The Impressionist (9 page)

For the next minute or two Jim Ed painted in silence, no doubt reliving distant memories of him and Christina.

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

“Another thing an artist must understand,” said Jim Ed, popping out of his trance, ready to get back to the business of painting, “is the role that light plays. It’s important in order to produce a realistic work. You have to figure out how to “light” the image you’re going to paint and how the variation of light falling on the image affects it, then how to capture the light on the canvas or paper. It’s harder than you may think. Takes some skill. Capturing just the right light, on just the right spots on the canvas, is vital. You know why?”

I scratched my head. “I would guess that light probably has something to do with setting the tone.”

“Partially,” he said. “Light not only creates the atmosphere that you’re painting, but it reveals and illuminates. And there are different kinds of light—direct light, reflected light, and shadow. Yet in all aspects, the job of light in painting is to reveal something about the work—something that the artist wants to bring out.”

“Oooookay,” I said slowly, curious of where he was going with this one. By now I was quite certain it was somewhere other than painting.

“There are things the light wants to reveal. Areas of your life. The problem is light is painful until you adjust. Men love darkness because light reveals truth about them and it stings.

“You know how I said that you are made up of seventy percent water and you need water to survive? Well, just like we need water to survive, we also need light to survive. It helps us see and gives us the energy and warmth we require to exist. Just as sure as I am painting this portrait, our ole earth and all the life on it would gradually die without light. But you know what else light does?”

“You’ve got me thinking.”

“Light doesn’t just reveal, it consumes darkness. When you walk into a dark room what’s the first thing you do?”

“Turn on the light.”

“And when you do, that darkness just skedaddles right on outta there, doesn’t it? Darkness can’t take the light.”

“So what’s the punch line?”

“Well, if you are going to have a beautiful life portrait, Adam, a masterpiece, you must let light shine in the right spots on your life canvas. It reveals things that need to be chipped away—everything that isn’t the David in you. That’s what it means to live in the light. For some folk, the atmosphere of their life painting is dominated by the gloomy shadows of negative thinking—bitterness, prejudice, arrogance, jealousy, anger, selfishness, hatred—even hatred for themselves—you name it, all sorts of poisonous attitudes. These poisonous attitudes flourish in the darkness, so it’s imperative to open up and let light shine on our canvas to reveal those dark spots.

“If I see that this painting in front of me needs more light, then I can add some strategic brushstrokes and change the whole mood of it. When a person lets God brushstroke His light on their canvas, the whole mood of their life changes too. God’s light reveals truth and helps us see in ways we’ve never seen before. And no matter how dark your life may seem, when you receive His truth and walk with God, He will always give you the light you need for where you are, even if you’re in a place of pain and difficulty. Can be painful at times though, letting the light reveal things we don’t like about ourselves, but we need His light to survive.”

“You sure you’re not a preacher?” I smirked.

“Nope, just a friend who wishes to pass down some of what I’ve learned through the years, to make somebody else’s journey a little less bumpy before I pass on. Won’t be long now.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’re not dying.”

“At my age, I think I am. In truth, we all are. I’m just a lot closer than you…probably. But you never know. You could go before me. Nobody knows when their time will be up. David prayed, ‘teach us to number our days that we might gain a heart of wisdom.’ All of our days are numbered, Adam, and I’ve heard Jesus calling my name. He and my sweetheart will be meeting me.”

“You like David, don’t you,” I said.

“Yes sir, I do,” said Jim Ed. “You see David is an Old Testament shadow of Christ. Really, the David in you, the masterpiece God wants to bring out, is Jesus. God wants to form us into the image of His Son. The more God shines His light on us and chips away at us, the more we look like Jesus.”

“So how do I do all this?” I asked, my eyes misting up. “You know…let God’s light in? Let Him make me more like Jesus?”

“Again, it’s simple Adam, but it’s not easy. First, you have to know your identity and then live your life in desperate dependence on Him. See God as your source for everything. I mean, you can’t do a thing without Him, not a single thing. Feeding on His word and fellowship with Him becomes not just a religious duty or discipline. It becomes your lifeline, your very food for survival. He’s your source for the breath of life when you get out of the bed in the morning. He’s the source for your righteousness and your growth. He’s your source for provision, both materially and emotionally. Bottom line is you can’t do life without Him. He’s your only hope.

“On your own you’re weak, Adam, but understanding your weakness becomes your greatest strength when your security is in Him, when you are desperately dependent on Him. Don’t pursue greatness or happiness, Adam, pursue God. That is the key to everything. When He is your security, supernatural things can happen.”

Jim Ed stopped talking to search for something in his cart.

“May I see your Bible?” I asked him. “I’d like to look at it.”

“Sure,” he said, “Love for you to.” He took it off his cart and handed it to me.

As I held the old, faded leather book in my hands, I realized this was more than just any old Bible. Flipping through the tattered pages, some were taped together, others were folded. There were hundreds of notes scribbled in the margins. Verses were circled and underlined in a myriad of colors. This Bible was a testament to Jim Ed’s life. It was a part of who he was. Paige and I had started our marriage with God in the center, but over time, the pressing issues of life came up and choked out the things of God.

“I know this may seem elementary to you, Adam,” said Jim Ed, “but God’s Word is the light that He uses to shine into our lives. It brings healing to our wounds. He allows us to see with fresh eyes. It’s how He chips away everything that isn’t David. It’s God’s love letter to us and a life map. If you want to get to know God, get to know His Word. Most Christians have heard that since they were knee high to a grasshopper, still they feed on everything else but God’s Word. Always seeking some new spiritual experience or revelation, but all you need to guide your life is right there in that book.”

On the inside of the back cover, I found a handwritten note from Christina in perfect calligraphy. I read it out loud.

