His Face
I grew up in an every Sunday house hold. Elementary learning in a Catholic school. I went through confirmation as a sophomore in High School and was sure I knew who God was. Yet as an adult I see my eyes were still closed.
I remember as a kid looking at statues of saints, Jesus on the cross and expecting to hear something. I know that if my conscious was clear there would just be a peaceful silence, but if I had done something that may of been considered wrong, the statues whispered the truth.
My family had a picture of Jesus, a classic image. Jesus, sacred heart, a slight curved lip and expectant eyes. As a child I feared him. I felt as though he was following me around in the room, I could not escape his eyes. Another image on a card, Jesus holding up a man who carried nails and a hammer. As a young teen I remember my heart swelling feeling that I was this person in this card. I couldn’t understand why he would still carry me. Watching “The Passion fo The Christ” the same year as my confirmation was jarring. I had nightmares and my heart ached in pain as I watched him get crucified. I to this day can’t watch it.
I have this printed painting of him in my room. I first saw it in my aunts house. It was the first time that his eyes didn’t mesmerize me, but his smile did. It was as if you can hear him speak through the image. I remember feeling warm, and interested in what he had to say, I remember staring at it every time I came over. When my aunt passed, my cousin gave me this painting, I’m not sure she knows how much I love it.
I never wanted to paint him. It honestly seemed to much to handle. In a way I do not feel worthy to create his face. Some may question His Face. I will be honest and say He did not start out this way.
I didn’t plan to paint him, but know that I also didn’t plan to come back to find Him either. I left the church in my early adult life, because I felt that it was a room full of hypocrites, and judgmental people. I have always felt Him calling to me. When I’d sit in the pew next to my mom, unknowing that I was only showing up for her. I felt him pulling at my heart. I’d leave in tears sometimes.
I began to spray lines on to figure out how the can worked, looking at a picture of Zues and expecting to paint this mighty mythological god. His face came through so plainly to me. I was afraid at first, and tried to change it, but as His eyebrows changed and the spray can emptied I knew what He was asking me to do. With goose bumps and a heavy sigh I began to accept his request.
I came to His Spirit in a room with women who don’t know my whole story. It happened unexpectedly. I had been struggling with this spiritual war fare for that year and it finally peaked. A Monday morning, with a mentor and a few strangers a sense of peace rested over me. A release of emotions, my spirit was tired, and the walls became weak. I met His Spirit, and although God and I have yet to meet completely now, its His Spirit that brought me back.
I created a painting the year prior that represented my relationship with God, a painting that represents my battle, in it was the Holy Spirit.
Now His eyes cut through me. It holds me captivated. The watery surrounding mixed with the misting darkness like a dream that had your breath held in waiting. His ask to awaken and breathe. The textures speaking words of their own. Let your eyes wonder through out the painting and find your favorite places while His eyes lay fixed on you. He is everywhere and with you. He knows what was and what is and whats still to come.
I listened to His teachings on the last day of this time with Him. His heart warm and His Word true. I know that I have always had His spirit within me. Guiding me. Even when we were not speaking He was with me. He taught me how to Love at a young age, in this time He taught me how to forgive. When I grew older He taught me that in Him I will never be alone.