The other day while I was roaming around the streets of Manhattan, I made a trip up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’ve been there before, and it’s always one of my places to go. In particular, I always love to go look at a sculpture they have there of Andrew Jackson. It’s an incredible piece of work, with every detail seeming as real as if he were standing in front of me. When I look at things like that, I wish I could create that kind of art.
As I walked around slowly and looked at the incredible pieces lining the numerous halls of the museum, an interesting thought hit me: the art has absolutely no idea just how much work, thought, and care went into bring it into existence.
Right now you’re thinking, “well, duh, the art isn’t alive … it isn’t aware of anything.” (By the way, it’s been far too long since I used the word “duh.” I think we should start using it more often. Either that or start saying “NOT!!” again. Those were the days. But I digress…
Anyways, no, the art isn’t alive. So it doesn’t have the slightest clue as to the painstaking efforts the artist put in to it. It doesn’t have any idea how the artist poured a very piece of themselves into that work. It doesn’t know that the artist planned every detail and every mark, so that it could become the finished product.
That attitude reminds me a lot of … well, me.
Despite being alive, I’m just as unaware most of the time. How often in life’s darkest days I forget how the ultimate Artist poured a piece of himself into me. How often I think I’m here on my own even though He’s right there with me, carefully using every mark to shape me into something better. How often I forget how much work He’s doing in me, not so my life can be on “display,” but just because He loves me.
I know I’ll never fully realize the work of His hands until the day I meet Him, but He used Andrew Jackson to help me give me at least a little glimpse of that truth.