December 22 – “Art”

Art.  No, not the Art who is my daughter-in-law's father.  He's a great guy, but not what I mean right now.  I mean art.  That stuff you had to study about in college so you could be considered "cultured."  Sculpture and paint and clay and music.  I had to take a required class in college called Culture and Human Experience.  That was my first real introduction to art.  But at least part of our class was spent on religions and mythology.  I was interested in that.  Our youth pastor is taking a class on art appreciation.  No getting away from it there.  He's getting truly "art-ified."   Today we ventured once again into the world of art.  It's still a secret to her, so don't tell Mom until after Thursday.  We went in with our sons' families to commission a painting for Mom for her Christmas present.  Now does that make us sound like some kind of wealthy patrons of the art, or what?  See, Christina has a good friend (several, actually) who can paint really well.  And Mom has – well, had – a house that has, for want of a better way to put it, seen better days.  She also has paintings of the two main houses she has lived in during her lifetime.  1.  The Old Homestead in Spring.  And, 2.  The house of her days of wedded bliss – the one across the street from Grace Episcopal Church on 36th and L in Galveston – the one she lived in when I was born.  But there was one house missing.  She lived in her house on Sycamore for over fifty years, and it had yet to be immortalized.  So we took on the challenge.  And today Chris and I went to pick it up.   I wondered how I would feel when I saw it.  That was the house we moved into when I was five years old.  I have my own set of memories associated with that place.  I had one of those excruciating boy-girl parties when I turned thirteen in that house.  I recuperated from that "basketball-goal-falling-on-my-head-no-that's-another-story-I-won't-tell-it-now" injury I had when I was a sophomore.  I brought girlfriends home to be grilled by my brothers and cousins there.  And now, since Ike, I'm not sure if we are going to keep it in the family or not.    OK.  Mixed emotions and all that.  But when I did see it, inwardly I was excited, appalled, amazed, angry, and incredibly grateful all at once.  Outwardly I kicked into art critic mode.  It was really well done.  I couldn't do that well with one those paint by numbers things.  Yet there was a painting of my Mom's house.  Amazing.  But where was Alice's house?  And the Farrell's?  And that little piece of Jones Park you can see through the back fence?  As I picked my way through it, I realized that what made this Mom's house was not what it looked like, but what it was in relation to the rest of the neighborhood.  And I knew right then that what makes me me is who I am in relationship with - first of all - Jesus, then Chris, then my boys, and their wives, and my grandsons, and Seaside.  My family.  Hebrews 2:11 says, "Both the one who makes men holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers."  That's quite a family I have.  Look at them.   Father, when I'm gone and they try to paint a picture of me, help them remember to hide me behind you and all those others so it will be realistic.  Amen.