Stay, let me weep while You whisper...

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700 years ago, two artists painted pictures on a panel of wood. Last week I entered the Timken Museum and heard their story echoing through hundreds of years of human history. They spoke not with words, but with brushes and paint. They told the story of Christ's passion and of his Mother. In a moment I was connected to people and to a time that has long since vanished. 700 years. Nearly a millenia. And yet, 700 years ago two artists dipped brushes in paint and with their fleshly, mortal fingers told a story that would live on, be carried through tides of war, hundreds of years of bloody human history, to change many hands, be sold and bought, and finally, meet me here to tell me this one thing: look what Jesus did for you.

And as I turned away to gather my children beside me, we came upon this piece: Christ On The Cross. James could hardly bear to raise his eyes because, "Jesus is in pain." And Jewel, with downcast head and upturned eyes, stood silently before it. We stood there quietly, the children leaning into me. James' eyes were wet and so were mine. We finally turned and walked out into the sunshine, into the beautiful, glorious afternoon.

I knew that for the first time my children understood the pain Christ suffered. As we walked, hand-in-hand, Jewel looked up at me.

"He died for me," she said.

...Love paid the ransom for me.