The light seeps in through bits of stain glass windows,
Catching sight of a thousand mismatched colours;
The vibrancy of forgotten tints and shades
Is half-hidden beneath a layer of darkness,
But it glimmers a little here and there:
The purple, blue and yellow hands,
The glittering of emerald and golden eyes;
We are a collection of created beings,
Too overwhelmingly different to be painted in one stroke;
And yet looking at ourselves is frustrating at times:
We squint at the smudged, ugly features –
Like reflections in an imperfect mirror,
We are only dull, fragmented echoes of the divine.
And it’s easy to forget
That your work as Creator is not yet completed.
The brushes are still wet with paint; the easel is still set up.
We want to be ready now. Beautiful now.
We always want it now.
The Painter waits with a sad, patient smile
As we, the unfinished paintings, fidget restlessly.
Some are eager to hurry up the process,
Others are afraid to let the paint soak in – afraid to be fully known.
Stay still, stay still little one. The colours are not yet right.
With each stoke you complete us,
Your brushes transform our shadows into myriad of colours:
Patience, dear one.
For I leave no work unfinished.
~ Ilana Reimer