The artists I love

HAYS, KANSAS -- The night before we left I sat in our living room alone in the dark sipping red wine from a plastic cup. It was late. I was staring at our fireplace, thinking about the artists I love. And I was crying.

Randy had been over working all day painting downstairs – the third day he’d spent on that project working long meticulous hours during precious time off from his job. He worked like an artist painting a perfect blank tapestry. Randy is also an artist of conversation. He can talk to anyone and fill any discussion with insight, intelligence and wisdom. And if conversation ever slips into debate or -- as it sometimes should for those who are passionate about their world – even argument, Randy never holds overheated words against you. Even if you were a jackass. Instead, he paints your house.

Over and over again through the past few weeks, Randy’s wife, Sandra has made us meals and helped out with our many projects. On this day she had brought us a plate full of breakfast tacos before heading to work. She is a culinary artist. And I must say it has been a pleasure sharing her art over these past few years. But more importantly, Sandra’s creative genius lies in her gifts as mother and wife. Together Randy and Sandra have been a living book on parenting and we have learned more from their example than perhaps any others. They have, in ways great and small, made “love your neighbors” the easiest command of all.

Meanwhile, Sam had just spent hours with me figuring out how to finish the mantle on the fireplace. He didn’t leave until after 10 pm. The night before he’d missed his son’s baseball game. Tonight he’d missed a date with his wife. And when I was ready to give up on the mantle, he just made it happen. The house isn’t even on the market yet and he’s long since proven himself to be the hardest working realtor we’d ever worked with. Indeed, he takes what many make the science of home selling and turns it into an art form. But the simple fact is he would probably not be our realtor if he was not our friend first. And he has been a good friend, with the knack of saying simple, yet deeply profound words that can resonate for days. This is his real art.

Wendy had been over for the better part of the day as well painting upstairs, despite a rough night before. She hadn’t mentioned any of it as we’d worked, but -- as we have so many times before -- she’d stopped by to share a glass of wine and the challenges of the day with us. Wendy is an artist – in oils, watercolors, simple house paint and so much more, but she is also an artist of the heart. She cares and she shares. She gives and she receives with equal enthusiasm and grace. And, despite many challenges over the past few years, she is one of the most consistently peaceful people I know. And she is a truth-teller. She is constantly speaking truths. In fact, if I had to describe Wendy in two words they would be: Peaceful Prophet – she blends quiet humility with courageous conviction.

Diana has been a near constant presence over these last few weeks and this day was no
different. She brought us wonderful chicken salad sandwiches, using the baby’s precious nap time to make a meal for us. Knowing how organizationally challenged we are, she helped us make our garage sale happen. She would even sneak over at times, delivering moving boxes to us without even telling us. She is absolutely always ready to help, but that’s not her art.

Her art is in friendship. She and her husband Marc are warm, open, funny, and make being friends the most natural thing in the world. For Marley, Diana has become the kind of close friend that is very, very hard to leave behind. Marc, who is from Seattle originally, we think would be very wise to move his family back there as soon as possible. In the meantime, I will miss the merging of our tribes, the shared affinity for good beer and the conversations running late into the night.

Earlier in the day, I had gotten a package from Ted, my best friend, second only to my wife. It was his latest work of art – a DVD that he had made, the result of many hours of work and not a few conversations. The craftsmanship and attention to detail were breathtaking. Plus, it was really good. Ted is a renaissance man, a modern day DiVinci, who is one of those rare people who really can do anything he sets his mind to.

Anyway, I had called to congratulate him and tell him how much he sucks. I spent a good few minutes explaining in detail why and how he sucks for not being here to help us get ready for the move and that, basically, it’s all his fault that we’re getting a late start. Ted is the kind of friend you can do that with and not worry for a second that he’s taking any of seriously. Even though he really does suck and it really was all his fault. Ted is an artist in many ways, but the art of his that I cherish most is his uncompromising ability to be a great friend – to really know me, many warts and all, yet somehow seemingly still like me.

I knew that Darryl and Cathy would be over the next day, to see us off before we left. They had hosted a going away party at their house a few days earlier. The generous canvass they provided created a wide mural of memories that we will cherish forever. Indeed, generosity and openness are among the crafts they have perfected.

Outside, Grandpa Jeff had spent the hottest hours of the day, the first day that really felt like summer, edging the endless flowerbeds and mowing his signature diagonal cut across our lawn, sweat spilling off his body like a heavy shower. He is a landscaping maestro, bringing together the various pieces of our yard into perfect harmony. This has been a hard year for Jeff, but despite that he has remained one of the most giving people I know. And we have hiked up and down Jackass Hill together more than a few times, struggling together through pain and heartache. Jeff’s art is a combination of serving, meekness and willingness to struggle with the pain that marks him as a great leader.

Together, my mom and Jeff share the kind of gifts in grand-parenting that create a sweet song for our kids. Jeff has taught them both to golf and built within them an enthusiasm for sports and play. My mom has taught them to pray and instilled within them simple believing for the things of God. Plus, they're the kind of grandparents that remember to slip gifts quietly into the car, toys for playing on the road and in pools along the way. Most importantly, they have both sculpted relationship and memories with Amelia and Noah that are truly irreplaceable. And I know there will be much more to come.

My mom had been over earlier wanting to say her goodbyes, but I wouldn’t let her. I just wasn’t ready. Plus, I knew there was still a lot of work to do before we left the next day. We wouldn’t leave until she’d made it back from work Thursday evening, I told her. This move has been hardest on her most of all, and yet she has created a song of remarkable grace, with lyrics that somehow mix tears with encouragement and a melody that weaves an aching melancholy with the joy of the Lord. She is so proud of us, she tells us time and again. And this is the creative gift she shares with us and the world – the art of building up with honest and insightful praise.

And so I sat there in the dark, drinking my wine, looking at the fireplace through watery eyes. I had done a pretty good job all day staving off the tears, but somehow it was the fireplace that sent me over the edge.

When we first moved to New Knoxville and knew only my Mom and Jeff – and none of these other New Knoxville artists yet -- one of the only things we wanted in a house was a fireplace. We knew we wanted a home where friends and family could gather and in our mind that required a fireplace.

The house we eventually bought, however, while perfect in just about every other way, didn’t have one. So, even before our first boxes were unpacked we began building one. I designed the framing myself and helped build and install it. And so within weeks, even as winter was just beginning to settle in, the smells and sounds and glow and warmth of cracking wood were filling our home. But the fireplace remained a work in progress. The hearth needed tiling. And then, sigh, retiling (Marley was wise to have fired the first guy and not let him try again after the bullnose cracked off.) The rise above the mantle needed finishing. And even the mantle never quite looked right.

And so, two and half years later, the fireplace remained a work in progress. But there’s nothing like trying to sell a house to get things looking right. And suddenly, there it was. In the days, and even hours before, it had all come together. It was finished. And it was good.

The thing was, I realized, the people we had built it for, the relationships we had hoped to kindle and stoke and warm, they were not finished. They remain, sadly, tear-jerkingly because of our departure, but oh-so-thankfully in all other ways, very much a work in progress.

Some who are reading this from various corners of the globe can attest to the fact that we can be not the best of long distance friends. We’re trying and maybe someday we’ll even get our act together enough to send out Christmas cards like all the normal people do. But we like to think – we pray and hope, at any rate – that we are learning how to invest enough of ourselves in those we know and love that no matter how much time and distance may separate us that we can always just pick back up right where we left off whenever our paths cross again.