Color Me Happy

“I don’t believe in accidents. There are only encounters in history. There are no accidents.” –Pablo Picasso

Even though I’ve had a smattering of art instruction and know color pretty well, I had a surprise once with pigment which will always color my thinking on the subject. I was getting some Martha Stewart interior wall paint at K-mart. I’d already painted my bathroom a lovely blush of pale peachy-pink to match the fixtures. I was thrilled with the color. Every time I walked into that room I felt happy. But it needed another coat. You could just see the unevenness of the color at the top and bottom of the wall where it had been cut in with the trimmer.

As I stood waiting for the young guy at the counter to mix the paint, he made a noise that sounded like “Oops”. I was in a bit of hurry and ignored his concern.

“Are you sure you want it?” He asked, referring to the gallon he’d mixed.

“How bad can it be?” I asked. I didn’t want him to get in trouble—he said he’d gone over a bit on the black.

“Black?”

He showed me the mixed and shaken paint. It looked fine. These days they can match a color so exactly it’s amazing. I bought it, took it home and applied it.

That tiny addition of a drop or so of black paint changed the color so dramatically I still can’t believe it. While I thought it might change after drying, and while I thought I could just live with it rather than go through all the trouble to go back to the store and repaint again, I was wrong on both counts. Instead of that rosy delightful room, I have lived with a color not unlike that of flesh that might be found in a funeral home. It’s the only way I can describe it.

Of course this kind of thing can go both ways. I have two wooden decks which I made the mistake of painting instead of staining. Now every year they exact a price by needing to be painted again. No matter how expensive the paint, it never lasts through an entire year. We intend to replace those decks due to age, so last year I decided to use the cheapest stuff I could find, since the old green stain was showing through.

I looked through the misfit collection of rejected paints and stains at Home Depot. Not much of a selection to go with my butter-yellow house. Well, there was one gallon of deck paint—guaranteed to last with a forty dollar price tag to match—for five bucks.  A dab on the lid showed a tint somewhere between a navy officer’s uniform and an eggplant. Wow. I dragged my feet and walked around the aisle again. Well, since purple and yellow are supposed to be complementary colors (they oppose one another on the color wheel) I reasoned, they might work. But the purple is so dark and the yellow is so light. . .

I finally decided those decks could go out with a last hurrah. Why not? I’m getting to an age where people either think you’re eccentric or crazy. Might as well give ‘em some evidence.

I asked my brother, a severe critic, who occasionally drives by at around 70 mph, “Did you see the color I painted my porches?”

“That really dark purple? Yeah, it looks really sharp! Makes your whole house look great.”

As I pondered this response, I noted that I had painted the two doors periwinkle the previous year. Who could know? Since then I’ve had countless compliments on this “choice”.

If only all accidents could turn out to be such happy ones.

Quote from a car insurance claim form: "The guy was all over the road. I had to swerve a number of times before I hit him."

 

 

Heaven's inside track

Just Saying. .  .

Did you ever have a little feeling nagging at you? You think, “I should do that” but you let it go. When it comes again, you squelch it. Then, after a tug of war for what may be hours, or even days, you decide to give in.

A moth, uniquely beautiful, landed on the slider door screen, where it stayed for several hours. The body was furry yellow, which made it resemble a teddy bear. It had pink anthers and pink markings on the pale yellow wings. It crossed my mind to look it up, but I ignored it.

The day went on, with me in and out of the living room, where the moth was still on the door. It occurred to me that it might be a rare creature, one that was nearly extinct. Still, I had other things, more pressing, to do.

I must have felt guilty at one point, because I took a few shots with the camera for distinguishing marks. Still, I put it off.

Finally, it nagged at me so that I pulled down my Golden Guide to Butterflies and Moths. Now here’s the crazy part. There, stuck in the page with the Small-Eyed Sphinx was my Citibank credit card that I had lost last summer! Was it really that long ago? I had not reported it because I was pretty sure it was in the house, and I had another card that I used. I had looked and looked for that card—to no avail. I gave it up. 

Sometimes we hear a still, small voice that spurs us. We don’t know why, and often the nudge is so gentle you can nearly miss it. It may not be a tangible thing like a fascinating moth on the door. It may just be a whisper to phone someone who’s been on your mind.

One time I had an urge to visit a person I did not know. I knew his wife, but she had died of cancer years before and I had never met him. Often when I drove by his square, flat-roofed house I had this urge to stop, knock on the door, and tell him about the Lord. Or invite him to church or something. But I pushed it out of my mind, ignoring it every time it rose up. It was a crazy notion. He’d think I was nuts.  What would I say?

Not long after one of those nudges, I was at the party store near my house. The two clerks were discussing in hushed voices an incident at a house across the road. A man had committed suicide; shot himself in the head. With trepidation I asked which house? It was the little square house with the flat roof. They said he’d got cancer and decided to end his life.

I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. Here was someone who needed to hear a word of hope; a person who may or may not have been a believer, but certainly a fellow human sojourner. A person who needed a friend.

Years later, a friend of my mother’s (whom I’ll call Joanie) was gravely ill and in the hospital. She had been in that condition for two weeks. My mother told me they thought she might not last the night. I felt this strong urge to go see her. Mom said she was not conscious. There was no point. Her own family was not going to visit.

I am not one to visit people on their deathbed. But I was unwavering. Because, you see, I had been down this path before. When I got there at 11 p.m. they let me in! The room was dark, and her breathing was so labored, it scared me. But I took her hand, and said, “Joanie, I’d like to pray with you.” She gave the slightest pressure with her hand, which encouraged me. I asked God for relief of her pain and peace of mind. It was the simplest of prayers because I was afraid the nurse would come in and tell me to leave. Then, I said, “Just trust Jesus, Joanie; just trust him.” I gave her a hug, got back in the car and drove the sixty miles home. I felt—well, I felt good. Like I’d run a marathon or something.

The next morning mom phoned to tell me that Joanie had died the previous night. Turns out it was just twenty minutes after I left her bedside.

Was my visit to Joanie of any real value? Why didn’t I obey the whisper to visit that man? Did God send a moth to show me where my credit card was? I don’t know. But I do know that if we heed that still, small voice we may find something good in an unexpected place and be very, very glad for it.