I closed the Bible and handed it back to Jim Ed. Two single tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Like my Christina said, you have to be ‘hungry’ for God, desperately dependent on Him.” Jim Ed wiped his eyes. “Most folks don’t want to know the truth. Got itching ears. But a person has to make a decision to walk in the light. I remember the very first day I made the decision to really walk in the light. My life has never been the same since. I can tell you about it if you like.”

“I’m not moving.”

Jim Ed reached up and tightened the clips that were securing the watercolor paper. Then he bent over the painting and blew some puffs of air over a couple of spots. When he finished blowing, he again reached back into his past.

On the next Saturday after Jim Ed proposed, he, Willie, and Bo, decided to walk into town and catch a movie at the theater on Main Street. They hadn’t driven because Mama Porter had taken the truck shopping. The three young men walked along the road and crossed Line Creek, which was a natural division that separated the black sections from the white sections. Once across the creek, they didn’t walk through any white neighborhoods, but stayed alongside the main highway that led into town. It was only a couple miles into downtown where they were headed.

After a while, they walked up on Boyd’s Phillip 66 service station and store and decided to cut through the parking lot to another street. It was a cinderblock building painted white, but the white was flaking and was stained orange from the cars kicking up dust in the parking lot. Out front were two faded green and yellow gas pumps. Next to the store was a grimy garage with tires and junk stacked everywhere. No one was getting gas, and the store was empty other than the four hundred-pound Mr. Boyd who was wearing a pair of overalls with no shirt underneath, sitting out front in a rusty patio chair. There was an old, torn-down car in the garage with a greasy mechanic leaning over it. Between the store and the garage were six white guys drinking beer and hanging out around a couple of pickup trucks. Jim Ed and his friend’s first mistake had been cutting through the parking lot.

“Well lookie what we got coming here,” one of the white guys said in a loud voice, half drunk, while adjusting his John Deere cap and spitting a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. Lewis was his name and he took a step toward Jim Ed and his friends. “Where you niggers think you’re going?”

“Keep walking,” Jim Ed whispered to Bo and Willie. “Just ignore them.”

When Jim Ed said that, the guy in the John Deere cap stepped directly in front of them. The three young black men tried to step around him, but the other five whites blocked the path with their arms folded across their chests. It was the three against six.

“I asked you a question, boy. Where you niggers think you’re going?”

“Look,” Jim Ed said. “We don’t want no trouble. We’re just going over to town to watch a movie.”

“Well it looks like you done gone and found yourself some trouble, now didn’t you?”

“We juss passing through,” Willie said.

“Yes you are. The problem is…this here is private property. No niggers allowed. Now how long you boys been living around here? You should know that.”

“We’re sorry. We weren’t thinking,” Jim Ed offered.

“You right about that. Caint you see that sign over there?” he said while pointing to a sign above the store’s door that was hard to read because the red letters were faded and the white background blended with the building.

“I see it now, but didn’t before.”

“Read it to me.”

Jim Ed gritted his teeth. Bo started to say something smart, but Jim Ed held his arm out for him to stay quiet.

“Read it to me, I said—if you can.”

“I can read.”

“Well then do it, boy. Go on.”

In the war Jim Ed had put down guys much bigger and tougher than this slimy piece of flesh. All three of them had. The only thing that made this guy strong was his five buddies standing there with him. Humiliated and embarrassed, Jim Ed read the sign. “No Niggers or Dogs allowed! Dogs can wait outside. Niggers will be shot!”

“Hey Lewis, you ever see one that black?” one of the other guys said, pointing to Willie.

“He looks like one of them monkeys in the zoo, don’t you think?” Lewis replied. “Hey, maybe they escaped. We need to call the zoo and find out. Maybe there’s a reward for their capture.”

“I got me a wild hog cage back home we could put’em in,” another one said. All six cracked up laughing. Then, just that quick, their faces went from wise guys to rage. Lewis stepped up to Willie, his veins popping out of his red neck. “Don’t you ever set foot on this property again. You hear me, nigger?” At that, he spit another stream of tobacco, but this time it landed on Willie’s shoe.

“You not God,” Willie shouted. “You can’t spit on me!” Something broke in Willie and he pushed Lewis in the chest. When he did, all hell broke loose as the six white guys jumped on them. Everybody was swinging and taking punches. In the midst of the mayhem, Bo and Jim Ed grabbed Willie to run, something they should have done first, but as they were taking off, Lewis picked up an old hubcap that was leaning against a stack of tires, and brought it down across Willie’s skull, slicing it wide open, knocking him to the ground.

Mr. Boyd, who’d been sitting there watching the whole thing and had already called the cops, fired a gunshot in the air. “Party’s over fellas,” he hollered. “Cops on the way. Now break it up.” Everybody stepped back and Willie lay still on the ground, blood everywhere.

Lewis put his boot on Willie’s back and shook him. “Get up, nigger. Now ya’ll get on out of here.” But Willie didn’t move.

Jim Ed leaned over and tried to get him up. “Come on, Willie, get up. We gotta go,” he told him. He shook him again, but Willie still didn’t move. Then Bo shook him with the same results and the two young black men looked at each other frozen with shock, not believing what they saw before them.

“He ain’t dead,” said Lewis. “I didn’t hit him hard enough. He’s faking like all niggers do.” Lewis flipped Willie over with his foot. “Get up I said!”

But when Willie rolled on his back, his eyes were wide open and fixed. Jim Ed and Bo’s lifelong friend was lying there dead. “This can’t be happening,” Jim Ed thought. In the background sirens could be heard and Lewis started getting fidgety. He turned to his friends and shouted. “Those niggers attacked us. And that one tried to kill me. I was just defending myself. Ya’ll all saw it.”