Theo-lithography

"Let ev'ry creature rise and bring Peculiar praises to our king."1
     Oh Isaac Watts, you dog.  You go and take something so usual and make it so fantastically extraordinary.  Of course our praise is peculiar!  What a lovely thought!

     11:45 and I'm going home from Simpsonville.  The most wonderful thing about heading home at this hour of the night is the lack of traffic.  I can take ANY route I wish.  Every route opens before me like a wonderful opportunity, each screaming my name and begging me to follow. 
     Naturally, I took Batesville Rd.  I was feeling pensive, and the most secluded and windy road is the only choice for such a mood.  I can push my car's limits around the curves without the anxiety of traffic or cops with the windows down and the brights up.  In a metropolitan area of 800,000 people, I only saw 3 cars on my whole journey.  
     Few can truly enjoy this road, following it's curves from Simpsonville all the way to Greer.  This is pleasure that is singularly mine.
     The great thing about Batesville Road is that in the dark the twists and turns all look the same.  You accelerate into curve after curve and truly lose yourself on the journey.  
     And just when it seems like you've been on the road just a little bit too long, you are suddenly next to the graveyard next to the Gurn's neighborhood.  
     That's when you pass the first Publix.  Right there is where the road tries to trick you by turning into Pelham Road, but you know to take the right turn onto the small street that becomes Batesville again.  
     More curves bring you closer and closer to the distant smell of the county landfill, and before you know it you cross the bridge over the highway.  It's one of those small bridges that narrows, and even though you're passing over a piece of the Eisenhower Interstate Highway Network, you barely even notice.  The bridge is just as insignificant to you as it is to the speeding semi trucks beneath you.  
     And all of a sudden you tear out of the trees and pass the second Publix.  Almost there.  Watch for the left turn to take you through the Thornblade Golf Course.  
     It's muscle memory now.  Right then left then the Roller Coaster Hill.  Downdowndown to the bottom and then coast upupup to the top.  Stop.  Downdowndown into the trees and then coast upupup into your neighborhood.  
     Who would imagine what fond memories could sprout from a well-traveled route home? The prodigal son must have had this experience on the road to his father's house...

     But my mind wasn't on the drive.  It was on Emily.  A beautiful soul, one that taught me what it means to be meek and humble of heart.  Literally, I learned the meaning of that phrase by watching her.  
     Emily recently discovered a new passion, and it has torn her life apart (in a good way).  The passion brought years of work into jeopardy, and caused her to abscond from reasonable and economical future plans in pursuit of it.  
     That passion is art.  Printmaking, to be more precise.  An art that I have, until very recently, neither understood nor respected.  
     But this evening we sat in the living room and she brought our her portfolio.  She opened a giant black bag and pulled out piece after piece, explaining how each one happened and why she loved it so much.  It was joyfully intimate, seeing her portfolio open on the carpet and gazing down on the pieces of paper that violently threw her life into such a headspin.  
     "It's frustrating, because I just can't see how I could do this with my life.  It seems selfish, and not like I'm serving God."  
     Printmaking.  A rather peculiar medium, in my opinion. 
     I've never thought much of prints like these, and yet as I sit there on the carpet listening to her explain each one to me I'm astounded.  I love them.  Each one is so unique, a product of intense internal preparation and precise chemical expression.  They're beautiful, I whisper to myself in amazement. 
     And speeding around curves of Batesville Road, it occurred to me: what a peculiar way she has chosen to praise the Lord.  
     It must be praise.  Because each print is pregnant with the testament of hearty labor that lovingly captured an aspect of her soul, pressed out of stone by patience and transferred onto paper for my enjoyment.  
     This is her peculiar praise, and it most definitely serves the Lord.  
     And I am certain that He is pleased. 

1. From the last verse of the hymn "Jesus Shall Reign" by Isaac Watts.