The Gift of What Is

Hey, Good Morning; it’s Tyler Head.

I am glad you are here this morning. Last week I shared the story of The Tall Man With a Big Heart. I’ve learned much from him, and I believe you might too. Check it out.

My friends, I hope you are well. It’s really muggy here in Missouri. Literally, I went on a run a couple of mornings back. I didn’t go that hard, nor did I go for too long, but walking the last block to my house - you could have sworn I had just gotten out of the shower…..fully clothed.

But here we are in July in Missouri. What a gift.

Welp. I am really jazzed about this one. It’s not what I was planning to write about this week, but that seems to be the gift of it.

Settle in, take a deep breath, sip of coffee, and walk with me for the next few minutes.

I once heard of a boy who was given a paintbrush, paint, and canvas when he turned four. He was instructed to paint anything he wanted, but he couldn’t paint it all.

So he accepted the tall task and began to paint.

Pick up the brush,

Dip it in the paint,

Step towards the canvas,

Stroke the brush,

Step back,

& repeat.

Each time upon finishing, he’d take a step back and observe his work.

More often than not, he’d smile and say, “Ahh, this is it.” Then he’d leave the canvas in place to remind him of what it was.

This process repeated itself for years and years, sometimes even multiple times a year.

Pick up the brush,

Dip it in the paint,

Step towards the canvas,

Stroke the brush,

Step back,

& repeat.

Until he smiled and said, “Ahh, this is it.” Then he’d leave the canvas in place to remind him of what “it” was.

Painting pictures of what he observed had proven to be a kind reminder of the joys in his life.

Years passed. He went through school, worked a few jobs, met a wise and kind woman, and they had a child together.

Meanwhile, he’d revisit the canvas periodically over time.

One day, well into his adult life - he looked around his home and surroundings with dismay and asked, “Is this it?”

All he could see was how things were not, the places he hadn’t been, and things he hadn’t done.

Filled with much self-pity, sadness, shame, and anger, he looked for his paintbrush.

He knew what to do.

Pick up the brush,

Dip it in the paint,

Step towards the canvas,

Stroke the brush,

Step back,

& repeat.

Until he smiled and said, “Ahh, this is it.”

So he set out to find his paintbrush.

Returning to his last painted canvas, he was greeted with a simple reminder of what “it is.”

This canvas was one he painted a few years back: with him, his wife, and their young child standing in a field. All smiling really big.

One could tell from the brush strokes that the painter was not an expert, but you could see the joy on the faces depicted.

He stepped back, smiled gently as if he’d known all along, and said aloud, “Ahh. This is it.”

Then he picked up the brush to paint what we saw.

I’ve painted tons of pictures in my lifetime; pictures of what it’s supposed to look like, how it’s supposed to be, how others are or were supposed to be.

Dreaming, envisioning, and fantasizing about what hasn’t been or is supposed to be.

However, painting these images in my head often steal from the gift of what is.

This week a buddy and I shared our thoughts with one another around the following question:

What pictures have you painted about life that are stealing joy from you now?

My hope for he, me, and us; is that we may find a literal place and grow in courage to share this aloud, shed the image of what it should look like, and step into what it is for all that it is and all that it is not. And repeat.

This is the great gift of painting what we see rather than what could be.

As we look at the canvas in front of us, the brush in which we have, and the beauty around us, the tall task of painting becomes more effortless and reiterative.

May you be encouraged that in the practice of being with and being be’d with - oftentimes, it’s much more about picking up the paintbrush and learning to let go of what “it” should look like.

Dear friends keep picking up the brush, sharing aloud what is not, and singing aloud the gift of what is.

Talk again soon!

Thanks for being you.

Just a reminder: If this provokes a response in you — feel free to type it out, send it over, and I’ll read it. Or type it out and save it for later.

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