A Few Strokes...

I'll probably never see her again.

She was a beautiful person... I could see it in her eyes. The smile on her face and the crazy, untamed  curls that framed that smile only served to confirm my initial impression. The way she danced and the way she worshiped... the way we hugged as though reunited after a long separation... I knew our hearts were being shaped by the same Hands. Her crazy, colorful outfit and the way she gasped at the beauty of the necklace I wore bore witness to the fact that we were kindred spirits.

I don't even remember her name.

I was introduced to about 35 people that night, and in the jumbled 2 hours we spent in the same room, my memory didn't even lock down a name to go with her pretty, German face. Between the worship and the games and the shaking of hands we exchanged a few words. But there was so much more to be said.

I couldn't explain how I knew.

But sometime during the worship it became clear in my heart that the necklace I wore belonged to her. The time of our visit drifted away like the fast-forward slow motion of a helium balloon that will never be recaptured. We were thrown together again in the jostle of the crowd heading down the stairs. I took her arm in mine and we each shared a snapshot of our missionary stories. She froze, mid-sentence when I slipped the strand of shells over her head. Her eyes told me what her words could not.

Why?

Every time you see this necklace, you must remember that God loves you. He took the time to show you that through a random stranger, and this little bit of beauty. This is so you will never forget. She hugged me for an answer.

I was an answer to prayers, they said.

As the group pulled away, I felt desperate to hold onto her. I really cannot be sure how or why a string of shells could possibly answer a prayer, but that story is not mine to know. I thought of her today, amazed at how The Artist would so masterfully employ his brushes on the canvass of both of our lives. And though I find it sad to let go, I understand that sometimes certain brushes are only needed for a few strokes. Maybe come heaven she and I can compare canvasses and enjoy those few short strokes He used each of us to paint on the other.