A painter has a great advantage, as does a writer I suppose. He can scratch out, erase, and paint over. He can throw out and start again. He can expand the landscape or focus in on a detail. There is great freedom in creation. Yet none of it has any value unless it comes from and leads back toward God.
The great sweeping landscapes painted throughout the years. I want to dive into so many of them. To run toward the distant hills, to sit beside the babbling brooks, to hitch a ride on the hay wagon making its way round the bend. But most of all I want to join the peasants, working the fields or gathered around the base of a giant oak for a bite of second-day bread, and perhaps even a sip of slightly watered-down wine.
I want to hear the simple strings of a Spanish guitar, the worn-out wood of a French violin, the voice of yet another “Maria” toiling beneath the Italian plein air.
The pleasant thought of resting beside a river bed—of catching a not-so-quick nap within the shade of God’s ever-expanding and contracting canopy of leaves.
Even the bark of an English Foxhound could not interrupt thee!
I don’t want to be told that this isn’t reality. I don’t want to be told that it’s a bit romantic.
I want to live simply. I want to work an honest wage. I want to stop at noon to give the good God rightful thanks and praise.
I want to visit the graves of the dead with a bouquet of hope and faith.
I want to truly retire each night.
Love is enough.
It is enough for you and for me.
There is never enough if that we fail to see.