The Brush
It’s been fifty years now—fifty! The years before you came into my life are just a blur. To be honest, I just don’t even 
want to remember them. I was so alone.
You turned my life around, showed me what true love really looked like. You see, I had a skewed picture of love, definitely out of focus—not pretty at all. Colorful at times, but the colors always clashed. That canvas was abstract in every way. I could make no sense of it. Life for me was seen from a different angle each day. Stark, misplaced, illogical. A mess!
But then you washed that canvas—every ugly brush stroke you erased. You had a way of doing that. I believe we were made for each other. At first the image on our canvas was blank. Yeah, I said our canvas. No longer mine, but ours! And just look what we’ve formed! Our image is one of beauty. Serene. At times, playful—and inviting. I couldn’t be more proud.
Mistakes, oh I’ve made a few. Okay, several. The brush has slipped, ruining our otherwise perfect picture. I was angry, said I was sorry. You quickly painted over the mistake.
You’re the creative one. An ugly streak of brown becomes a regal oak tree in your hands. Oddly shaped clouds transform into a stunning sunset, putting to rest any troubles the day may have brought. I learn something new from you each day. Fifty years, and I’m still learning.
Now our canvas appears to be finished. I’m pleased. I hope you are. I’m about to sign it at the bottom.
But wait!
There’s more. My hand is being guided, auto-tracking across the canvas, piloted by someone other than me. A splotch of white here, a spatter there. Brilliant yellows. What is going on? I am no longer in control of the brush.
Light!
There is glorious light, bringing the picture alive.
I hear music. A choir! A fresh and delightful ozone type aroma infiltrates the air! But there is no rain in our picture, not even storm clouds. I’m astounded. How is this happening?
Our painting… is…
Oh, look! There it is—among millions of others. All so attractively displayed. There’s light all around, warm and welcoming. An image is appearing amongst all the beautiful canvases. Ethereal at first; it’s coming closer.
Oh yes! Yes! I can identify. His hands outstretched.
Now I see the Artist—the real one.
I know now, I was never the artist; I was only the brush.
Enjoy the journey,
Eldon Reed