A Most August Painting

It might not be fine art, but it’s mighty fine to me.

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I don’t know from where I downloaded it or who painted it. I saw it, I liked it, I gave it a title: Coming Home.

It’s a capture of a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, tense with the energy of boys running down a grassy hill, led by their dog, happily leaping up into the light of the setting sun behind them. The dog’s eyes meet those of the viewer in that split-second before she rushes past the dandelions and out of sight, the boys bounding and laughing and shouting past a few seconds later. In a minute or so the sun will wink out behind that hill. A day’s play is done, and how many more do these boys and their dog have before them? As many as they need is the best we can hope for.

Darker voices taunt me with possible futures for all concerned—the boys grow up, the dog grows old and feeble, the ache of entropy and years, joy passes from the Earth, etc.—but a better voice tells me to focus on this captured moment, in that fiery orange light you only see in mid- to late August. This year’s summer is burning down to embers, but how awful it would be if it didn’t? And what if those boys never grew up to be men to beget sons who would know just such a summer’s day with their own dogs? Part of their passage into manhood will be observing the old age and death of their beloved childhood companion. These things are as they must be.

For now, frozen in this moment, that dog is as happy as she can be, leading her charges home. The boys have their arms outstretched to keep their balance as they bound down the hill to keep up with her. They’re going home, called home by a loving mother who just put away the dishes from dinner. Dad will be waiting to hear of their adventures at the edge of the woods over the hill, before reminding his boys of the chores they’ll need to do tomorrow in lieu of the imminent harvest. School will be starting soon, their mother reminds them.

The boys are just fine with this. They’ll be helping Dad, doing a man’s work. The dog will be with them, chasing birds and vermin among the rows.

That’s how I like to imagine it. The proportions on the bodies may be off, but the colors and the energy of motion bring it all home. At this point, a writer is tempted to go into a bitter rant about the absolute state of modern “art,” but, nah. I’ll print this up, put it in a frame, and hang it on my wall in a place where I can’t miss it. It will be there to remind me there are images that can inspire an entire novel’s worth of lovely moments.

I don’t know who painted this, but he or she gets it. The dandelions have a cold blue light about them in the shadows, and their seeds are sure to blow away with the next strong wind, or as the dog and the boys charge heedlessly through them. They are a reminder of how temporary all this is. These things are as they must be. But tomorrow is another August day of light and heat, adventures about the creek, forays into the woods, more sunset charges down the hill towards home. May they all make the most of these things while they still matter.

Good job, anonymous painter. It’s a Philippians 4:8 thing to mediate upon, to know there are still people who appreciate innocence and beauty in a most hatefully satanically evil world.

Help a Brother Strike His Chains!