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Painting the Price

This is my Aunt Chris–my dad’s sister–and her husband Jim.  And introducing my aunt to anyone is nearly the same as introducing her to myself.  We’re linked by history and the same relatives.  But the time we’ve spent together can literally be squished together in eight hours.  And five of those were Easter weekend.

What I’ve always known is that my aunt’s an artist.  Known it in a way like I’ve known Disneyworld is a blast.  No personal proof.

But on Friday evening at the Good Friday service in Wenatchee–the service I took both kids to, one of whom overheated in his sweater vest, my aunt painted.

A masterpiece.

Her canvas was set up on the left of the stage.  Like it wasn’t the main event.

And yet it was.

And so for forty-five minutes, while the choir stood up or sat down.  Or someone read scriptures.  Or the whole church filed up front for communion, whereby my son helped himself to seconds on the sourdough bread…

our eyes were on one thing: That ever-changing canvas…

the canvas my aunt used to bring the face of Christ to life…

one gnarled thorn…

at a time.

We abandoned the sanctuary in darkness…

Only we knew…and we know…that Christ’s story didn’t finish on Friday.

He lives.

He. Lives.

Thank you, Jesus!

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2 Responses to “Painting the Price”

  1. Colleen AlMousawi says:

    LOve it, Thank you for sharing this and ….the other story!!!

  2. jeanne says:

    Hahaha…yes. Anytime.

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