Short Stories

In The Painter's Hands

by Stephen Wong
03/14/21
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“But I don’t have any gifts whatsoever?!” I protested firmly.

Dad just chuckled at me. It annoyed me how he could always be so carefree. We had the same argument every week. Dad was always trying to get me more involved in serving at church. This time, he wanted me to help organise the cooking night for youth group. Somehow it never occurred to him to ask any of my much more gifted friends instead.

“Let me show you something about serving.” Dad motioned me towards the blank canvas sitting in the corner. “Let’s see you paint a parrot. You can use whatever colours suit you.”

“You serious? I can’t paint to save my life! Have you heard what Mr. Stevenson says about my drawings?”

Dad smiled and handed me the brush and palette. This was going to be a long afternoon.

“Don’t worry your head off for once. Trust me.”

I stared nervously at the brush in my hand and then at the blank canvas in front of me. I hope Dad was prepared for the disaster that was about to happen. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I knew better than to argue with him. Whenever Dad was trying to teach me something, he somehow became very persistent. It would be easier just to get it over and done with.

I dipped the brush into some dark blue paint. Lifting the brush to the canvas, I attempted to paint the head of the parrot. As soon as my brush hit the canvas I regretted picking up so much paint at once. Instead of painting a simple line I ended up creating a giant blob. I tried to smooth out the blob with the brush, hoping to undo my mistake. Instead of smoothing things out though, I was left with an ugly smudge. I stared back at Dad expecting to see a cringe on his face. He was as calm as ever with no hint of emotion on his face. It amazed me how nothing seemed to worry him.

Next, I decided to go for some red paint, being careful not to repeat my initial mistake. This time I managed to successfully avoid making a blob, but my painting wasn’t much better. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t seem to get the shape of a bird right.

I tried to add in a few more colours for the parrot’s beak, feet and feathers, but it only ended up creating a bigger mess of colours. This was becoming too painful. My painting didn’t even look anything like a parrot. It looked more like a weird funky giant pear with wings sitting on top of two sticks. Surely this wasn’t what Dad had been expecting to see. 

“Good job. Why don’t I take over from here?”

Finally, the words I had been waiting to hear! Now Dad was going to set things right. He gently took the brush from my hand. I imagined that he must have been dying on the inside, but there was still no hint of emotion on his face.

He calmly dipped the brush in the blue paint I had first started off with. I sat down and watched as he applied the brush over the canvas. Every brushstroke was so smooth and graceful. It was like watching a dance. As he continued to work, I could see my ugly paint smudges and crooked lines begin to form into beautiful feathers. Soon I could see the shape of a parrot’s head forming, then there was a beak. There were now new shades of colour that I didn’t even know existed! Every single mistake and imperfection I had made was now blending into a beautiful myriad of shades: blue, red, purple, yellow, orange… The parrot was truly coming alive.

After a few more minutes, Dad seemed satisfied with his work and stepped back from the canvas. I was utterly speechless. The painting was absolutely breathtaking. He had turned my mythical fruit into an amazing parrot. How had he managed to do it, to create such a beautiful work of art from my own pitiful attempts at painting? Dad’s artwork never failed to amaze me, but it didn’t make me feel any better about my own abilities. What was he trying to teach me?

“I still don’t understand the point of this lesson Dad. All it proves is that I’m a terrible painter!”

“Well I see a lovely piece of artwork in front of me,” replied Dad in his usual calm manner.

“You know I wouldn’t have been able to paint that without your help,” I protested.

“Well that’s the way God works. We all need his help in serving him. On our own, none of us has the ability to do anything for God. But when we entrust ourselves to him and step out and serve him with the limited gifts and abilities we do have, he can make something of that. In his hands, our messy artwork becomes a truly beautiful masterpiece. God is the true Painter of our lives, and nothing is impossible when we give our efforts to him.”