In Color

A Short Story by Nick Gerlich
(and part of the 2005 Gerlich Christmas Letter)

So I was driving along one day through Amarillo and spotted something on the corner ahead. There was an old van parked in front of a defunct business, and the owner had erected one of those cheap awning tents you can buy down at the warehouse club. He was an art dealer, I suppose.

Everyone has seen the shameless hucksters that set up shop at abandoned gas stations, hawking cheesy paint-on-velvet renditions of African animals, bullfighters, and Elvis. I wonder who in their right mind would buy something like that, much less hang it in their living room.

When I'm in a funky mood, I threaten to buy one just to see what kind of reaction I can get from Becky. But I'm smart enough to not follow through. I really don't want to sleep outside with the dogs. Or with a velvet Elvis smashed over my head.

I can't imagine what's going through the minds of these painters. It seems like a waste of a perfectly good picture frame. I can visualize a sweatshop somewhere filled with wannabe artists ever-so-carefully swirling their oils on velvet. I can picture Gas Station Man buying these by the van load in a dark warehouse on the shady side of town.

And suddenly I found myself slowing down to look at them.

Gas Station Man had the whole place to himself. I guess no one had "buy art" on their shopping list that day, for not a soul was there to peruse his outdoor gallery. The lonely look on his face bespoke not just a bad business decision but also a certain emptiness within.

Not wanting to break his monotony, I rolled on, wondering what it must be like to be selling something that no one wants.

* * * * *

About a month ago Becky was shopping at Wal-Mart, and in the middle of her shopping trip had to duck out to go get the kids at gymnastics. She parked her cart by customer service so she could resume shopping in a few minutes. As she hurriedly drove out of the parking lot and onto the street, she saw an older woman in one of those electric wheelchairs sitting curbside. She was nearly buried by her purchases, and had a tired look on her face. "What's up with her?" Becky wondered.

A few minutes later, Becky returned with the kids and started to turn into the parking lot. Wheelchair Lady was still sitting there. For some reason, traffic was light at that instant. Becky slowed down, waved to the woman, and rolled down the passenger-side window.

"Do you need some help?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Do you have a phone?"

"Yes. Would you like for me to call someone?"

"Could you call the bus company? The bus should have been here a long time ago. I've got the number"

Becky called the number and a man assured her the bus would be there soon. In the mean time, Becky and Wheelchair Lady made small talk. The lady lived in a nursing home, had an absentee daughter, and was lonely. With two cases of soda and a mountain of little white plastic shopping bags, she looked like she had the weight of the world on her lap.

With the bus on its way, Becky needed to move on and get back to her cart in the store. As she said good bye, Wheelchair Lady left her with three words.

"Come see me."

* * * * *

I've been doing some painting myself lately. Most of the window frames were in need of a facelift, having peeled and cracked in the dry, relentless solar heating we know as summer. And not being a very good painter, I've managed to get primer and paint on me, the bricks, and the windows.

At least the frames were restored.

In my ideal world, we'd never have to do any of this painting business. For that matter, it would be a lot easier if we never had to change anything about ourselves either. But in the last 20 years, I have had to get a paint job myself many times. It's all about remaining vibrant and alive, ready not just for the "now" but also the "later." The cracks of the past need to be covered in order to give a new lease on life.

Which explains why I've been carrying a brush lately and sporting paint smudges on my fingers. Without a little paint, those windows would be falling out of the wall, and we'd have year-round air conditioning.

* * * * *

A couple of weeks ago Becky and the girls went to visit Wheelchair Lady. Before going, they baked cookies at home and wrapped them up real nice. It was just before Thanksgiving, and Becky figured the woman might need some visitors.

As the three of them entered her room at the nursing home, the woman's eyes perked up and the color came back to her face. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, bringing a nearly lifeless old woman back to life. They talked and talked, shared stories, talked about family members and Thanksgivings past, and all that.

It was a happy time but one that would only last an hour or so. Becky eventually gathered up the girls and their belongings, and prepared to say goodbye. As they were walking out the door, Wheelchair Lady said something with a slight quiver in her voice.

"I knew you'd come."

* * * * *

There's a story in the Bible about Jesus sitting at a well, and along comes a woman in the middle of the day. This was not the normal time for women to collect water, but as became apparent later, she was a woman with a history. She wanted to avoid others.

The woman, a Samaritan, was surprised when Jesus asked her for a drink. Caught off guard, she did not know that Jesus could have offered her a drink of living water. Jesus went on to amaze the woman by telling of her past and present. In spite of all her sin, Jesus accepted her just as she was.

Stunned that a Jew would even speak with her, she stood in awe of this man who clearly was not ordinary at all. With the weight of her sins bearing down, she tried to change the subject and instead said to Jesus, "I can see that you are a prophet." She went on to discuss the disagreement between the Jews and Samaritans concerning worship.

Jesus then set her straight by dismissing both viewpoints and said, "The time has come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and in truth."

The woman then said, "I know the Messiah is coming. And when he gets here, he'll explain everything to us."

To which Jesus replied, "You're speaking to the Messiah right now."

Sometimes I feel like the woman at the well, mindful of my past and uncertain of my future. Sometimes I feel like I should go to the well alone. Sometimes I'd like to say to the Messiah, "I knew you'd come."

* * * * *

I wish I could say that the painting is behind me. The scary thing is, we're never really quite done. For just as you make it around the whole house, you find that where you began is already cracking and in need of more paint.

And so Gas Station Man sits there by himself pondering the market for velvet paintings, wondering why no one comes, while Wheelchair Lady basks in the glow of surprise visitors. One needs a fresh coat, while the other has already received hers.

The same is true of each of us. If anything, we need to walk around with a "wet paint" sign stuck to our forehead, a painting in progress, one that will look far different in 20 years than it does today, or 20 years ago. It's all about being restored.

With a little luck we won't wind up on display at some abandoned gas station. Next to a velvet Elvis.

And now may the God who came to earth in living color, restore the color in the portrait of your life. You knew he'd come, didn't you?