I remember the first time I felt and realized what art was. I was a freshman in college and our assignment was to go to the Chicago Art Institute and find two paintings and write a comparasion/contrast paper.

In that simple assignment, I learned about the transcendence of art and how it communicates in ways, we can't even understand.

So, I remember, those first moments. I had a horrible copy of Starry Night by Van Gogh on my college wall for a couple of years and into my first married moments. I remember going with Andy Marner to see the Monet exhibit with his mom and sister. I remember reading about Picasso's Guernica with Peter Jones and understanding Picasso on a deeper level at the small museum in Malaga....and the list goes on and on and on.

I'm also a halfway decent forger of things I like. I have a drawing somewhere of Van Gogh bedroom, the brightest one of the three and some of Mattisse's thoughts of Morocco. The artists that colored outside of the lines, these are my favorites.

But this moment here, this essay, this blog, isn't just about my impressions of art and how they guided and changed me, this is specifically today, about Van Gogh

When my mother in law fell ill with cancer in 2006 for the first time, Andrew and I made our way back to George for a short visit, and while we were in transit, our layover was in London. I traveled seperately from Andrew, and I ended up with a long layover and made my way to the National Art Gallery, which I had never visited.

While I wandered in that direction, my cell phone buzzed with a message that my dad's mother, was doing poorly and it looked like she would slip soon into the next life. Overwhelmed with the news, I slipped into the musuem.

There were several paintings that spoke to me that day, but the own that reduced me to tears, peace and faith all at the same moment, was Van Goghs Sunflowers. The artist did several renditions, but this one is the largest and most vibrant. My grandmother's favorite color was yellow and for whatever reason, this large painting connected me to her dimming soul and I was able to say my goodbyes. While in transit the next day, she slipped into the next life.

Almost 20 years later to the day, I found a bit of information about Van Gogh that I didn't know. And perhaps even if I had known it 20 years ago, it would not have impacted me the same way it did this weekend.

He was a tormented soul, more than likely had bipolarism, but one of this experiences was that he went for a short time to be a pastor in a very poor coal mining region. He, as the Brits used to say ,went native. Instead of living a big house with clean clothes and soft bed with lots of food, he lived as the poor miners did. He became one of them. He said he couldn't preach the good news of Jesus if he did not. His sending church didn't understand and fired him. After this, he turned to art to express his feelings and his whole idea was to show beauty in the suffering.

He died young and his work was never successful. Now, he is one of the most famous artists in the world and his drawings and paintings are everywhere.

It is appropiate then, that his beautiful sunflowers would comfort me in a way that nothing else could at that moment in time. My Gramma too was a tortured soul ,having suffered in so many ways as a young child and woman. Her story isn't for this essay, but she did hope in the good news, that there is so much more than just the suffering this world. That a man also tortured by suffering and his own mental health would create such a painting that would soothe my soul, makes me burst into tears again, 20 years later.

And, maybe you haven't read the highlights of my story in this blog, but to briefly state, that I identify with Van Goug in so many ways. There have been so many men and women in this world that have misunderstood what I and my man have tried so hard to do, and that is communicate in the world that we live in, that God still loves us. That He forgives. That He heals. That he take us out of the place we have been in and can redeem it and calls us by name.

To do so, we have gone native. We still live in the little 60m2 rented flat,  that we call home,even though someday we will have a place to call our own. We have a little tiny car, and a little 13 year old scooter. They run and we are grateful. We have bills to pay, taxes to stress about, and have been taken advantage here by people, just like our neighbors and friends and colleagues.

We are foreigners in a strange land. We speak Spanish, and sometimes the accent shows more than others. Sometimes the Spanish leaks into our English, and vice versa. Sometimes in Spanish we sound like the locals, intense and passionate, and that leaks over too. We wear clothes that look like they belong here, and someone recently said, you always wear the right thing. And that means scarves and trench coats to go see the lawyer, and bikinis and trunks to lay out on the beach. We go out to eat and drink wine with our friends. We complain loudly and passionately about everything and nothing. 

And to many, who do not understand how life here works, have decided that we don't really know what speaking about the good news is. And like Van Goug, we have been rejected.  For our honesty, our clarity and our unwillinginess to lie and bend the knee to man, we have been rejected. Many times. And it will probably happen again.

So to learn that some of the most beautiful, renowned art, came from this rejection, I hope and pray that the next moments Andrew and I will get to create some of the most beautiful moments of our lives. It may cost us everything, but may it be worth it all.