The amor of my abuelito

I don’t remember my real grandpa who died when I was two but I’d like to think that he would be like my abuelito here. Barely coming up to my shoulder, he is balding with silver lining crowning his head. He smiles at me every day after school when I fight with our dog so that he doesn’t escape our court yard. I would visit with him after my classes and inhale the scent of oils and passion colliding in his art studio. I always felt a little guilty because I knew I was interrupting his work but he always welcomed me in with a kiss on the cheek that told me I could do no wrong in his deep brown eyes. My abuelito calls me amor and hugs me real tight making me feel small even though I tower over him. It scares me to say but I like the feeling of being someone’s granddaughter.

My abuelito has been a self taught painter for seventy years and has art all over the world from Canada to Peru. He has painted the coast of Colombia, the faces of the indigenous community in Ecuador, the waterfalls of Washington, the forests of Venezuela, and in all of this he has captured a history while creating a legacy. My abuelito tells me every day that God created two things—nature and people but that when God made sunrises and sunsets He made them just for him. My abuelito tells me that the world is a gift from God that he has the privilege of painting. It is there in that studio that my abuelito wants to die painting the reflection of his Creators creation.

            I loved listening to my abuelito tell me about the beauty of our Savior as I breathed in the truth of God’s love mixing with oils, water colors, and charcoal. One day my abuelitos wrinkled hands held my face and looked into a lie I had been believing for a very long time. “One day,” he said, “I would like to paint you because when I see you, I see a part of God’s lovely creation.” With the tenderness that somehow knew the pain of my past he told me that I am beautiful and for the first time I believed him. My abueilito saw me as his hopelessly lost often frazzeled granddaughter whom he loved very much. In every painting there is a piece of my abuelito, in each brush stroke there is his love and that’s how I would like to think of God when He made the world—putting His heart and love not only in all creation but in each sunset and sunrise  just for my abuelito.