I have dreamed of this moment for all my life; albeit, I knew not what this moment would entail. I had been afraid of the exposure of my darkness. I have betrayed, lied, lusted, coveted, and stolen. My innermost thoughts had been evil, and I was most expecting this moment to be the cup of wrath I had deserved.
My expectations were proven wrong. What I thought would be shame from his countenance towards me was actually a simple smile. But not just any smile. A grin from ear to ear. Eyes wide and brows raised, as if he had been anticipating this moment for a long time.
At first I was tempted to turn around to see from whence I came, but the eagerness in this man's face was compelling me to remain the eye contact. And then, as small as a beam of light and as fast as it travels, a seed of passion was ignited deep within my soul. The desire for something I knew not drastically grew with an anticipation I had never felt.
He stared at me. He could not remove it, and in front of him was his canvas. He motioned for me to approach him, and I did. With a sudden newness of expectation I approached him and viewed his canvas. It was a painting of another world--another time. Another dimension, even. And I found myself wanting to be there.
Yet the painting was unfinished. I looked to him and asked about the unfinished part. It was as if his eyes spoke to me. He had applied the foundation of base colors and structure. He had supplied the architecture. Then he handed me the brush. It was my turn.
I looked at him with happiness, and grabbed the brush. With enthusiasm overwhelming my heart and my lungs full of fresh air, I applied my stroke of genius. But then I dropped my brush.
I had caused a stroke and the color was black. It ruined the painting, and I was heartbroken. I knew the man was disappointed in me. He needed someone who knew how to paint--someone with artistic talent and skillful hands. I admitted--I was neither. How foolish I had been to pretend to be someone I was not.
Then he lifted my face to see him. And he smiled at me. There was supposed to be anger, but I saw only gentleness. I had expected (and would have accepted) him to reject and remove me from his canvas. But he just smiled. Then he stooped down and retrieved the paint brush. He handed it to me and directed my attention back to the canvas.
He lifted his right hand to the black smear I had caused. As he wiped it clean, it was replaced with a bright crimson. Then he instructed me to continue to paint. But this time, I looked into his eyes as my brush created a beautiful masterpiece--a masterpiece where the center was a wave of red that brought out the other colors so magnificently.
And then he spoke. He said he was proud of me.
"But I messed up," I replied. And his returning comment reminded me that my black streak had been removed.
I stood back to see the whole canvas. I took in the entire picture. And that's when I realized the truth...
(You finish it. What is the truth? Conclude the story.)