012 - Rarely Yellow-Orange

“Tuesday’s child is full of grace,” thought Hannah as she sat in her classroom, surrounded by a myriad of bright-eyed children, like petals in a sunflower, bowing forward to some great heliotrope, gathering in every single ray of light.

Justin was there, too – and this was no daydream. He was that ray of light. Just a day earlier, she truly wanted nothing to do with him or any man at all. Still, there he was, ever forgiving and ever present, making a drawing with sunshine and bright fields. It reminded her of art classes at Stanford and him paying the occasional visit to her easel.

“Where on earth is the yellow-orange? You simply cannot have a perfect sun without the perfect color of yellow-orange.”

Justin shook the whole box of crayons into a pile next to the sheet of paper and began searching through them. The children came closer now, closing the circle ever tighter.

“You see, it’s got all the perfect qualities of both this crayon, the orange, and this crayon, the yellow…”

His hand rotated easily, drawing circles that fluctuated slightly. Instantly, it reminded Hannah of Edward Munch’s “The Scream”. The pastel strips of orange and yellow framing the man with both hands clutching his face. Justin continued, filling in the gaps with sparks of yellow.

“You should’ve been an artist,” she said.

“I am an artist…we’re all artists,” he said, “God created us that way, perfect in our own little ways. Truly, no one color can live without another and each color has something very important to give.”

He etched multi-colored greens in the treetops and a navy blue-periwinkle sky – and when he added flecks of midnight blue, it worked perfectly; not too dark, not too light.

“There you go,” he said as he held the picture aloft. The children oohed and ahhed like crowds watching mid-summer fireworks. Justin just smiled as he showed it to everyone in the circle.

“Can I have it?” smoke a girl.

“Oh! Me, too! Me too!” said another.

Now, children,” said Hannah, “we cannot split the drawing in two parts.”

“I know,” said Justin, “I’ll give it to Miss Pritchett and she can hang it in the room. That way, it belongs to everyone.”

Justin flashed Hannah a wry little smile as he placed the artwork in her hands.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Love.”

The children covered their mouths as they laughed uncontrollably. It only grew worse as Justin’s face grew the darkest shade of red. He smiled, awkwardly, trying not to react at all. That’, too, was a remnant of days gone passed. Justin’s face often became flushed as he stumbled through moments where the focus was squarely upon him. Strange, maybe, that he’d find himself in the habit of standing in front of a large crowd of people on a Sunday afternoon. Truly, he never relished the Sunday sermon. Instead, he liked the role of pastrol priest, shepherding small flocks like his Youth Groups, eager souls waiting to be brought in from the rain….