Brushstrokes

            It was just another gig, just another dinner. Yet another time to come, play some music, and leave. It seems every time I have a gig, I seriously consider simply not showing up. I certainly had that thought this time. But the prospect of making $75 in an hour and a half was too tempting to turn down. So off I went. I walked to the stage. I played music.

            People began to trickle in as we played. Mostly old. A few very young. I thought perhaps it was a retirement party or something. Some Sanford thing. Mostly I really didn’t care. We play for a lot of things, a lot of people. I usually don’t know who they are, and I rarely care. This time was no different. We played on. The people took their seats at banquet tables.

            We received a few smiles from little old ladies in their Sunday best, a few compliments from old men with grizzled beards and still-smart suits. We gave our obligatory smiles and thank-yous and played on. We gave our names to the man in charge so he could introduce us and everyone could promptly forget who we were. We paused and the speaker gave his opening remarks, commenting on the great turn-out, thanking all the right people, saying all the right things. We got ready to play on.

            I almost missed the significance of my opportunity. It was my third year playing for this event, and the past two years, I haven’t honestly given a shit who sat in those tables. I was far more concerned with playing music, getting paid, and getting out of there. What was one more year, one more event?

            But this time I noticed something. I realized where I was. I was in the presence of heroes – individuals who have gone through far more than I could ever imagine, faced demons I can only pray to never encounter. And they have won. These people, these sweet old faces sitting in chairs, these young children fidgeting in their seats, they had survived cancer. And I got to play them music. I got to be the background for their celebration of… living.

            We don’t often celebrate living. That may be what birthdays are meant to do, but rarely do we actually consider it. Rather we think about parties and gifts and attention or lack thereof. We do not consider what a gift it is simply to be alive, to take another breath, to put your hand on your chest and feel the beating of your own heart. To fall asleep in the sunshine, to run wildly in the rain, to climb a tree, swim in a river. To understand what your best friend is thinking without ever saying a word. To get goosebumps. To remember for days the feeling of a single kiss.

            Ironically, the only thing I can think of that is described as a celebration of life is a funeral. And yes, we should be able to celebrate life at a funeral. But isn’t that a little late? Shouldn’t we celebrate every day we are alive? Sometimes we act as if life is such a struggle that it’s almost a burden. We complain about getting out of bed, about being so busy, about all the little things we have to accomplish. We’re constantly running. And we forget to celebrate that we are alive.

            When the strange thing is, all of these things - all of these everyday, mundane things - are what make up our lives. They are the brushstrokes that paint the picture of our lives. And if that picture is what’s left at the end, what’s on display at our funerals… shouldn’t we celebrate every brushstroke? Perhaps they would be a little more beautiful if we did. Perhaps we’d have more to celebrate at the end if we appreciated every heartbeat.

            Because you see.. there is no such thing as just a day. There are not important days and unimportant days. Every day is a brushstroke. The mark it leaves is indelible and will be a part of the picture forever. It may be disguised later, may be woven into some greater beauty. But it will always be there – will always be visible. It is a sobering thought to think that each moment, each wasted minute, is building a life.

            Perhaps that is why Christ told us to give thanks in all circumstances and to pray continually. It is hard to miss a moment of beauty when you’re thanking God for it. It is nearly impossible to waste an opportunity when breathing a prayer. I think perhaps that is also why we must surrender every moment to Christ’s control. It may be a clichéd metaphor, but when we surrender the brush to the artist, He can see far better than we can. Our perspective is tragically limited – He sees the whole picture. Only He can take our sad attempts and transform them into something beautiful.

            Lately I’ve been possessed by the idea of living richly and deeply. I think perhaps this is a start of a way to do just that. Celebrating life, every heartbeat, every breath, every conversation.. it transforms you. It takes you from living as a jaded adult to seeing the world with the wonder of a child. Everything fascinates a child. Everything is new and beautiful. I think perhaps wonder is a lost virtue. We have become accustomed to seeing a hundred faces a day, and we forget what an absolute wonder it is that there is a soul behind that face. A soul that can be discovered and understood, a soul with which we can find community.

            To be entirely honest, it sounds very tiring to live this way. It sounds utterly exhausting to consciously see every day as a gift, every face as a soul, every breath as a miracle. And perhaps at first it may be. It is not something to which we are accustomed. But maybe that is the tragedy. We are not accustomed to what should be the most basic truth of our existence – that life is a gift.

            As a Christian, this idea has especial significance to me. After all, when we look forward to a heavenly reality, a realm in which all pain and suffering disappear, why are we still on this earth? Why are we not carried away the moment we come to know Christ and accept salvation? Because for some odd reason, this life has been judged worth it. You may say that it is merely a responsibility, that we are here to serve and to convert – that it is our solemn duty. Perhaps it is our duty. But it is not solemn. It is joyful. I am not convinced that this life is all the drudgery we make it out to be. If it were we would not have so much beauty. There would be no need of it. There would be no love, no community, no laughter. These things are gifts, gifts from above. They are a taste of heavenly realities and must be celebrated as such. According to Simone Weil, the same is true of pain.

            Whether or not that is true, I cannot say. But if we speak of heavenly life, then life itself on earth, existence, breath, is a reflection of a heavenly reality. So let us celebrate it, as we look forward to the consummation of all good things on earth. May we celebrate life as it looks forward to eternal life.