It’s raining, hard…

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a young man’s car that I hardly know and he’s crying. Silent sobs at first. But then bigger, louder and stronger. He is having an encounter with his Creator and I’m shocked and astonished at how quickly the voice of God has cut through years of pain, anger and unbelief, to speak 3 words. 

“I’ve missed you”, he heard God whisper into his heart.

I sit there in near silence, gently facilitating this conversation between a misunderstood heavenly Father and his estranged son. After a short time, he regains his composure, thanks me and has to head back to work. Definitely not your typical lunch break. But a new relationship with his Eternal Creator has just begun. That was over 8 years ago but I still remember it clearly today.

I remembered how we got into that car. It started months earlier at a nearby cafe. The young man worked there as a barista, making coffees on an old machine placed in the disused elevator shaft of the building. I was searching for somewhere to paint, where I could escape the heat but still have bright natural light. The cafe tables where tiny, rickety and the chairs were horribly uncomfortable. But the light was perfect. So day after day, week after week I would return to the cafe, order a drink, open my watercolor set and paint. 

One day when the young man came over to deliver my drink he commented on what I was painting. This happened a few times and I felt prompted to ask him if he was an artist too. He said he was a musician but that his mother had been a painter. A watercolor painter. But she had died recently. It was cancer. Then he walked away. 

We didn’t speak after that, not for a while. Then one day I asked if I could see his mother’s paintings. His face lit up and he quickly stopped his work, pulled out his phone and started to show me photos of her watercolors, photos of her, photos of them together. This happened on several occasions. He was so alive in those moments. He would then quickly retreat into himself again. But in his eyes there was a distinct longing. One I knew all too well. He longed to be known in this place of pain. To be seen. By someone. 

Months later, I decided to invite him to lunch, to see if he wanted to talk more. We met at a Vietnamese restaurant around the corner from the cafe one rainy fall afternoon. He asked about my life and I told him I was an artist and that I worked for a missions organization overseas where I tell people about the love and healing that Jesus offers to all of mankind. I asked if he considered himself a spiritual person and he told me that he had been. Before she died. Now he believed in nothing. How could he? How could he believe after what he had seen? 

And then I saw it again. The longing in his eyes. “See me. Please see me. Know me, and know this pain. Please.” 

I signaled for the check, packaged up my leftovers and asked if we could continue the conversation somewhere more private. So he offered his car. 

The thing that strikes me when I remember this incredibly brave young man, was how we met. What brought us together? What allowed all of this to play out over the ensuing months? It was my watercolor set. My pack of heavy weight, cold pressed paper. My two brushes and a cup of water. It was art. It was creativity building a bridge to a man lost on an island of pain and doubt. 

That bridge then allowed me to introduce him to other creatives and musicians who were growing in their relationships together and in their faith, creating belonging and community. He went on to get married and build his own family. And the pain of the past was allowed to finally become just that. His past. All of this through a moment of God moving, healing and drawing him close through the door that art opened.