Harry

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a drawing workshop where I was challenged, frustrated, and enriched.

There were light bulb moments, and there was that one moment when I just wanted to run out of the room and give up ever trying to be an artist.

But the crowning moment of the workshop was not in the instruction I received nor in the art I attempted to create, but in the conversation with one of my fellow classmates: Harry.

I noticed him the first day. He was outside smoking when I drove up and gave me a tentative "hello" and a smile when I got to the door. We didn't exchange any words that I remember. Perhaps a smile when we crossed paths on break or at lunch, but I was drawn to him in a way I didn't get at the time.

The second day, we were on break, and I found myself standing next to Harry near the coffee. Somehow we struck up a conversation...mostly about how we heard about the workshop, what kind of art did we normally do, things like that. Then, out of the blue, Harry mentioned to me that he had lost his wife a couple of months prior and was at this workshop in an attempt to keep going in the midst of deep grief. I expressed my condolences just as the instructor started up again and tried to convey to Harry how sorry I was for his loss.

At the next break, I decided to ask Harry about his wife. I've heard that, although most people's immediate reaction to someone who has lost a loved one is to not talk about it, the one suffering the loss would usually like to talk about him/her. So, I asked Harry if his wife had also been an artist.

He smiled sadly and said that she had probably taught him most of what he knew. They had been married 26 years. Her passion, though, was medicine, and she was on her way to finishing up her degree in medicine to be a pathologist. She and 8 others had been in Mexico on some medical-related trip when she was killed in a tragic bus accident.

My heart broke for Harry. I began to silently weep with him as he expressed his deep loss and grief for this woman he loved so dearly, now suddenly ripped away in an unexpected way.

When I told Harry that I would pray for him, he told me that prior to her death, he had been an atheist. But that now he was moving towards "spiritual" atheist, longing to find meaning in the depths of his sorrow.

And he had chosen to turn to God. He doesn't know that yet, necessarily, but I see the signs. And I know how God can use anything to bring us to Him. God did not author that awful accident. The enemy did. But God will rescue Harry because of it. I'm almost sure.

As the workshop ended, I took Harry's hand and told him that God is close to the broken hearted. He replied: "He must be. You are like an angel."

And I thought I was going to an art workshop to improve on my art skills.

The Presence of God shining through this cracked clay pot.

I am in awe.