My husband’s grandmother, Betty, was an art student in her youth. She had talent, and was well known in her community for her character studies. She painted scenes from the past, women sneaking moments of solitude in their obviously chore-filled lives, reading books or knitting. She even did Narcissus, staring straight into the water. But this six-foot painting of Jesus is the one I love the most.
I remember it looming in a hallway in my mother-in-law’s house. No one talked about it, but I’d sneak my own moments with it, staring, silently wondering, feeling something. When that house sold, Jesus was packed into a solid crate and stored away. My mother-in-law eventually passed, and the crate made its way to my garage.
In that time, I learned Betty had given up her creative life for marriage and family. It’s what you did in those days, I guess. But it never left her. She was tough, hard to be around, edgy, icy even. She ruled the roost and everyone listened when she yelled. I interpret that as regret in full activation. I hope not, but I can’t help wondering what kind of life she might’ve led, had she forsaken the norms and followed her dreams.
One day, for a number of reasons and many other stories, I suggested we uncrate Jesus. “What will we do with him? He’s huge!” I don’t know, we’ll figure that out later. So we dragged out his crate and pried him loose. I was in full resurrection mode, feeling the utter importance of this event in my life. We peeled off the newspaper (interesting in itself) and there he was, in pristine condition, saying nothing, implying everything.
Now, he hangs on a wall just outside my bedroom. I talk to him. I talk to Betty. I feel good in their company. I’m sorry she gave up her passion for a mortal life, but it’s a constant reminder to me to keep going, to dream, to follow my own path and to trust my own voice.
