My Written Name

“Ugh…there it is,” I say in almost disgust. Putting down my paintbrush I add, “This is what they get.” The signature of an artist is the finale of their work; it is like a definition, leaves no questions or doubt.

My once, simple written, “MEL” has now become a daunting task.

“Rebirth.”

My eye and hand coordination has been altered. It is not just painting my name, but regular writing as well…even finger-poke typing. My eye sees the key, but finger comes down on one next to it; my eye sees the last letter written on the paper, but my hand can’t find the space next to it unless I write sloppy and large. (One can forget staying within the lines and I am finding permanent markers quite lovely—the black markings on my hands after getting the cap back in place is such proof.)

And for “MEL,” I have not known what to think. The markings seem contradictory to the artwork, as if painted by another. But in a sense, “MEL” written by my hands—shaky, off in lettering, unable to focus on detail—is like a definition, leave no questions or doubts of this fragile body that I am still able to live within.

Mom did help me on the other paintings…I held my brush and she did the name strokes; it is like a definition…leaves no question or doubt that we were not meant to travel or carry our burdens alone. Even though I have so many physical needs and someone is usually close at hand, I do often feel lonely– lacking face-to-face fellowship. A spiritual fellowship.

The other night, after a conversation with Dad about church and weekly fellowship that left me upset, I went to my room and sat by Muffy on the bed. I wrestled with thoughts, but ended climbing in bed that night praying about it.

“Flowers in the Rain.”

These past few nights, I have struggled, not just in the hardest of extreme physical exhaustion, but I know mentally and in essence, spiritual. “I’m battling it here,” I point to my chest in tears. I know this—it happens every time before an appointment with my doctor, as if Satan reminds me of my flesh on purpose. I think this time, he is doubling his efforts, because he knows that I find out my MRI results and that I have important topics to discuss and that I am going to explain again, why I have peace. Peace in the soul.

After mentioning Job, I say, “I sometimes think of my tumors in that way…Satan can have them. But he can’t have my soul.” I think that is why spiritual fellowship is so divine—the reminder to each other that we are spoken for: “Greater love has no one than this, that he should lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13

“Love is Blind.”

*Paintings posted on Etsy–Brushstokesbymel