I almost missed it.
In a building full of movement and play and conversation, this piece of art hung quietly on display. Although vibrant, colorful, and bright, it was still easy to overlook.
I saw it at an event JCF sponsored for a group of precious families who had graduated from homelessness to stable housing through hard work and commitment.
For as long as I can remember with God, class has been in session as He consistently unveils extraordinary truths through seemingly ordinary moments. The lessons He taught me through that simple portrait echoed what I witnessed that evening: lives once dismissed, now dignified; stories once silenced, now celebrated.
Victories on display where defeat had left its mark.
It would have been easy to walk right past the artwork, by the way. As a matter of fact, I did. Several times. From afar, it looked like a simple portrait. But something about it finally arrested my attention, urging me to stop.
So I did.
As I moved closer, the portrait transformed. Upon closer inspection, what first appeared polished and whole revealed itself to be a collection of the used-up and discarded. Beauty comprised of items destined for the trash heap.
Every lid, button, bottle cap, and fragment told a story. It wasn’t just beautiful, it was meaningful. Woven into this brilliant work were overlooked, worn-out, forgotten things. Items that had outlived their usefulness. Things most people wouldn’t even notice, much less value.
But here they were.
Repurposed.
Elevated.
Redeemed.
From a distance, I never would have recognized the intricate, commonplace components of the installation. That was only made possible by closing the distance. By drawing near.
And isn’t that so often the case?
We say we mean to see people clearly. We long to be a source of hope and encouragement for those whose paths we cross. But we will never do that at arm’s length.
We will never discover the inherent beauty of another if we are too busy, too disinterested, or too afraid to approach.
We will never be a part of helping others discover their immeasurable worth without choosing proximity.
It is only when we get close enough to care, close enough to notice, close enough to listen, that we begin to see what has been there all along: something holy hidden within the ordinary. Beauty salvaged from brokenness. Purpose rising from pieces we might have concluded were too far gone.
We, like many, often feel we have nothing of worth to offer. Nothing to contribute to the beauty the world needs. So we wait for someone willing to look again. Someone willing to come close enough to see the treasure hiding in plain sight.
But maybe what we need is also what we are called to give.
One of the best ways to remember we matter is by reminding someone else that they do. So we make a choice to see them, not as they appear from a distance, but as they truly are. And when we pause long enough to notice, when we draw near with intention and care, we help others know what we ourselves often struggle to believe:
That they are seen.
That they matter.
That their value is infinite.
That the beauty of this world would be incomplete without them.
If that seemingly unassuming portrait communicated to me anything at all, it was this: even the ordinary can become extraordinary.
And maybe, just maybe, the things once deemed discardable—about our stories, our pasts, even ourselves—are the very things being crafted into masterpieces.
Can you imagine the transformation that would result if we chose to be the kind of people who close the gap, who shine the spotlight, who look beyond the veneer to the value that dwells within?
Well, what if we did more than imagine?
What if we chose to see?
Look closer, beloved.
Look again.
Because within every encounter, whether chosen or unexpected, there is always more than meets the eye.
“God is not only the God of the beautiful but the God of the broken as well.”
~ 𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