ROMAN SAW NO POINT in keeping a big house on a mountaintop when he was spending so much time at a church in the valley. He decided to clean out the detritus of his life and put the place on the market. He filled plastic bags with spray cans and tubes of old paint and had the pile taken to a toxic waste company.
It took three days to whitewash his studio walls, obliterating all signs of his work. A flooring company refinished the hardwood. A two-bedroom apartment was available in the complex where Brian lived. Roman applied online and got it.
He left most of his furniture in the Topanga Canyon house. The real estate agent, who specialized in selling luxury homes, had said the house was perfectly staged. Modern. Minimalist. “The furniture might just sweeten the deal. If not, we’ll sell it for you.”
He had his books, clothing, the bedroom furniture Grace had picked, and a fresh start ahead.
“Must be nice to have freedom enough to do whatever you want.” The real estate agent had looked envious.
Free? This was just the first step out of the cage he’d built around himself. Right now, he wanted to get as far away as possible from the life he’d created and live the one God had planned for him. And that seemed to be enlisting a group of ex-gangbangers into helping him paint graffiti on a church wall. Settled in his apartment with one bedroom dedicated to drafting table, art supplies, and books, Roman set to work on the drawings for the church mural. The project kept his mind off Grace. He’d handed over the landscape to Talia, giving her permission to sell it. When she asked what he planned to do next, he said it wouldn’t be anything she could put on a gallery wall.
As ideas took form on paper, his focus and excitement for the work grew. He’d be doing this piece in the open with a crew to help, but the rush he’d always felt doing graffiti was returning, keeping him going. He worked until his shoulders and back ached. He stood and stretched, pacing until the pain diminished, then went back to work. He didn’t feel driven; he felt inspired. This was something new.
Brian came by to see the progress. “I saw your other work at the gallery show, but this is something else!”
“Yeah,” Roman agreed without arrogance. He studied the painting. It looked like someone else’s work, not his own. God was in this, and Roman felt exhilarated, excited, alive. Art had always been his means of expression, a way to pour out his wrath and frustration, but this work had a whole new dimension. He knew the One who had inspired him and why. This universal Christ triumphant hadn’t come out of his mind, but had been planted by the Lord.
Praise God, all you people of the earth. Praise the Lord!
How many years had he been searching for something to fill the void in his life? He’d tried everything—wandering, work, women. He’d fallen in love with Grace, but now he wondered what would have happened if they had gotten together. He’d still have been hungry for more.
Grace knew the Lord and loved Him. She had tried to take Roman by the hand and bring him to the altar, but he’d resisted, even after his near-death experience in hell. Why had he been so stubborn?
Maybe Grace had to be out of his life in order for him to get right with God. As long as she’d been around, his thoughts focused on her. His desire had clouded his thinking, distracted him from heeding the call of God. She had already fully committed herself to living for the Lord. He hadn’t yet made that life-and soul-altering decision. Now, he understood.
I still love her, Lord. You know how much. You hear my prayers in the middle of the night. But, oh, God, as much as I love Grace, it doesn’t compare to what I feel in Your presence. I sense You all around me and inside me. You are enough. More than enough.
Roman knew only too well that God had the power to stop and start a heart. The life of any man or woman rested in the palm of His scarred hand. It took a trip to hell to teach him Jesus was the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
Prayer had become a constant, mindful conversation for Roman. Mostly one-sided. After so many years of silence, Roman couldn’t stop talking inaudibly to the One who truly listened, the One who heard beyond the words to the motivations deeper than Roman himself could analyze.
Change me, Lord. Put a new heart in me. Make me the man You intend me to be.
Roman had stopped praying Grace would call or write or pass along a message through one of her friends, and begun praying God would watch over her and Samuel, provide for their needs, protect her, guide her, bless her. Oh, God, please keep her away from guys like me. She deserves so much better.
Brian put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? You seem a little out of it today.”
“I’m more in it than I’ve ever been.”
He tacked the drawings up on the wall and studied them. He wasn’t using transfers this time. He’d use narrow-stream, gray spray paint for the outlines and assign areas for his crew to fill in. No ropes and harnesses, either. He’d keep everyone safe on two rented, rolling mechanical lifts.
Brian looked worried. “How much will that cost?”
“It’s on me. So are all the materials. Just got the call this afternoon that my house sold.”
He’d come alongside Brian with the youth group. They were a tough, motley crew, eager to get started, especially the ones who’d repented of tagging buildings. They were itching to get their hands on cans of spray paint and not have to worry about being busted by the cops. Roman didn’t miss the irony of his situation: the loner organizing a youth group project, the reformed-and-redeemed graffiti artist doing his work in the daylight for anyone to see, and on a church, of all places. God sure had a sense of humor.
Roman power-washed the wall and let the kids prep it with white paint. It was a daylong job with two lifts, gallons of white paint, and sprayers. The next Saturday, Roman got there early, intending to have all the sections drawn before the crew of teenagers arrived, but fifteen showed up hours before they were scheduled. Parents came and others he hadn’t seen in church.
“You couldn’t have picked a better day.” Brian lifted his chin at the clear, cool fall morning. The mechanical lifts were in place, along with the paint supplies.
Roman had a bad case of nerves. “Everyone’s early. I didn’t expect a crowd.”
“Yeah, well, nothing we can do about that. Everyone wants to see how you do what you do. Where are your drawings?”
Roman tapped his forehead. “It’s all right here, my friend.” He looked up at the massive canvas and envisioned the lines and shapes already burning into place. Might as well get started. Stepping into the lift, he pushed the button to raise the platform. Grabbing a can of gray spray paint from a box, he tried to block out everything but the vision God had given him. He shook the can, pressed the button, and made the first wide curve. A fountain of energy welled up inside him and began to overflow to those waiting to do their part.
Crew members sat and watched. After a few minutes, Roman forgot they were there. He worked for three hours straight, moving the machinery, emptying cans of paint. When he tossed the last can into the box and pushed the button to lower the lift, everyone erupted in cheers.
Realizing they were cheering for him, Roman went cold. “Stop! Listen to me!” When he had everyone’s attention, he pointed. “This wall is a testimony to the power of Jesus Christ. It’s all about Him. If you came to work, here’s what you’re going to do.” He gave out instructions, tossing cans of paint to each and telling them where to start and where to work. “Okay, crew. Let’s blast this wall for Jesus.”