"Let's paint a happy little tree over here... and maybe add a happy little cloud up in our sky... I think I'd like a happy little cabin in my woods..."
If you grew up, like me, hearing the calming voice of Bob Ross periodically emanating from your television, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. He always made painting look so effortlessly simple, as his soothing voice talked his audience through every brush stroke he performed. These graceful strokes gradually turned a once-blank canvas into, literally, a work of art--creating stunningly beautiful depictions of scenes, whether in the towering mountains, by a sparkling river, or in the wintry woods. He was inspiring, to say the least, making even me--the most artistically challenged individual you may ever meet--wonder if I could replicate the simple strokes being demonstrated before my very eyes. I loved each "happy little" character he added to his scene and took in the beauty of the process he shared with his audience--a process of translating the vision in his mind onto the canvas set before him. It was surprisingly enrapturing, even to me as the on-the-go little one that I was at that age. But beyond all these little details that I remember, there was one that stood out to me above all the rest.
The detail from all of Bob's shows that captured my memory the most arrived during the moments I believed he was almost done with his beautiful artwork. The scene had unfolded before me in less than 30 minutes, while he had masterfully added each happy new component to his painting. Things seemed almost complete in each tranquil place to which he had teleported his audience. But right at this moment of "near completion," Bob would strike his scene with some seemingly-unwelcome new paint. Each time, I would be slightly dumbstruck, wondering why he had just ruined his inspiring creation with this intruder of misplaced paint. It had been so beautiful, so serene, so perfect. But now it was so irreversibly marred with the artist's rash mistake. And on public television, no less. What would he do to fix his blunder...?
I quickly learned, however, that nobody had "blundered" except for me in my distrust of the artist's work. What I had witnessed as a rash mistake had all along been a planned decision. What I had interpreted as a ruined piece of art was really the next step in a yet-unfinished journey of the final product. What had looked before, to me, nearly complete, was sorely lacking some key pieces from the artist's dream for his finished painting. But thankfully, Bob didn't stop where I always thought he should have. Thankfully, my worried groans and "what are you doing?!"s never reached Bob's ears or affected his purposes. Thankfully, he kept right on painting. Each of those blunders, as identified by me, was really the beginning of yet another beautiful, happy little component of Bob's dream for that canvas. A breathtaking wintry woods scene was, without my knowledge, completely incomplete without the cozy, warm cabin pouring wintry-smelling smoke from its chimney to warm the cold woods. If Bob had stopped before painting that cabin, *I* would have thought it a masterpiece. But Bob would have seen it for what it really was--a cold scene missing the warmth of a final, crucial, happy little cabin. I'm so glad the artist didn't stop short of his vision, regardless of the dreadful mistake I believed he was making. I'm so glad Bob the artist knew exactly what he was doing and exactly where he wanted to take his blank, white canvas--not stopping one brush stroke too soon, lest he miss one part of the masterpiece traveling from his mind, through his paintbrush, onto that canvas.
As I watched Bob Ross paint, I never thought much further than that obvious, visible canvas on which he was creating. However, a few months ago, as I drove through some breathtaking Irish scenes that were beyond worthy of being painted themselves... God used memories of a simple Bob Ross program to translate some beautiful truths into my own heart. During that drive across Ireland, my heart was almost unbearably heavy with the reality of the last few months' events. For some painful reasons I won't go into, I was taking one last road trip before departing from that beautiful country. I was leaving the place my heart had come to call home. I was going back to more questions than I knew how to answer. And let me tell you, there were a lot of worried groans and "what are you doing?!"s going on in my heart. It felt as if God were taking a gorgeous scene of my life--a picture I saw as nearly complete, with my newfound home, a place I felt I had *fit* more than anywhere in the 27 years of my life--and striking it with a big blob of ugly, unwelcome, misplaced, irremovable paint.
It hurt more than I know how to tell you. It felt as though the Artist, without warning, had dropped that paint in my life, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. The painting was ruined. It was too late to fix the blunder.
But as I sat in that car weighed down by the ruined painting, strangely enough, I thought of Bob Ross. I thought of that first painful stroke of what I didn't yet know would be that cozy, warm cabin. I thought of the even more beautiful creation that always followed. I thought of the trust I had developed that Bob would always paint a scene outside the limits of my imagination--because he knew from the very beginning of his paintings the beautiful places he wanted to take them. And I realized in my heavy heart that God is an Artist much greater, much more worthy of my trust, much more beyond anything my imagination could even begin to dream of than any Bob Ross could ever be. So why would I not trust that He hadn't blundered... that the painting wasn't ruined... that my life wasn't once beautiful and now beyond repair...? Why would I not trust even that, as painful as this was, He had seen it from the very start and that it was the beginning stroke of the next cozy, warm cabin in my life? God is the ultimate Artist. He is the Artist which every other artist tries to replicate. He created, with Words alone, the beautiful scenes each artist tries to imitate. He had a vision of creation, from day one, that would only be complete once He had finished every brush stroke. He had a vision of my life, before I was even born, that would only be complete after He painted more happy little characters than I could ever dream of. So I sit here today believing that the next brushstroke of my life, painful or not, will be to add to the beauty of the masterpiece my Artist is painting on my life canvas. I sit here--still confused by the paint that doesn't yet make sense--but clinging to the truth that the Artist's thoughts are higher than my thoughts... and His ways higher than my ways... I am so thankful that my anxious groans and "what are you doings?!" don't change my Artist's beautiful plans for the finished product He already sees in His picture of my life. I'm so grateful that although, His brushstrokes don't always make sense or feel good, I know they are not blunders...
...they are the beginning of beautiful.
I love thinking of the before and after scenes of Bob Ross's paintings for each show... He always started with that white canvas; and he always finished with something I could have never dreamed up on my own.
Aren't you excited to see what the Master Artist transforms our white canvases into with so many 'beyond our imagination' brushstrokes?
I know I am... and that hope makes some of the confusing seasons of my painting so much more bearable.
