Waiting For Mercy

She was desperate for mercy. I was simply the one mixing colors and deciding where the shadows should fall. Somewhere between the sirens and the laundry, the distance disappeared.

The woman in the painting is kneeling because love has brought her lower than her dignity would ever choose. Her hand rests lightly at the edge of the table. By now she has already cried out for mercy and been met with silence. Still she waits.

I was mixing the color for her hands when the alert started. Loud and dramatic audio alert from Home Front Command, the screen flashing : Extreme Alert: Enter your protected space.

As I started to put my brushes down the siren began and the doorbell rang. A neighbor was standing there holding a baby. “So sorry” she said as she stepped inside. During sirens those who have a shelter open their doors to anyone passing by. ”Of course” I said showing her to the shelter which is also my bedroom.

My eyes locked on to a dirty sock on the floor, the sweater wildly flung on a chair turned half inside out. Half finished paintings stacked on the dresser that I hadnt intended on being seen. Laundry piled over the bed that I obviously was ignoring. I slid the heavy metal plate over the window and began a bit of small talk to pass the time. ”Have you been getting any sleep?” I asked. She shifted the baby higher on her hip “A bit, fortunately she sleeps through most of it”.

A few low booms rolled between the hills and we waited for the logical amount of time that something might be falling from the sky. After a few minutes she thanked me and slipped back out the door. On my way back to the canvas I caught my reflection on the mirror by the door. Bright red paint was streaked across my cheek and the tip of my nose. I must have pushed my hair back with my hand while still holding my brush. For a moment I stood looking at how ridiculous I looked as I realized I had just opened the door to a neighbor with my life spread across the house and red paint on my face. I wiped it off and went back to the painting.

The woman was still kneeling where I had left her, waiting for mercy. The story comes from the gospel of Matthew.

A woman comes to Jesus and asks Him to heal her daughter. But Jesus seems not to care. He doesn’t even answer her. And when He finally does she is met with what very much sounds like an insult. And yet she does not turn away in humiliation. The longer I looked at her the less distant the story felt. I reached for my coffee and sipped it when the message from the church in Cyprus came in.

If things change quickly, they are ready to receive the students. Just say the word.

I thanked them and sent an email to the parents that our evacuation plans have been finalized.

I sat the phone down and reached for my brushes. Outside the sound of jets boomed across the sky. Inside I took a sip of cold coffee. I couldnt decide if the woman was crying or if she was just determined or…what does humilty look like?

I took a step back and thats when I saw the blue footprints on the tile that traced a path back and forth between the shelter and the coffee and the painting. I must have stepped in it earlier without noticing.

I filled a small bucket with water and knelt down to wipe away the paint. I stayed there longer than the mess required. Some things can only be reached from the floor. “Lord”, I said quietly, “have mercy”.

Just then the front door opened and Matt stepped inside the house and gestured to me that he was on the phone. He pushed the door shut with his shoulder. “Yes” he was saying “I understand.” He listened for a moment. “Of course, another time.” When the call ended he leaned against the doorway, doing what looked like math in his head. I continued to wipe the blue streaks while I waited for him to speak. ”The group canceled” he said. “We will have to figure out rent another way.” He looked down at the blue footprints across the floor. ”You know, most people like to put paint on the canvas” he said with a tired smile.

Later that afternoon I went out to pick up a few things for dinner. On the way back I ran into a neighbor who has a boy the same age as mine. ”where’s yours?” I asked. ”He just got back from Gaza” she said. “Now they are sending him up to the north.” Where’s yours? She asked. ”Also north.” I said.

Neither of us said much after that. I couldn’t help but picture them just a few years ago riding bikes up and down the street and war was what happened with nerf guns and a broken walkie talkie.

I carried the groceries inside and then went back to get my paintbrushes before they began to harden. I looked again at the way the light had began to change. She could have left by now, she’s been ignored, insulted and even the disciples think she she should go. But still she stays close enough to where mercy could still fall.