January 21, 2021

Pictures on the Wall

In my house hangs two pictures. One is a print of “The Bassin at Argenteuil” by Claude Monet, and the other is an unframed, untitled painting by a local painter. The latter is of a stone bridge over a small river. The bridge is beautifully depicted with exact details, a patch of sunlight on the near side, and foliage and shadows obscuring the far half and the river beyond. The weak sunlight illuminates a row of colorful vertical plants, which seem pleasant enough from a distance, but upon closer inspection, look gaudy and dull. I have always been ambivalent about this painting. Most of it is dark and even somewhat scary, but I feel a sense of calm and safety when I look at it. Lately, I wonder if that calm isn’t really just stillness, and if I have mistaken stagnation as safety. My eyes are drawn to the light, but when I dare look at the foliage and shadows, I realize that their colors are the most attractive, and that the shadows are more of a graying mist that lends a deeper hue to the landscape, lightening further down the river. It would be frightening to cross into the mist, if you are alone. But in good company, it could be an adventure. Maybe it would lead to a scene like in Monet’s painting.

“The Bassin at Argenteuil” shows a bright, vibrant river, flowing in the wind. Sunlight dances, and white sailboats chase. This is a picture of movement, of change and journey. The river here also moves into the unknown, but with hope and the expectant pursuit of something beyond the moment—life as it should be lived.

The Journey Starts

Until recently, these paintings hung on the walls of my office at work. I lost my job of over 12 years as a casualty of the Covid-19 pandemic of 2020. The visceral shock of this loss revealed to me how deeply I had depended on it, not only as a source of financial security, but to structure my days into a comfortable routine, to define my life and give me meaning. It was worthy work, and I enjoyed it. I contributed, fellowshipped, and learned, but perhaps I was just clinging to my small patch of sunlight, willing it to be more glorious than it was. The fear of the unknown had kept me fixed to the one moment. Now that I could no longer stay there and must look at the shadows and beyond, I see that it beckons. I reckon that I could hear the distant waves, feel the wind push me along, and glimpse the light growing. Yes, I have lingered too long. I have forgotten the journey, the call to another purpose, and the One who calls.

That call is to write. I do not know what the future holds. Fear and hope mingle, but God walks surely ahead, and I must follow. I know that along the way my heart will quail at the strangeness, the arduity, and the doubt, but He has given me the token of the Two Pictures. They hang in my bedroom, to remind me before I sleep and as I wake, every day—forward in the journey, onto the expected end.