Paint and Pearls

I carry a used can of oil-based paint up the stairs for the doors. There are four of them. Two bedroom, one bathroom, and one linen closet. White paint. A nice compliment to the apricot-cream sweetening the walls. I dip the bristle brush in, praying that I won’t make a mess of this, and lift the brush in one long, steady stroke of concentration.  I stay with the grain and it swallows and the paint seeps deep. And I think about doors.

I have a door. It yawns on its hinges, ajar. Uncertain about being closed. Uncomfortable about being open. And most of the time I don’t know what to do with it. But one time I did. I opened it. And open it stood. Committed. Certain. Awake. And my soul was introduced to Life. To Life that was wounded to death and raised up again that I might know life. Jesus.

Life folded His fingers over the palm wound, and knocked on my door. A pierced hand; a scarred fist. The hard pounding at the cross echoed gentle at my door. The knock.  

That was over half a lifetime ago, and somehow my door yawns ajar again. Languishing. Dispirited, I languish there, too. Soul faint. Fearing pain. Soul-eyes half closed; door half cracked in the yawn. Ignore the wounds of life. Or try.

 

Yet, Life was wounded, and so is all of life walking on this earth. But, oh how precious costly those wounds. His, and ours too. Eternally dear.

Sometimes I forget this, but I am remembering, now, while drawing the brush down the door to soak it thirsty in paint. The bristles drink it up, refreshed, and so does the door. I reach for my water bottle, thirsty too. I swallow and it seeps deep into the grain. Into my heart and soul door grain. I swallow again and realize that I cannot close the door. Not the one in front of me, or it will dry stuck closed. Not the one hinged on my heart I opened to Jesus. And the third cannot be closed. It stands wide as light open.

I open all wide.

Bowed over paint tray on the bath-towel drop cloth, I think about the one that never closes.  What do I know about this door? It’s one gate out of twelve. It’s set in a great and high wall of jasper, clear as crystal the glory of God. It’s the entrance to His throne. Life stands in the midst of the throne looking every bit the Lamb that was slain. And it’s breathtaking to admire Him in the glimpse the typed words offer on the page of scripture, open, before me. Ah, and there’s the fourth door. The Holy Word, open.

I also know this; each one of the twelve is made of one pearl. Twelve pearls formed as pearls are. By irritants. By pains behind the shell wall. Enormous pearls, formed because of unspeakable wounding pain, from beginning to end, to fit the great and high wall.

I don’t want to languish behind a yawning door, wounded and too faint to feel pearl-forming pain. If I don’t let myself feel it, there will be no pearl. If I feel little, the pearl will be small. If I let what irritates, what pains, wound; feel the reefs and barriers and scrape past the corals; feel the dive down ocean leagues deep, daring to keep open the door Jesus knocked on, there will be pearl.

I do dare. My mind bends hard to think this way. It hurts. The bristley brush has rubbed me raw and the grain has swallowed the paint. 

I carry paint can, tray, brush down the stairs. Hammer the lid down, toss the tray and now the brush drinks up acetone. And I give thanks. No acetone! The blood of Christ! And I give thanks. There He stands. See His scars. And I give thanks. See through the open door no more pain. See past the pearl no more tears. And I give thanks.

Could it be, I wonder as I swish and press the bristles at the sink, that on the other side of each gate there will be no more tears or pain because they have been swallowed by pearl? Held deep in pearl heart?

And I give thanks.

I will open my door wide awake. Feel. Turn it all into thanksgiving. Pearls are formed like that.


written by: Carolyn Roehrig