Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

The one person in this auditorium least able to stand, stood, when everyone else remained seated.

The one person here, among 100's, who should not have come alone, came alone.

The one person who likely possessed the greatest reason to be bitter, smiled.

The one person whose peace had been robbed; was peaceful.

This was the person who stood between me and my view of the stage.

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At the heart of faith stories, there is witness. As an artist and teacher, (pre-fulltime-studio) the soaking in, relearning and retelling of Art History (AH) was among my favorite topics to bring to life for my students. I say "relearning and retelling" because college involved much study at the onset. In the spirit of a life-long-learner, there is always more to learn and discover.

All to say, one fact I will testify to that I found fascinating when studying even secular or nuetral AH texts (not to mention the Bible), is the fact that early Christians (A.D. --500 and beyond) were known in the day for not only the One whom they followed, but their uncanny knack for peace in the midst of difficulty and...even martyrdom (Hebrews 11).

I have experienced this peace. I have witnessed this peace. I pray for this peace.

God has a written history of taking the one and the few and the weak and the unnoticed, and...through him or her...gifting a front row view of His Love despite whatever seat surrounding the figurative stage of life the ticket in the hand has dealt.

As it turns out, the stage was not where the best view of the workings of God could be seen that night. This was a concert gathering those convinced of the Truth of who Jesus is---framing a space in time to worship God through music. 

As soon as I heard this group was coming to town, I sharpied the date into my calendar. The group is great, don't get me wrong, but my enthusiasm was curbed to hear one song live...one song...that I had listened to over and over in my studio as I worked out my art. 

In the video version, the quiet sound of crickets pepper the beats of the drum solo. The camera slowly pans the monochromic landscape of a dry African field. The scene could be mistaken for a sepia toned filter, but it is real. An artist would notice. I did.

That night, the concert went on, song after song. I enjoyed the view. I enjoyed the music. But, I was waiting for that one song. I was waiting for that drum solo that I loved where the rhythm double-timed and turned asymmetric. 

My plan was to get out of my balcony seat and see how far towards the front I could walk---as if I were just another human answering the call of nature at an inopportune time. I would carry my small son because moms with kids on their hips can get away with loitering in places others cannot. Don't we know it?

After all, I was doing my civil duty to keep my talking toddler quiet so everyone else can enjoy the concert, right? Privileges should follow. It's the same thing as pacing at the back of the church on Sunday morning. People aren't supposed to pace in church, but it's better than a noisy squealing disruptive (and very cute) alternative.

My little son was in a phase of mimicking farm animal noises. How small children have the knack to identify and maximize when quiet moments in large populated places are going to happen, I don't know.

Moooo. Oink. How many heads turn my way? 

After a Noah's ark-full of animal sounds from the wiggly creature on my lap, the concert was soon to end. Finally, my senses tuned in to the first few familiar notes of the song I had come to hear live.

This is IT! I stood up, let my theatre seat bounce into upright position, hoisted my son onto my left side and headed toward the side isle. But, I was caught too soon.

"Sorry ma'am, we need to keep the walkways clear."

The retired guy in one of the matching blazers would only let me turn left below the lighted red exit sign. I intended to go straight, and closer to the stage. I just wanted a better view, that's all. Who was I kidding? Not him. My ankles dragged in disappointment as I retraced the 20-or-so steps back to my seat with a touch of shame.

Just my luck! In the 60 seconds I had been gone, when everyone else in this mammoth place was sitting, the woman in front of me HAD to be that one person to stand up. Was she heading to the left lighted exit sign, too? No, her feet were firmly planted. Her hands lifted to the sky. Passionate.

I sat back down and strained for a view. 

Her body moved with the rhythm of the drums that I so loved. Her hands seemed to claw at the enclosed sky. Distracting, to say the least. I pinched myself out of the snarky mood just above my right elbow. She was blocking my view of the worship!? Or...pause...is this what real worship looks like?---like Jesus said to the woman from Samaria, "...there will come a day when what matters is that people worship in spirit and in truth." (John 4).

Images in this far-back dark section of the balcony were mostly reduced to shadows. Reflections of the stage lights shined in streaks down her face. Shining streaks?---ah, the glisten was rolling tears. My artist's eye took notice of the sheer light green scarf that draped around her head, knotted at the nape and cascaded down her back. It didn't take that much head-bobbing and chin-tilting to find a position where I could somewhat look past her slim silhouette and twiggish arms.

