don't they ever put more history about the artists in these 'collection' rooms? Why is the bathroom always so hard to find? Why do people bring children to a place like this? Why is it always so cold in museums? Why can't there be music playing, like Mozart or Chopin... something to fill the big empty spaces?

It usually takes about an hour of soaking up the creativity of others before the negativity within me can no longer survive. And that day was no different. But soon my head and my heart were in sync with the torments of history and the brushstrokes of the hands that held the tool. Whatever thoughts consumed my mind before I parked the car that morning had disappeared and I was surrounded by beauty in it's most challenging form. The perception of others.

Just when I thought I had absorbed all I could, I found an entire room of Monet paintings. I could barely breathe. It felt like I was in that little room for hours trying so hard not forget what it felt like to see them hanging there. Trying to imagine him siting in his garden, alone, painting in the same spot day after day.

And when I finally felt brave enough to exit the room, I turned the corner, and there it was. The reason I found out about the museum in the first place. There hung the van Gogh. Thank goodness the crowd had vanished. It felt like I was the only one in the building. I approached as if it were the Queen. It looked so much bigger in person than I imagined. I just stood there, staring. The deep, thick strokes of paint bending light and color right in front of me. And then, as if it were instinct, I reached out and touched it.

No sooner had my fingertip reached the painting and a hand touched my shoulder. It startled me. I heard a soft, but firm voice say "Ma'am, you can't touch the painting. Didn't you see the sign?" Sign? I did a quick glance and there was the sign, right next to the painting. There was also a brief history of the artist and the painting. Neither of which I read before my eyes were glued to it's grace... obviously.

I will never forget that day. I've seen many painting and sculptures by famous artists, but that day is special to me. It's not just the famous paintings or the artists. It's not that I actually touched a van Gogh painting. It's what they inspired in me that day.

I can't explain to you everything that was in my head BEFORE I parked the car that day, but I can tell you how I felt as I drove away. Capable. Significant. Worthy. Everyone is capable of something, no matter where you come from or what you've been through. Each and every person is significant in God's eyes. Maybe we, I, should start looking at people the way God looks at people. My life, your life, all life, is worthy of dignity, validity... breath.

Some of the most magnificent pieces of art have been discovered in barns, in attics. One of van Gogh's critics used his paintings to line a chicken coop, because they were thought to be worthless. If we listened to all the critics in the world, that museum would have been empty. We have to remember that God is the only voice that matters. He loves us and cherishes our lives no matter what our critics might say. We also need to remember that we are capable of anything. And just because what we do now might seem insignificant, God may use it in the future for something we could never imagine.

Capable. Significant. Worthy. We are all made in His image.

Hebrews 11:1 ESV

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.