Beautiful Things

I was skirting along the fringe of Portland, Maine’s shore when I saw my first lighthouse. Buttressed against the shouldered cliff of the ocean, it poised at attention, fixated towards the water. As I stood in awe of the rounded structure before me, I noticed an old woman nestled in a cove some distance off shore. Her only companions were her easel and painting tools. She and I were the only people around. Like me, she seemed to be thankful for the tranquility, solitude. I could hear the cawing of the seagulls and the crashing of the waves in the distance, the salty residue of the sea blowing on my face. Naturally, I edged closer to the cove, vying for a glimpse of her canvas. I found a bench and settled to watch the old woman paint the lighthouse—a subject that seemed too monstrous to capture realistically. I gathered that she had been here a while, as her worn linen chair sunk with the weight of her body. She seemed private at first, seeing me eye her work. But I smiled and cast my gaze at the lighthouse, hoping to respect her privacy. Her shoulders relaxed and she continued. With each stroke of her brush, the artist recreated the lighthouse and the scene before us. Her delicate lines on the canvas captured the white-capped waves that crept near the coast, seduced by the tower. Back and forth, my eyes went from the lighthouse to the artist until the two forged in my mind. Erect and queenly, the tower manifested her power as her soft light pierced the pastel horizon, ready to guide the beasts who ride the sea. Humming to herself, the artist patiently turned her canvas of muddled acrylic dabs into a dazzling replica of the lighthouse. The gray and white strokes formed into the rounded brick exterior of the lighthouse; she even included the shadows cast by the descending sun, giving the bricks realistic depth. With every sweep of her brush, she became more focused, her brows furrowing in contemplation. Her eyes narrowed into concentrated slivers as she agonized over the tiniest detail. As she studied the lighthouse, the woman’s iridescent blue eyes reflected the golden crown suspended above the tower. As I glanced from her canvas to the lighthouse, I began to better understand why she chose the structure as her model. The artist seemed to pay careful attention to the cracks in the brick of the lighthouse, sweeping over again and again until the missing pieces became small black caves, offset by the creamy white whole bricks.

Though I am no artist, I have an eye for seeing beauty out of seemingly ordinary things. Perhaps it is because I love to write and appreciate the opportunity to capture life realistically. It is often the most ordinary of things that bring me inspiration. A lighthouse is only ordinary if you live near the sea. The woman, though, was of the ordinary type, not strikingly beautiful or unnaturally homely. She had thin white hair that bent with the tease of the wind. She had a dark mole near her right eye that, as a child, she probably had to come to terms with. Her hands were not even graceful or delicate, as one may assume a painter’s might be. As I examined her person, I noticed that she was missing a leg. The remaining portion of her leg was positioned upon a sturdy wooden stool. I suppose it would be easy to characterize her as disabled or not “whole.” But, to me, she was beautiful. I could see the reflection of her gaze in her blue eyes. She scrutinized the lighthouse not as a critic might, but as a mother examines her newborn’s face—lovingly. The cracks, the mold, and the discolored surface of the structure only quickened her hand to capture its realness. As I stood there, careful to not disturb her momentum, I realized that she understood the concept of beauty. Beauty can exist even where there are imperfections.

I have come to appreciate the uniqueness, the realness of people who are labeled as imperfect. Perhaps, my perspective was formed from having a close friend who is wheel-chair bound. Perhaps, it is because I have always loved the bright personality that children with Down syndrome so often have. Perhaps it is because I struggled with being self-conscious about my looks as a young girl. Either way, when I pass a person on the street with a missing limb or a damaged facial feature, I can’t help but see the work of God. The band Gungor sings a song with the line “You make beautiful things, You make beautiful things out of the dust.” Man’s life came from dust. Man’s beauty comes not from what he is made up of, but because of who made him.

I remember once seeing a young woman who had the majority of both her arms missing. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt. I assumed she lost her arms in an accident as evidenced by the burn scares on her shoulders. I was in a coffee shop and she was refilling her tea. Her stature was straight, confident. She ignored wayward eyes that tried to steal a glance of what was left of her arms. She walked quietly, precisely, towards the refill station and politely refused the waitress’s offer to refill her cup for her. Instead, she balanced her tea cup between the two nubs of her arms and slowly positioned it on the counter, scooting it close to the tea kettle. Then, she lifted the tea kettle the same way and slowly poured the hot liquid into her tea cup, all the while being careful to keep the kettle erect between her two nubs. She was capable. She need not be coddled or pitied for her deformity. She was whole, useful. “There is God,” I thought. He is as much a part of her missing arms as He is a part of my whole ones.

Like the woman in the coffee shop, and like the woman near the lighthouse, I too have my imperfections. I have a scar through one of my eyebrows. I have terrible vision without corrective lenses. I had bowed legs when I was young. Though I have no permanent or obvious deformities, I have imperfections, faults, oddities. Life is made up of imperfections. Mistakes often lead to revelation, quirks make a person unique, imperfections allow for grace so that beauty is able to shine through. The lighthouse was not perfect. Evidence of decades of neglect and flooding and chips in the white-bricked exterior spoke of the lighthouse’s tumultuous life. Still, its golden head shone through the darkness. Though it was no longer physically in pristine condition, it still served its purpose. Like her subject, the artist was not young, or without imperfection. She too had evidence of life’s storms—white hair, wrinkles, missing leg. But, her hands expertly captured whatever image her sapphire eyes reflected. Her purpose was not lost in her circumstances. Her beauty was not scathed by her appearance.
The once smoldering sun tiptoed away as I watched. An hour had passed. As I was getting up, the old woman leaned her head my direction and nodded towards the canvas, then the lighthouse. Saying without words, “what do you think?” Surprised at her gesture, I stepped forward and eyed her work. I uttered my approval, taken aback by my own voice filling the silence. I bid a silent goodbye to the rounded palace and made my way back down the rocky path. I don’t know why the artist asked me what I thought about her painting of the lighthouse; she was certainly more familiar with the shore and the aesthetics of painting than I. Maybe it was because she understood that I too appreciated the beauty in seemingly imperfect things. Perhaps, she thought I would see it right.