Good Friday

It’s Good Friday. We are going to church in a couple of hours. I am gladly anticipating what will happen there. I feel something moving... drawing near. I don’t know what it is.

The worship team has been practicing, preparing for Sunday. They know which songs they will play in which keys, what tempo, using which instruments. There are talented ladies doing feminine things with flowers and banners and candles and who knows what. They have a vision for the look, the feel, the atmosphere for this service. Pastor T. is writing, and rewriting, and editing, and polishing and fine-tuning his message. It is going to be on John 21:1-14. The message is divided into three parts, each part lending its perspective, its own element, creating a triune whole, a homily, bringing a little of the Lord’s light and love into our lives.

There is a large canvas on an easel between the front seats and the stage. It is two feet by four feet. Eight hundred and sixty-four square inches of white canvas without a mark on it. By the end of the service I will have painted something there.

I haven’t any idea what that will be.




I have been net surfing, looking at images of empty tombs, crucifixions, and the ascension. From Salvador Dali to Rembrandt, from the middle Ages to modern, I have been seeking inspiration.

I have no idea what I will paint.

How would you feel if you were going to step in front of your congregation on Easter Sunday, and were going to perform something, a music recital, give a message, some creative act, and you were unprepared?

I should be freaked out. I should be extremely nervous. I haven’t been painting all that much.

But I'm not.


I feel excited and at peace. I want to know what I am going to do... call me "curious". But I know that it will come. He will tell me. And I'll do it.

It will all be fine.