My Father and the Slate

In the beginning my Father gave me a slate, and a piece of chalk. “Draw.” He encouraged me, “You can draw your own picture or you can ask me for help.”
I took the slate and chalk. At first I made some nice little doodles, at first I asked my Father how to draw certain things, occasionally He would point out something wrong in my picture and give me a special formula to wipe it clean.
Then I began to wonder, what was wrong with what I made? How hard could this drawing thing be? Why did I even need help? I realized that I liked what I’d made in error. Then I stopped accepting my Fathers special formula. “I think I can handle this on my own.” I said. I stopped asking Him for help and I stopped listening to His instructions. “This is easy, I can so do it by myself.” I said to Him and I turned my back on Him and I walked away.
I started to have fun with my chalk and slate. I drew all sorts of things, soon the entire slate was covered and I no longer had any room on it. I felt a tap on my shoulder “Is it beautiful?” I heard Him ask. I quickly walked away and did not look at my Father. I tried to wipe the slate clean to start over, but I got chalk dust all over my hands. Not only did the dust not come off the slate but it smeared worse and then it was all over my hands. I wiped it onto my clothing but then it was all over my clothes. I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Is it beautiful?” I hear Him say.
I was angry by that time. “Stay away from me!” I said. I walked away again and again. I did not look at my Father. The slate was blurry, and the chalk dust was all over my body. I became even more angry, how could this happen to me? I began to draw over the chalk blurs but it was not at all how I wanted it to look.
I realized that I did not even know what I was drawing, yet I kept scribbling furiously until I had no chalk left. I suddenly saw that it was my fingernails and finger tips that I was scraping and scratching against the surface of the slate.
“How did this happen?” I cried out in pain, my fingers bled, their nails were almost gone, and the slate was blurred, scribbled on, and also scratched and covered in my bloody fingerprints.
“Is it beautiful?” I heard a distant voice. “Yes,” I answered bitterly, “It is beautiful. I love it!” I sat and stared at the slate, unable to do anything except wipe at it which simply made it spread more on me and the dust was making me cough. “Can I see it?” I heard that voice again. What a horrible notion! I was suddenly ashamed and holding the slate close I began to cry. My tears dripped onto the slate but I no longer cared.
“Is it beautiful?” I rose in anger toward this man. “I hate you! This is all your fault!” I screamed. I hurled the slate full force at Him and it struck Him in the forehead causing a gash and breaking the slate at the same time. I collapsed in my tears. My slate was disgusting, broken, unclean, and now my Father must be angry at me as well for I cut Him. Also I myself am dirty and bleeding and I have no more slate.
“Look at me.” The voice is so gently and kind that I am surprised, and I can not refuse. I look up at Him. “Can you help me?” I ask through tears. He too is crying, His head is bleeding, and He takes the blood from His wound and wipes it over the broken halves of my slate. “Don’t do that!” I shout, “You’re messing it up even more!” “My blood is the formula, I am cleaning your slate.” He answers. I see now that it is true and there are no stains on my slate. “What about me?” I ask looking down at my dirty self. My Father allows some of His blood to drip into a jar, He gives this to me. “This is yours, cleanse yourself with it.” I hold the jar in my hand, the formula, this is too good to be true.
My eyes are drawn to my broken slate now clean but still in halves. “But my slate is broken, Father, what about that?” “Can I have it?” “Father, you’re already holding it!” “May I have it?” “Of course, it’s no use to me, it’s broken, and I have no more chalk, take it, it’s yours. I never want to see it again.”
I am still not satisfied as I look at the formula and realize that it is all I have now. I don’t even know what to do with it. “You’re dirty, be clean.” I jump, can my Father even read my thoughts? “How?” I ask, “I have given you the formula.” He answers. I open the jar now, I can not stand how dirty I am anymore. I hesitate, “Why did you give me this?” I ask, “Because I love you.” A warmth washes over me, one part of me wants to leap for joy. “But I hurt you!” I reply. “Nothing you can say or do can make me love you more or less.” I step forward toward Him, wanting only to be wrapped in His arms. He steps back. “You must be clean.”
I look at the formula and I look at my Father. Is it worth it? Is He worth it? He said He loves me. I make my decision and I raise the jar and tilt it back, with my eyes closed I allow the formula to pour over my head and down my shoulders, all down my body. A fresh wave of pain passes through me like I am being scalded, it passes quickly though, leaving me feeling better than I have ever felt.
As I open my eyes I find myself in my Fathers embrace, “I’ve waited so long!” He cries as He holds me and I know that this is what He wanted all along. At long last we hold each other at arms length and simply look at each other, I do not know how long that we looked at each other, but was perfect. “I have something for you.” He hands me a new slate.
“But Father, I messed up the first time. What if I do that again?” He hands me a new piece of chalk and answers, “If you mess up, ask me, I’ll clean your slate again. If you run out of chalk again, I’ll give you more. You have nothing to worry about, you are lacking in nothing. Now draw, only this time, lets do it together, look at me, listen to me, draw me.”

I took my new slate and began to draw a portrait of my Father.