Conglomeration of Color

In my old office, which I recently gave up to become a bedroom again, hangs a painting. I only call it a painting because it is hanging on the wall, framed, and it has paint on it.

A better definition for what it is would be an amalgamation of the warfare that is my life, in abstract.

My father-in-law made it several years ago, and when I first saw it, I claimed it as my own as the only thing I wanted to inherit from him on the day of his stepping into eternity. That day happened last year, and so now it graces my wall (well, it graces the wall of the young lady currently occupying my old office, but, that’s more semantics).

So, what does it look like? Well, what it looks like is really more a story of how it came to be.

You see, my father-in-law was the Paint Guy at our local Ace Hardware.  Every day he was at work, he would mix paint for people (and if a man came in asking for bathroom, bedroom, or kitchen paint, be sure that he would require a signed note from the wife before selling any paint to them).

As my father-in-law told it, every time he would mix the paint, he would end up getting stray streaks across the blotter that was used to protect the desk top. Just a bunch of different colors covering the white blotter, from light blues, to dark green, black, purple, mauve… you name it, there were colors just covering over most of the area.

One day, he looked down and saw it as something more then a blotter to catch paint, but as a symbol of warfare. with the streaks representing the battles and scars that this life presents.

Being the man of God that he was, he saw it for more then just a representation for this life, but the battle that rages on, unseen between heaven and hell for our souls. And being the man of God that he is, he knew that the battle was already won and so on the day that he was going to replace the blotter, he took it and a red spray paint can and swiped it over the top and a black line over the bottom.

The red drips down into the painting, and on those days I grow weary of the war that is my life, I look at that painting and remember, no matter the battle I am going through, the war has already been won.

Days like today.

The War



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