12" x 18"
Oil on Canvas
You hem me in—behind and before;
You have laid your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
Too lofty for me to attain.
Most folks don’t think about farm chores and fence-building when snarfing down a box of McNuggets. Most don’t ponder, while chit chatting at the BBQ, the everyday wonder of cracked corn, alfalfa pellets, gravel and grubs—the building blocks of a good chicken (before it meets the grill). My grandma thought about those things. Hers was a story of faithfulness marked by the countless mundane moments that only a farm life could produce. It was a sacred existence clothed in the commonplace—like yours.
And most folks don’t know exactly when all their moments will end—the day they’ll die.
We’re always at the threshold, though—always. The threshold between life and death, here and there, the one between once and someday, darkness and dawn, the one at fear and forward anyway. With moments amassed behind us and with moments yet ahead, we take another step, another ride, another nap, another leap, another breath... until there are no more to take. Who ushers us forward? Who keeps the details of the past? Who’s got the script? We’re at the threshold.
Beware of the point at which you become conscious to the story your life is telling. It is a big moment. If you’re lucky enough to live through the shock… there’s hope you’ll stay awake for the ending.