Enough - Lessons from the Palette

"Don't be afraid to keep putting paint on your brush," she said.  The instruction concerned a canvas, a paintbrush, a soon-to-be seascape, and a palette of several colors. Yes, her words were about a painting, but also about me and how I live.

I carried my finished masterpiece from the Laguna Beach art gallery to my car, pretty pleased with how it turned out and delighted with the time shared with my friend Sheryl, who invited and treated me to the class. I transported the finished piece home and displayed it on my bedroom wall.

The seascape is not all I brought home with me that October afternoon. Slogging through traffic with much time to think, my mind landed not on the painting in the back of my car but more on the words of the artist -- words to be mounted on the wall of my heart, pondered, and absorbed -- "Don't be afraid." She'd said it a few different ways during our two hours together.

"Don't be afraid to keep dipping into the paint."

"Keep putting paint on your brush."

"Don't be hesitant to dip into the paint."

Once she said, "If you're stroking without paint on the brush, you're not painting, rather you're lifting paint from the canvas."

Her words helped me to paint without fear the paint would run out, without fear I hadn't used all the paint on the brush with perfect efficiency before again refilling the brush tip. I started believing I wouldn't run out of paint, thus painted freely. I dipped and painted, painted and dipped, dipped and painted. One color on the palette did get close to extinction, when the teacher grabbed a big bottle of paint and squeezed a fresh blob onto the diminishing supply.

Keep dipping in.

Don't be afraid.

Unveiled through this experience is a part of my heart that believes there is not enough -- not enough good in the world for me to receive God's goodness without subtracting goodness from someone else, not enough good in my life to believe that, if today held good gifts, tomorrow will also, not enough grace to cover my shortcomings, not enough time or tools to become all God has in mind for me to be and do.

That day, learning to paint while overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean, I gained a view of God's generosity. Yes, I have explored the goodness of my provider through the truth of Scripture, prayer, through the counsel of others. But in these hours, God painted on the canvas of my heart a picture of his provision, allowing me to see and believe it more fully, letting truth permeate deeper into me. He painted a picture of himself as the filler (and refiller) of my palette, my guide and instructor, the one who reminds me, "Keep coming to me. Keep dipping into my mercies! Each day I delight to refill your palette. My goodness never, ever runs dry."

"Fear not," the Instructor says. "It's my delight to give you the kingdom." With less fear and more joy than before, I dip my brush into the paint, again, and yet again, my hand on the brush, my ear leaned toward the voice of the Teacher, and my eyes on what is being painted -- on the canvas of today.

Diane Mann, 2017

That Summer Day

My workout was finished. Home was ten miles one direction, the beach forty miles the other direction. It was a for-sure-I-need-a-shower day, but the ocean beckoned. So I rushed into Kohl's and bought a floppy hat on clearance to cover my dirty hair and shade my face then drove to Santa Monica.

Traffic was a bit nasty as I inched my way toward the coast, but I paid it no mind. I observed cars, clouds, buildings, and mountains along the way. I played through my car stereo whatever was on my iPhone (unsure of how most of it got there). John Denver accompanied me on the journey, as well as the dad from Fiddler on the Roof, Taylor Swift, and some island-tune-singing person.

I parked in a structure on Second Street and walked to the pier—the packed-with-people-from-everywhere pier. My white woven hat provided protection from the sun but also a sense of anonymity (lest paparazzi were to recognize me!). From the shade of the hat, I peered at the inhabitants of the pier, but didn't give much attention to anyone I saw.  As I walked and noticed what was around me, my attention remained uncaptured by anything in particular. The two different vendors offering to write my name on rice, the seller of VW van magnets, the man offering to tell a joke if you gave him money, whose tattered sign read, “Come on, people! Give me a tip. It's my birthday,” the singing young woman, whose songs I neither liked nor disliked—none occupied much of my mind as the tide of people ushered me toward the pier's end.

Ah, at the end of the pier I stood. The breeze, so cool and strong enough to blow lingering thoughts away, refreshed me. The color of the water—that deep green—ministered to me in ways I didn't understand but in ways I knew I needed. The singer's voice faded to the background, as did the playful laughs of children, the families chatting in various languages. I heard the faint sound of a little girl's voice telling her mommy she saw a seal. I glanced around the teal water below, and there I saw it too. A sweet seal playing in, floating upon, and resting within the love of God—I mean, the ocean. My heart rose with each swell that carried the seal up then down. I sensed his playful, restful, trusting spirit and knew this is why I steered toward the beach that day.

I made my way back to my car, paid a dollar twenty-five for parking, then drove for over two and a half hours to get home. This time country music entertained me while again I noticed cars, buildings, clouds, and mountains. I arrived home and tossed the white hat onto a chair, where it remains. I'm not sure whether I will wear it again. But it served me well, to cover my hair and shade my face so I could go to the beach to see what Love wanted to show me, that summer day.

Diane Mann, 2017