Across the Lake

When my folks owned a house on Little York Lake, one of the prettiest places on earth, I often sketched the opposite shore. It was far enough away that it was hard to see what the people were up to across the lake, but I enjoyed watching for human activity anyway. At night we could see the people having parties, because we could see their bonfires glittering across the water, and voices carried across the darkness.
Sometimes the living rooms were lit and we could even see people moving about in the house, and we would comment on it as though it were some great event.

But the house we most wanted to peer into, we could not. It was surrounded by a huge stone fence that had concrete gargoyles and masks along it. We could see the roof of the house, and it had a giant iron Pegasus on it. This was a family of artists, and from what we could tell, very private people who did not want anyone to see into their windows at night, or whether they had a bonfire on their shore.

So we would sneak over in our boat and see into the less barricaded side of the property. Sometimes we could see into the yard and there were all kinds of statues made up of old junkyard parts, metal clankety elephants, and giraffes, and other funny bizarre creatures dotting the grass.

I would run often on the road that flanked the front of their house hoping the front stone gate would be open and I could peek in. The gate had a giant iron spider across its top expanse. I wanted to see in, but I was also spooked, because the property and the reclusive family reminded me of the Adams family from that old TV show. Still, the one yard that I most wanted to see was closed to me, with all its treasures and delights and obvious quirky display of talent and creative genius. Why have a yard full of such treasure that no one but the artist could see?

If I had such talent, such vision, such beautiful concepts to offer the world, why would I hide them and myself behind impenetrable walls? Whether they were selfish, or frightened, or just strange, I don't know. But I do think there is a lesson in that house of cloistered hermits. If I have a light to brighten the darkness, why would I hide it? Or if I have words to comfort a friend, should I ever withhold it? If any gift of beauty or creativity has been granted me, is it meant for me alone to see? If I have news of God's promise, but I hoard it to myself , I am a concrete wall that others may long to see through, but can't.

Isaiah 49:15-17

¹⁵ "Can a mother forget the baby at her breast
and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,
I will not forget you!

¹⁶ See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;
your walls are ever before me.