Halee and Austin's English teacher recently assigned them to write their very own story. It was to be short and they could pick and choose any topic.
Halee wrote hers in a matter of a few hours. No internet to aid her. Just inspiration and a keyboard. What came of it is touching...the kind of story that makes you feel loved in a universe where it's easy to feel small. I have been given permission to share it here...
As I walked along the dusty streets of Jerusalem, I came across a man. He was perched on a stool with an easel placed in front of him sturdily in the ground. As I approached I could see a blank canvass, unusually white, placed gently on the easel. Curiosity overwhelmed me. As I neared him, thoughts soared across my brain. Why was he out here in the middle of nowhere? What was there to paint? We were surrounded by miles of nothing but desert. When I finally reached him he was delicately rustling through his paint, as if to find the perfect shade of colorful magic. He began painting. Colorful fluid flowed smoothly from his brush, sweeping back and forth across the white canvass. He made the work look incredibly effortless. I could see the passion in his eyes as he furrowed his brow. I could tell this painting was of great value. If he knew I was watching, I did not know. He had given no note to my existence. “Sorry to bother you,” I stated. But I saw you over here and I was just wondering….what are you painting?” He looked up at me as if he had known I was there the entire time. He had a soft gleam in his eye. “Just wait and see.” He replied. “I know you won’t be disappointed.” And with that he continued his painting. “If you like,” he added, “You can view my other artwork.” “Yes, I would like that very much.” I replied. As he searched for his artwork I found myself feeling like I had seen him before, like I knew him. I didn’t know why. He handed me a book full of portraits, took his seat, and continued on. As I viewed his work I was amazed at how detailed the pictures were. But as I looked closer I noticed the paintings were of the last parts of Jesus Christ’s life. The pictures told a story. I was caught up in a vision. I opened my eyes and found I was in a place unknown to my memory, but in a story I knew all too well. I looked around. I saw a sign reading The Garden of Gethsemane. A man lay before my eyes. Pain filled my heart. I heard the tender words cry from his lips “Father, if thou art willing, remove this cup from me. I thought of all my sins and mistakes; of all the reasons that he was here suffering. If only I had been able to reach out and hold his hand, and cradle him like a mother’s child. Pain and gratitude filled my soul, and I cried like I never had before. I looked up and wiped my eyes, a new scene stood before my eyes. Soldiers in red capes I saw, and Judas sealing the fate of this man with kiss on the cheek. I followed them as the man was hit, and beaten near to death. A crown of thorns placed upon his head. Then on the cross, a desperate plea, ‘’ Father, why hast thou forsaken me?” Then it was finished. I had no words from anything I had seen or heard. Than one last painting, an empty tomb. The sun shone brightly on a man dressed in shining white. A woman stood, one word escaped her lips. “Master!” she cried. I opened my eyes and the vision was done. Again I felt tears forming in my eyes. This time not tears of sorrow, but of joy. I knew where I had seen the artist. I recognized the gleam in his eye. I ran my hands gently over the paintings. I looked up. The man was gone, but the easel still stood in the ground. The painting he had been so enveloped in was finished. It had exquisite detail. It was me, cradled in the arms of the savior.
