Monday, February 15, 2016

Surrender to the Brushstrokes

Asher's eyes were the bluest of blues for a solid year.  The ocean depths called out to my soul; each cascade of rich hue reminding me of God's love for me, God's gift of one final child.  Blue often represents grace in the Bible and when I peered into his happiest of happy eyes, I drank grace in, straight up.

After his first birthday, the light in his eyes started swimming differently.  At first, it was just when Asher wore green, then more and more no matter the shade he donned.

The blue was being encroached by floods of the purest of hazels, the purest of greens.

I won't lie.  I wanted to kick and scream.  Where was my blue eyed baby that I had cuddled and nursed for a solid twelve months?  I liked him just the way God had made him; I wasn't looking for change.

My blue eyed baby was gone.  In that moment, I mourned not just the loss of blue hue, but the loss of mothering a newborn.  It would never come again.  Mothering babies was one of the greatest sources of joys these past decades and with a blink, the days faded into oblivion, only to be recalled with photographs and heart indentations.

Over time, as I continued to watch Asher's eyes metamorphose into what God had intended all along, I became quite smitten with the brush strokes of the Artist.  He had dipped His paintbrush into green, adding dimension and depth to the present blue, only to create the rarest of hazel oceans.  He grabbed a handful of light and splattered it across the irises, stepped back, and called it good.  The Artist changed the canvas, because it brought Him laughter and glory.  Apparently, Asher Tate needed more than one hue in those windows to his soul.

I reflect on this and am reminded of how much I hate change.  When I see that something is good, I want it to remain that way forever.  What I need to remember is that just because something changes, doesn't mean it is no longer good or purposeful.  The newborn turning toddler turning child turning teenager turning adult is all good.  The transitions may slay a mother's heart time and time again, but each change will bring new layers of color and dimension, purpose and grace.  Each transition will announce, "That is what the Artist has been up to!  That is who He has created my child to be!" 

We must surrender to the brushstrokes, sweet mommas.  The Artist can be trusted as a good father.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

He can be trusted, even when he calls your child home.