6

Accused

FEBRUARY

They weren’t good enough, Wren said. She wasn’t good enough. She would never be good enough to paint Jesus.

Kit sat down on a stool in Wren’s studio at New Hope and stared at three different canvases she had erased with white paint. On one she could still perceive the faint outline of trees, which had probably been a riot of color and movement. I wish you had let me see them first, Kit wanted to say. But she didn’t want to layer guilt or shame onto Wren’s already fragile ego. Instead, she smiled and said, “Like your friend Vincent.”

Wren stared at her, then nodded. She’d once told Kit that Vincent had ruthlessly destroyed his attempts to paint Jesus in Gethsemane. “But at least he was able to capture all the emotion of it through his trees. I can’t even do that.” She took off Casey’s beanie, which she had recently washed, and swiped her brow with her paint-covered hand. “I’m sorry. But I think you’ll have to use what you already have from the other artists. I’m not going to be able to do anything for the prayer stations.”

“You’ve already done something. You’ve painted your beautiful rooster.”

Wren shook her head. “It’ll look ridiculous next to all the other professional ones.”

“I’m not looking for professional. I’m looking for prayerful and evocative.”

Wren gave an exasperated sigh.

There would be no arguing with her about it. Either she would be led through her resistance and fear, or she would give in to the accusatory voices in her own head. “C’mon,” Kit said, rising from the stool. “Walk away from it for a while. I always find that helps when I’m feeling stuck.” She motioned toward the Van Gogh books on the table. “Besides. I’ve got another project I need your help with—choosing art for the walls, remember? I want to re-envision the whole space here, and I need your input. Let’s take a walk together.”

For the next half hour, they strolled through hallways and lounge spaces, discussing which prints would be best suited for each area. Wren had many ideas from Vincent’s work, including one of a sower Kit hadn’t seen before. “I love everything about that,” she said as Wren held the book open against the wall. “The movement. The colors. Even the tree, the way it’s leaning, with branches cut off. All of it speaks to hope.”

Wren nodded and traced her finger around the bright golden sun. “See? It’s like a halo behind the sower’s head.”

Kit laughed. “You’re right! I’m not sure I would have seen that without help. But that’s a profound statement, isn’t it? Like a hallowing of the work of sowing seeds.” She stepped back to picture it on the wall. “I can’t think of any better statement to make about the work we long to do here. Sow seeds and trust God with the growth.” Casting the seeds was simple enough. It was the incubation and waiting time that was hard.

“There’s one I haven’t destroyed.”

Kit was startled out of her own thoughts. “What’s that?”

“A painting,” Wren said. “There’s one I haven’t erased. But it’s not very good either.”

Kit smiled at her. “Sometimes we need others to help us discern the truth about such things. May I see it?”

“It’s not done. And I already know it won’t be good enough for the prayer journey.”

“But maybe there’s a seed of something true in it,” Kit said, and followed her back to the studio.

Clearly inspired by Vincent’s olive groves, Wren’s trees appeared almost human, writhing and twisting. Streaks of red stained the ground, testifying to a struggle in the darkness. This was no serene garden. This was the place of pressing. Of crushing. And there was no escape.

Kit gripped the edge of the canvas with both hands. Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies . . .

“I told you it wasn’t very good,” Wren said, reaching to take it from her.

“Wren.” Kit gently motioned for her to step back so she could keep studying it. “You’ve captured something here. I just need a minute with it.”

Kit let her gaze drift slowly across the canvas, taking in the thick brushstrokes and splotches of color for the leaves, noting the stark outlines of the trunks and one prominent root reaching in vain for a place to cling. But it was the middle of the painting that kept drawing her attention—the empty space between the trees, framed by the menacing, arching branches. She pointed to it. “Did you deliberately paint this in the center?”

“The gap, you mean?” Wren asked. “It’s just between the trees.”

“I know. But it looks like it has a specific shape, even three-dimensional. Like a stone. Or a seed.”

Wren leaned forward for a closer look, then shook her head slowly. “No, I didn’t put it there. Not consciously, anyway.” She traced her finger around it. “But I see what you mean. It looks like a cave right in the center, doesn’t it? A hole.”

“Or a tomb,” Kit said.

Wren stared at her, eyes wide. “A tomb,” she murmured.

