If I can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman, I shall feel that I have worked with God.
Most evenings there is no sunset fanfare, no departing glowing orb on the horizon, no color spreading upward into the clouds. The typical evening canvas is just grey and ordinary at dusk, transitioning to twilight, giving into nightfall. Grey-darkergrey-black.
Yet there are times not at all ordinary. On those evenings, the Master reaches deep for his palette and starts mixing. As He begins His work, grey gradually gives way to amber and orange, shifting to red and purple and yellow. A daub here, a speckle there, then full out splash and streak. We are invited to pick up a brush and apprentice for Him, learning the sweep of the hand, the grace of the wrist stroke, the fine work of the brush tip outlining the black of darkening shadows.
There can be no wrong color combination; anything goes. It is a riveting gift of extraordinary artwork: it is meant to be shared, to be taught, to be cherished even if only for a few brief minutes.
When the sky glows with unfolding rose petals, all will see it; this work won’t be hidden away in a gallery or museum.
All too soon it moves on, the canvas plain and dark once again. And we’re left holding the brush, eager and ready to try again when the timing is right.