Our son was having a rough morning. Rarely the peak of a nine-year old’s priorities and interests—we went to church. Worse, think perhaps we would take a family picture for potential Christmas card—we dressed up.
All of this he took in kind and time. He tied his dress shirt around his waist. He wore his pants as scarf. He got his laugh and win of words (I told him he could wear his clothes however he wanted so long as he put them on; and so he did in nine-year old mischief). After, he dressed right.
But then the breaker—he had to behave! His mother was coming too; and one, having been a boy—once upon time—and the other never; there are times we differ in degrees of mis, and acceptable behaviors; especially in consideration of judgments as family and parents in house and place where it is preached that man should not judge. A life-long Catholic, I take the message as it says. I do not consider judgment but God’s gratitude we’re there. Newer to Our practice, judgment stays upon her mind.
While he almost always behaves, receiving such as ultimatum rather than eventual arrival after burning out of boyhood energy, to command was too much! As such is the behavior in all free men, at all ages, in perception of a tyrant—he revolted. Under oversight and watchful eye, he fussed. He pouted. He displayed his open dissent.
None of this helped his cause. Revolt was quelled, and a beautiful Sunday morning became a a vein of nine-year old despair.
We did not get the picture.
His misery remained throughout drive home. Judgment came. Tears welled at perceived injustice of the verdict.
Still seeking to live as the Word instructs, I did best to judge neither and love both sides.
In fit, he went outside to be alone closing door strongly behind. He went to a shed where sports equipment is kept, but that wasn’t what he sought.
He returned outdoors with a bucket in hand, filled with colored chalk. Violently, he began to draw: focused mein, furrow of drawn and angered brow.
What was he doing? What was he drawing? Writing?
Was he digging deeper hole?
Martyrs have a penchant for choosing losing battles; and I know my own history of such seek.
I feared the worst.
I watched in observance from distance. There are times when we all need our space, to be left alone, to let a situation cool and soften rather than remain in condition of heat and pressure that only makes it worse. Understanding this in me, I respect this of him—and all—in honor as best I can.
Observing, there came about a change. Gentled visage, hand and chalk slowed, conscientious and intentional in draw.
Curiosity rose: what was he making?
Without judgment, I went to see.
First sight, I couldn’t tell: an orange half-circle, red line horizontal above on top of a box of blue. He laid aside the blue and reached with hold for yellow.
“What are you making?” I asked a second too soon for as soon as he started in with yellow, immediately I saw.
“A beach!” he answered in mirth, his demeanor fully changed. All anger, resentment, and hostility left. In art and the image, he found his happiness.
Yellow sand, sunset sky beyond a sea of blue; his art brought tear to eye.
In anger and frustration, he turned to art to find his peace. He drew a beach.
His mother is an art teacher. The beach is her favorite place.
In frustration and hurt, he went to art to make something they both loved, something he loved because of her—because it was something that they shared.
He made his art and left it there, present and unpromoted, in wait and trust for her to find; a quiet way to say “I love you…even when I’m mad” and “I’m happy when I’m here, sharing this with you.”
Sometimes, it is only by art we can say what we mean when the words are hard to speak or we know no other way.
In way of say, he made his art.
Art loves. Art reconciles. Art heals.
Make your art.