This is a painting Eli did of a church in his Sunday School class when he was just 3 years old.  The moment his little 3 year old hands placed this painting into mine and said, "Look, Mama. My church."  was monumentally profound for me. His church. I continue to marvel at Eli's color selections for this piece since that very day.  Enticingly, his work speaks to me.  It sends me a message clear and strong.  I find peace each time that my eyes fix upon it.  Its saturated hues of peacock, muddled coral and antiqued brown settle into my heart.  Its color intensifies, peaks, and sends out shockwave strokes from steeple to steps. I often wonder what my 3 year old Eli meant when he left the roof's corner unshaded and  the left side steps likewise. Staring into this church, I get lost.  The intense collection of colors all mingled together as if holding hands.  Movements up and down like streaked rays or sturdy columns. And then, empty edges. I adore the idea of church being just this:  all colors mingled together holding hands, sturdy columns and rays too.  Sending up.  Pouring out. Holding on. From steeple to steps.  Perhaps the empty corners are to remind us that no matter what it is and no matter where you are, there is always room.  That a seat is always saved for you:: just you. A hand is always ready to join yours right where you are in your walk.  Better yet, a place is always reserved with your name in God's house.
"Look, Mama.  My church."  Eli said.
Monumentally profound indeed. About 2 years ago, I adhered this painting to a canvas I painted and framed it.  Since then, it has hung in our home.  It serves as a reminder that no matter what happens in this life, He holds our colors and knows our empty edges. And there is room.  Always room.  .mac