Her wavering form reminded me of branches blowing in the wind. A frail torso leaned forward slightly with limbs outstretched. Her stance leaned slightly backwards as if marching into a strong wind. The scene from Titanic came to mind when the striking starlet steps up and leans into the highest railing of the enormous ship as wind billows around her.

In the movie, Jack, her fresh love, stood behind her. As my eyes adjusted from the stage lights, I realized she was alone. Noone stood behind her. No one stood (or sat) beside her, either.

When the song was over, the microphone buzzed a few words of salutation, applause erupted, bright lights flicked on and herds of people paraded into the isles beneath the red lights of the exit sign I did not go through earlier. The man in the matching blazer stood guard with folded hands and a grim face. I, too, was swept along like a herd of fish in white water rapids.

I didn't think much more about the swaying woman until my swarm of exiting people reached the grande lobby. From a distance, I spotted the light green of her wrapped headscarf standing out in the crowd. No doubt a hazard of the many too-close jostling elbows and knocking shins, the scarf had shifted across her forehead to reveal...a hairline that lacked hair.

Overhead lights bore down from the ceiling adding a transparent glow to the frail layer of skin that covered her arms. She was more than thin: gaunt. Flesh tones in her face resembled a jaundiced yellow with a touch of lavender. Downcast eyes were sunken with subtle raccoon circles of deeply-settled exhaustion. I hadn't noticed these details from my earlier view of her back.

But, in the back row of the auditorium, I wasn't really looking at her, I was trying to look around her to see what I wanted to see: the stage, the lights, the entertainment, the attraction...my drum solo. 

Nameless people descended the steps all around her while she clutched the railing. She took one step at a time, steadied herself, gripped the railing with her head hung low, then stepped again. Slowly. There was no one to help her. Clearly, she was ill.

With my son still on my hip, I stepped into the swarm of people heading toward the exit that was just beyond the last step. I wanted to tell her that I had been blessed by her heart (even if the recognition of the blessing was delayed). If I could, I wanted to help her to the door, clear the path, brush the busy people out of her way. I had been one of the busy people. More than help, I felt a need to confess.

She looked so tired. 

I looked away for a moment to be sure my family was in tow. By time my crowd ebbed its way to where I had last seen her, she, and the peace she carried with her, was gone.

Where can I go from your Spirit?...
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
    if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
    your right hand will hold me fast. ---Ps 139

She worshiped with abandon and surrender like noone I had ever seen. She was beautiful. She was not lost to God.

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The strongest picture I have as a memory of her was the spot where the two ends of her scarf knotted together and fell between her shoulder blades. The stage lights shined through the translucent material beautifully like layered stained glass windows in Art History books. The eyes of the artist-that-I-am could not look away. The picture is planted in my mind forever. My illustration may have captured only a small resemblance.

In God's providence, I was gifted the best view in the farthest row in the back of the left balcony of a huge auditorium full of the power of people. The power of God's comfort in the heart of this woman was stronger.

I couldn't see the drummer's hands on stage or the sweat on his wrist as the drum solo fell into rhythm, but I saw the tears drop steadily from her face. That was the rhythm meant for me...and for her. From my seat behind her, I had a view of the promise of John 14:27,

"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.

I do not give to you as the world gives.

Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." 

As I was witness, likely the one person in this auditorium least able to stand, stood, when everyone else remained seated.

The one person here, among 100's, who should not have come alone, came alone.

The one person who likely possessed the greatest reason to be bitter, was smiling.

The one person whose peace had been robbed; was peaceful.

I had a hunch she did not go to the concert to hear a drum solo, or crickets in an African field. She saw more with her eyes closed, than I did squinting into the stage lights.

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*I tribute the writing of this memory-story to young Miss Payton Slaymaker. When I watched the virtual replay of her memorial service this week and especially saw the picture of her beautiful little face holding her teal guitar...this memory of this woman flooded back to my mind...and the peace she wore over her shoulders like a sweater on a cool day.

As Payton sang, "You can have all this world: give me Jesus."

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*To see the video of the song mentioned and hear the crickets and the drum solo, click HERE. Lyrics below.