My painter gently colors my shadows and my light. His brush draws over my canvas. Each moment is a breath, waiting to see more of this becoming.

What will I learn about the Painter today?

Here, on upmost corner of my canvas, is where I learned that my Painter loves beauty. He loves making something out of nothing, and making a tiny seed grow into something green and alive and changing.

This pattern here taught me that the Painter is constant. He may work in a hundred different ways and use colors in places I never would have guessed, but there is a purpose to it all. A thread of color holds everything together. I wonder what it is leading to.

And these dark shadows? The colors seemed to suffocate me when they were painted on. It was so hard for the light to get in, and for a while, it felt like the ugly colors ruined any beauty that had been painted so far. It seemed to make it all a lie. That is when I discovered that the Painter is braver than I could ever be.

Out of the shadows the Painter brought light. I am becoming a painting. In this medley of light and shadows, I am becoming a creature of love.

“Love hurts,” the Painter says. “But I love you enough to hurt.”

And He really must, I think. Every stroke He paints on me is an act of love. How it must hurt Him to hear all of the paintings that mock Him and His colors. It pains Him so much to listen to how they criticize each other and throw insults at Him, thinking He cannot hear nor care. How He must ache when I cry because I do not understand what He is painting me into.

And I love Him. I love Him so dearly, even though I often forget all He is and I hurt Him still.

“My painting, you cannot know that I am a rescuer unless you have been rescued. Just wait, the shadows are painting something more stunning and good than anything else I could choose.”

Sometimes I forget who my Painter is. Sometimes I forget that I am His workmanship. That He knew me and loved me before painting a single stroke. That He is painting a whole gallery, not just me. That I was made only for Him and that that is the best thing in the world.

Today, I ask Him, “I want to see you as bigger.” He smiles at me, and every time He does that, I become a little more. More whole, more hopeful, more like my name. The name that I am still growing into: Beloved and Holy.

“I want to be holy, like You. For you.” I say. It makes me ache, how often my Painter has to clean my canvas from the dirt and muck I mar it with. And again and again, He tells me that He made me new, I need not live in the mire anymore. And He cleanses me, washing me clean with colors of grace and patterns of patience.

It is my most precious hope; to be pure before my Painter who is pure and yet pours His love on broken things. And yet, becoming holy and beloved is frightening. Loving is hard. Loving is sacrifice and loving is trust. Trust. That is what my Painter has said so many times it comes to me even when He does not say it: Trust Me, My painting.

I ask myself, do I love Him?

Yes. I am His beloved and His love has healed me, growing me into loving Him back with all I am becoming. I shall trust my Painter. My Painter who has all along worked the thread of light through my painting (I’m beginning to think I know what the thread is).

My Painter I cannot see until He paints me eyes to see Him with, but I can hear Him, for He has painted me into a painting created to delight in Him.

Sometimes I forget how much greater than me He is. How much more He is. And sometimes I forget that I am His painting. But now, as He brushes a few stars across my evening sky, I remember. And I remember all the canvas yet to be painted, all of who my Painter is that I have yet to come to know.

And I find that tonight I rest in trusting Him.