That void between the trees—like a stone that crushed, a seed that died, a cave that concealed, a tomb that held—that was the way out. The only way out of the place of pressing was by entering the darkness and submitting to death. And trusting that the void was not a hopeless chasm but a fertile space, a womb for resurrection life.

Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, Kit thought, it remains alone. But if it dies, it bears much fruit.

She touched the center of the painting. “Don’t destroy this one, Wren. Please.”

FEBRUARY 6

My dear Wren,

I’ve watched you agonize this week in your studio, fighting the voices of accusation in your own head and second-guessing your gifts. When I first asked you months ago to prayerfully consider painting the stations for me, I told you I wouldn’t hover or interfere with your process, but that I would take on a measure of responsibility for your wellness while you painted. I told you I didn’t want it to become a burden or source of anxiety for you, but that I hoped you would discover something new and life-giving about Jesus’ presence and love while you paint and pray.

Though I’ve seen you discouraged and heard the frustration and weariness in your voice, I sense this is a battle for you to fight and win—the battle of silencing the voice of the accuser and listening instead to the voice of the One who has named you his own and who has prepared in advance good works for you to do.

You’re doing those good works, whether it feels like it or not. You’re saying yes to being stretched and formed, not only as you paint but as you continue to fight to be well. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you every time you say yes to getting out of bed in the morning to face the burdens and challenges of the day. I’m proud of you for persevering and continuing to choose life. I understand the battle, not just as a distant memory or experience in my past, but as an ongoing struggle. We choose and keep on choosing. Every day.

But the voice of the accuser is a siren song, and every time we listen to it and agree with what it says, we consent to waging violence—not only against ourselves but against others.

I remember after Robert left and married Carol, I was so consumed with bitterness and self-pity, I could hardly breathe. Over and over again I rehearsed the injury of what they had done and everything they had taken from me through their sin. (I hadn’t intended to write about this when I began this letter, but since I’ve begun, I’ll finish.) One day I was naming again to God their sin—not in the productive and fruitful mode of letting it go in order to forgive, but in the stuck-record mode of nursing my wounds. That’s when I heard the Spirit address me with a penetrating word that was both convicting and liberating: “They already have an accuser. Do not join him in his work.”

I was silenced. That day I made a decision: I would seek to speak the truth about sin without layering condemnation on top of it—not for myself, or for others. I’d love to say that’s been my consistent habit these many years since, but I haven’t always succeeded at it. Through practice, though, I’ve become quicker to recognize the voice of the accuser and resist it.

Here’s the tricky thing. Sometimes what the accuser speaks is true, especially regarding our sin. But the accusation is meant to destroy us with shame and guilt. In those moments I use the accuser’s voice as a prompt to remind me I have a Savior who has paid the price for all my sin. I use the accuser’s voice as a prod to drive me to Jesus to receive his grace and mercy. “Thank you so much for reminding me how desperately I need Jesus,” I’ll say when I hear the voice. “I’ll talk with him right now.” Funnily enough, I find the voice is silenced. Especially when the only thing it’s accomplishing is to drive me to the cross.

I haven’t gone in the direction I intended when I began writing this letter. But rather than crossing through it or destroying it completely, I’ll trust that something here might be helpful to you. Like your painting was for me.

Here’s what I planned to say. I planned to write about Jesus facing Pilate and the Jewish leaders and keeping silent before every false accusation levied against him. He is a marvel to me. Every time Robert accused me of being “crazy” or “impossible to live with,” every time he blamed me for the breakdown of our marriage—and yes, I contributed to it, no question—I lashed out in anger, seeking to defend myself and wound him in return. That got me nowhere. And my anger and vindictiveness only confirmed the worst of what he said about me.

I hear you rehearse the accusations made against you—not only the ones you voice about your lack of skill as an artist, but the ones you’ve internalized about Casey and his death. Others have borne false witness against you. And you have borne it against yourself. May the One who himself endured false witness strengthen you and deliver you from this.

Jesus was able to keep silence in the face of his accusers because he knew they didn’t speak the truth, and he didn’t need to defend himself. More than that, he knew who and whose he was. That’s what I’m praying for you as you press forward, that you will resist the work of the accuser, in all its alluring forms, and stand firm in the identity God has given you in Christ, that you are his beloved child, and nothing seen or unseen—nothing in your past, present, or future—has the power to separate you from his great and steadfast love.

With you,

Kit