5.8.12
Today I spent many hours at the
local library. I was captivated, for many reasons, by a large book. The first to
catch my eye was the word Grace in the title. I’ve always been fascinated by
grace, especially because it’s completely uncomprehend-able. Second, there was
a black and white photo of an older woman on the cover. She looked much worn
out, but her eyes held a story that I would be willing to listen to any day,
and multiple times.
Upon opening this book, described
what was to be entailed. The entire book was simple photographs of men, women,
children, and family alike. However, these people were homeless (which always
gets my emotions reeling, especially children). The book was simple. That’s all
there was. About every 6-7 pages would be a few short sentences about the
photographer’s encounter with the homeless person and perhaps a brief telling
of their story. Each page, my heart was ripped by the person’s eyes I was
forced to stare into. They held a story, and moments that I will never
experience. Pain that is held back until they’re alone. Fears that I won’t be
able to imagine. Such intensity within their soul held me yearning for more.
The most important part of this was
the fact they were homeless. Not only without a sheltered place to call their
own, but without friends and family to give them encouragement, a shoulder to
cry on, a hug, or an ear to listen. The author informed the audience that the
photographer and he had filled an entire studio with portraits of the homeless.
And that the photographer had barely scraped the surface of homeless shelters,
parks, and streets of the like. The amount of people hit me. I’ve always known
in my mind how bad it was, I’ve been around homeless, given them food and
clothing. But it hit me in the heart a different way this time. I saw the
beauty in these people. I saw the potential that they have if their fate would
have turned out differently. I saw how much faith and hope they must have to
live day to day not knowing.
I saw how God was using them. How they were speaking into my heart so readily when I haven’t even met them. How each time I do meet someone living on the streets, that they do change my heart. How each person that is consider “less fortunate” than me, gives me more than I could ever give them. I can give a sandwich, or a hug, or just listen; they give me hope and understanding, encouragement and joy. Nothing compares to those hours spent with people on the streets trusting God and sharing their faith with me.
I saw how God was using them. How they were speaking into my heart so readily when I haven’t even met them. How each time I do meet someone living on the streets, that they do change my heart. How each person that is consider “less fortunate” than me, gives me more than I could ever give them. I can give a sandwich, or a hug, or just listen; they give me hope and understanding, encouragement and joy. Nothing compares to those hours spent with people on the streets trusting God and sharing their faith with me.
It also struck me how little words there were on the pages. How words were not needed. The only reason words were given was to clarify the reason of the photographs and to give the photographer his statement and a summary of his encounters. As an artist, this gave me encouragement. This book reminded me how art should be. It’s not meant to be pretty, or catch the audience off guard so they could have some deep revelation. Art is meant to be real. If it ends up being horrific, beautiful, unsettling, moves the audience to tears, so be it. But art is raw, and should remain as so. The artist should allow it to reflect what they feel, and let others be changed, and change the artist.
