Roberta's Painting by Joyce Wyatt

Roberta’s Painting

At a very early age, I learned the power of forgiveness. Strangely enough, it happened when my cousin Roberta brought a painting to the old home place, an ancient farm belonging to grandma in southern West Virginia.

Daily activities at the old home place included an avalanche of chores for our large family. My father’s words were routine as the sunrises, “Children, get your work done first, then there’ll be time for play.” Mechanically, day by day, the boys tackled the usual outdoor farm chores while we girls took care of the house and all of its demands. There was always an abundance of work to go around. Understandably, anything outside of work was a welcome and exciting event.

“Company’s coming!” yelled one of the boys one summer day when I was six. Peering down the dusty road we could see Aunt Bess and our cousins, Albert and Roberta, coming to pay us a visit.

“Get away from the mirror!” someone ordered from a back bedroom. “It’s my turn!”

“I wonder if Albert will do his handstands?” another voice is heard.

No doubt about it - excitement swept through the rooms like the crude, handmade broom that had swept the floors hours before. Mom checked the biscuits in the oven. “Just about done,“ she said. When mom’s biscuits were ready, then everything was ready. Plain and simple!

We could hardly wait for their arrival. Anxiously, we ran to meet them as they emerged from the car. “Give them room to walk!” dad called from the front porch, a wide grin across his face.

Following a scrumptious meal topped with molasses and biscuits, to our delight Albert was found out in the yard doing his famous handstands. “More! more!” we squealed.

It wasn’t long, however, before our attention was diverted to Roberta. There, in front of her, perched on an easel like a grand old bird, was a marvelous painting that she was working on. That is, through the eyes of this six year old, it was marvelous. A few more strokes, she told us, and the picture would be finished. Getting a closer look we could see that it was an artistic impression of another home place looking down from a hill. The scene was peaceful and serene.

“How did you do it?” asked one of my sisters, her eyes appearing large as saucers.
Roberta explained how she began the painting by sketching the scene with a pencil. Taking a brush in her hand, she dabbed at the paints. “Next,” she further explained, “I began applying the paints, carefully coordinating all the colors to create the picture I wanted.”

Roberta made it all look so simple; I was sure I could paint likewise. Secretly, I planned to find out.

A short time later, Roberta, following behind the rest of the family, wandered back into the house, leaving her painting outside. Longingly, I gazed at the canvas and then at the paints and again at the canvas. Looking around about me, I saw no one in sight. Now’s my chance, I thought. Slowly I made my way toward the painting. Remembering how Roberta dabbed at the paints, I proceeded to do the same. Carelessly, I began to make strokes of red, blue, yellow and green. Wow! This is fun! I thought. In just seconds, Roberta’s painting was ruined! Destroyed!

“Oh no! What have I done?” I gasped aloud. Fear gripped my body like giant tongs. I’ll find a hiding place, I reasoned, eyeing the old barn just a few yards away and made a mad rush for it. Maybe they won’t find me here, I thought, crouching beneath a bale of hay. Suddenly I wished I had never seen Roberta or her paints. Tears fell easily.

Some time later I could hear my name echoing through the trees. Family members were searching frantically for me, and although my tears kept falling and the hay was torturing my body, I dared not answer. I had found a solace, a hiding place and I better stay put. However, when darkness settled like a cloak over the farm, I decided that the barn was not such a solace after all and I emerged from that miserable place and headed toward home. Unbelievably, everyone seemed glad to see me, but the fanfare was short-lived.

“Where have you been?” my mother scolded. Sobbing, I blurted out the whole story, and after she relayed the consequences I would receive for my behavior, Roberta stepped forward.

“Come with me, Joyce. I want to show you something.” Taking my hand, she led me to the painting that I had destroyed earlier. “Look!” she shouted.

I could hardly believe what my eyes were seeing. Instead of a blur of careless strokes, the picture reflected a peaceful homestead as before. “How did it get pretty again?” I asked, allowing tears of joy to mingle with the tears of guilt already coursing down my cheeks.

Roberta demonstrated how she had taken the brushes, and with fine, meticulous strokes fixed all of my blunders. I was overjoyed and amazed! But what really made an impression on me in those moments and all of my life, was not her ability to paint, but her ability to look beyond my wrong and my blunders and forgive, fully forgive, with no strings attached.

----Joyce Noel Wyatt