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Philippe walked to his office in the Fifth and felt lighter somehow. In his anguish over swearing at God, he had decided he needed help. He had called a pastor friend, who helped him to concede that God loved Meredith even more than he did. And loved him no matter what he said or did.
So this morning, in his time with God, with a cup of coffee steaming beside him, Philippe had consciously wrapped her up in the woolly blanket of his love and put her in God’s loving hands. When worry about her came back to his mind, he’d just do that again. It was all he could do for her. It was all he could do.
At the door to the stairs to his office, he looked in the window of the gallery on the ground floor. Three new paintings of naked women stood on easels. Wasn’t there another topic to paint anywhere in Paris? He’d better not ask. Next there would be naked men with body parts at acute angles.
He climbed the uneven stairs to his second-floor office, opened the windows onto Rue Lanneau, ancient, narrow, and echoing with footsteps and voices. He booted up his computer. This morning he was going to do his creative writing for an hour. After committing Meredith to God, his mind was now more free to concentrate on the next right thing.
Today, instead of writing in order to record his anguish, he would pray that he let go to be the artist he was uniquely wired to be, to do it in the vast mystery of soli deo gloria. And to touch human hearts.
And to maybe make some money. He sighed as the selfish got mixed back in.
