I’m looking at the painting I bought from one of the prisoners we met. It’s a beautiful black, white, and grey piece of the bayou. Beautiful.
There’s a story in the painting. A story of the history of the bayou. The moss hanging from the trees. The pirogue sitting next to the wooden house on pillars sitting above the swampy water. There’s the darkened sky that is so reminiscent of Louisiana autumns. Yes, there is history in this picture that is so delicately and beautifully painted on a 16×20 piece of plywood.
There’s a story in the painting that tells of the time, patience, and pain of the man who’s delicate strokes created this masterpiece. There’s the story that we can’t know, that we can only guess at. There’s history in his art that tells the story of a man who found a creative outlet to pass his time, to find some good in the time he is serving, to find some beauty in his world that consists of gray concrete walls, steel bars, and barbed wire fences.
Every person has a story. They may be able to verbally share it, but there is a story in there. We just have to decide if we will be kind enough to listen to their story whether it is verbalized or not.
God bless, and be blessed.