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If any of you grew up with me, you’ll remember how difficult I was…stubborn, fierce, turbulent, rude, and pig-headed. Probably explains why I have so few friends from childhood (those of you who stuck around, thank you). Recently, I’ve been researching painting for a novel series that I’m working on, and while paging through one of the research materials, I remembered the story below from one of my art classes.

“Barbara, mix a little water into the paint.” My grandmother leaned over my makeshift easel. My siblings and I sat in plastic chairs lined up in our front yard receiving an art lesson. My littlest brother for the moment still over his piece of paper.

“I know what I’m doing.”

My grandmother stepped away from me and my painting of a sunrise. The colors brilliant and hard refused to fade into each other. An image so breath-taking in my head threw a tantrum between my mind’s eye and my paintbrush, all hard lines and too bright colors.

Each of the other students in my grandma’s art class (those younger siblings of mine) listened to our teacher’s advice so their work started to look like what they intended.

My grandmother came alongside my painting, and I blocked her view with my arm. I’d do this on my own.

But with every stroke, my sunrise sky darkened. Instead of glorious ombré, I had tree veins of separate colors.

My stubbornness clogged my ability to paint softness.

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“I can’t do this!” I jumped up from my chair, knocking it backwards, and fled to my bedroom with tears rushing to my eyes. Through the tear streams, the voices in my head mocked me, you are such a failure, why did you ever think you could paint anything beautiful, you’re such a mean person.

Maybe an hour later, I gathered my courage to step out of my room again. No one mentioned my outburst. But my rocky sunrise paper still set out accused me of my stubborn refusal to accept help.

I think it was my mother who approached me and encouraged me to ask my grandmother for help.

Swallowing my pride. Was it part elephant and porcupine, large and spiked?

“Grandma, would you please help me with this picture?” My tone barely hid my unwillingness to ask for help, but my sweet grandmother responded to my words rather than my tone.

“Of course, Sweetheart.” Once again, she leaned over my painting, scrutinizing its ragged edges and shocking colors. “What if we flip it upside down?”

She lifted my paper and flipped it.

How could my sunrise suddenly look like ocean-beaten rocks? How did she know that would happen? Would I be willing to enter into this alteration of my plans?

But, I couldn’t do it on my own anymore.

Together, we water-diluted the paint. Murky water streaked and puddled on my paper, and I bit my cheek. We scrunched a paper towel and pressed it along the rocky ridge of what had been my sunrise.

When it dried, a misty painting of an ocean beating against rocks hid what I had thought was an unfixable mistake. Behind every success, there is failure. A few months later, that painting won a blue ribbon at the county fair.

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How often have I failed at something that only needed a different perspective to create beauty again? When have I needed to remember God’s vision for my life is better than my hap-hazarded allegiance to my own plan?

God of the rocky sunsets and misty boulders,

You are the best reminder of what I should be. You offer second chances, redeem stubborn mistakes, and show us new life where we see only failure.

Please forgive me for my pride and stubborn grip to hold onto what I think you should be doing for me. Remind me of who I am in you.

~ your forgetful child