“The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing . . . to find the place where all the beauty came from.”
― C. S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold
While pondering the canvas of the world, I dared to accept the challenge my faith had set before me. The Catholic Church claimed to hold the answers to my endless wonderings, and my insatiable desire would leave no stone unturned. I had to know the truth of which the world’s beauty spoke. The beauty you revealed to me. I was determined to find the perfect answer, the perfect words, the perfect formula for my questions. What I found instead continues to astound me.
I found a painting. It had the same beginning every painting has. It had an artist, gently and lovingly creating from the depth of his heart. Every brushstroke spoke of his care and devotion for each molecule he made. But I found when the artist painted my story it didn’t begin with my birth. It began at the dawn of time with the first human beings: their inheritance and ultimately their great loss. It continued for thousands of years of triumphs and tragedies. So much of their story echoes my own experience of pain and failure. But the great artist never lifted his brush from the painting. Even with its jagged edges and hard-to-make-out details, the artist maintained his throughline of love with every stroke.