“…we are all the work of Your hand.”
Isaiah 64:8
One of the many rude awakenings involved with losing my father early in life has been the absence of his infinite wisdom. A quick phone visit or a two-hour lunch, at one time, was as easy as dialing his number. It was knowledge I could tap into frequently and as I have continued down life’s road in this rearing of a teenager season, it has been something I’ve missed more than ever. My dad did not have all of the right answers, but he did have a lot and looking back and thinking about the life I got to experience with him as a father, leaves me reminiscent of much and leaves my soul longing for just one more phone call.
My parents made it look easy. Fifty-two years of life on this earth has given me a picturesque view of that childhood. A belief in the one true God, exemplary parenting and a road worth traveling barely scratch the surface of the plunder that was mine to behold through their teaching. The front row view revealed perfect execution from the things they touched, to the tone they used and the disciplinary action they put into motion.
But, looking in from my section of the gallery today, is this not the case with every da Vinci painting in the Louvre? Everything appears perfectly in place when standing at the correct distance. It is only when I approach the canvas to read the name at the bottom do I see all of the infractions, mistaken brush marks, and improperly placed abstracts. Pretentious critics may refer to this as a revision, but the artist who sculpted or signed the work of art, knows the mistake is purpose minded, often telling a broader story for those who see it when standing at the precise separation.
Today, it feels there are more mistaken brush marks than not. I feel like a failed parent more times than not. I feel like a failed husband, more times than not and the stress and unknowns of running my own business leave me feeling out of place more times than not.
Yet, how faithful God has been to pull me back out of the ditch and placed carefully in His palm. Every time this lost sheep finds himself knee-deep in the sludge, my loving God reminds me He is not done yet and won’t ever be until I’m safely secure “in the shelter of His dwelling.” And how kind has He been to bestow His infinite wisdom and His timely reminders that this disorganized cluster of brush marks will be complete one day and when viewed from the correct range will communicate a more extensive story, one that only the Rabbi can tell, the Weaver can knit and one only the Potter can sign.
