painting the rain.

It was quiet.
Just her voice and mine.
Hers much louder than mine.
And the rain.
The rain was soft, but it made itself heard as it bounced off the roof.
The room was still.
Still enough for the moment to move.
And did it move.
It moved more than the brush across the paper.
It moved more than the rain running down the window.
The moment moved like it had somewhere to go.

She saw more than my unintentional plus sign.
She breathed life into my unplanned.
"A cross. Jesus." She said.
"Of course. That's exactly what that is."
"It's a cross."
Thank you, Jesus.

His name makes people uncomfortable these days, Jesus.
As soon as people hear it, read it, see it, they think they've seen enough.
It's sad.
Really sad.
We let poor examples of Christianity, preconceived notions, and unanswered questions drown out his name, Jesus.

Lucky for me today, she didn't.
She didn't hear the clamoring noise against his name.
The only thing she heard was the rain.

Amidst the scattered mess of paint and paper, she looked for more.
She looked for more, she saw more, she found more.
She found Jesus.
Right there in front of her, as if he had been there all along.
And he was.
Waiting for her to see him.
As the rain sang pitter patter, she found him.
He was right there with her, painting the rain. 

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