On an autumn evening Jane Brown parts the lace curtains of her upstairs bedroom window and stares sullenly at the land scape below. Gray clouds scud across the sky. A brown maple leaf scrapes noisily along the sidewalk.
"Peace at last," Jane mutters to herself, remembering the hectic pace of the day and the squabbles between her two children, now fast asleep in bed. She sighs. At last her time is her own. What should she do with it tonight? Paint, perhaps? That landscape is almost finished. But there really isn't much time. Maybe a luxurious soak in the tub would be nice. There's not really much time for anything else. The story of my life, she thinks despondently. As she starts toward the tub a voice calls from her children's bedroom.
"Mommy, I need a drink of water."
"You're supposed to be asleep," Jane calls out in annoyance.
"But I'm thirsty, Mommy. I want a drink of water." With a loud sigh Jane fetches the requested glass of water, tripping over a discarded doll in the hallway as she enters her child's room.
"Kids!" she mutters under her breath. Where might she be today if she hadn't had any? Life would certainly be different!
The water glass is taken eagerly by small, warm hands, and Jane feels a twinge of guilt at her annoyance. "Good night. Now go to sleep," she says firmly.
The tub does not interest her any more. For that matter, nothing interests her much anymore, except her land scapes. But there's never enough time to work on them. What a boring life, hers, playing referee to two little girls all day! All her talents wasted. She returns to her previous thought: what if I had never had children? The possibilities intrigue her as she wanders downstairs, picks up an art magazine, and settles into her favorite chair. It is so quiet. Her husband is out helping some friends move into their new home.
"I would be there too," Jane mutters, "if I didn't have any children. We could have made a party of it with pizza and pop and lots of laughter, Sara and I. Come to think of it, if I hadn't had any children, it might be my new home. But I have to stay here with the children. That means there's no job, no extra money for a new home."
"Jane." A soft voice calls her name. She is startled by a hand on her shoulder and turns to look into the face of an angel who stands beside her chair. The outline of his wings glows in silver and gold.
Jane is speechless. "I've come to take your children," he says. It is a statement, spoken gently, as though the angel thinks he is doing Jane a favor.
"But--" Jane stammers.
The angel holds a finger to her lips. "Don't argue. I have come at your request. Your children seem to be in the way of your happiness, and that was not God's intention when He gave them to you."
"But. . . you can't just..." "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away." "But. . . please . . . you can't do that!" Jane pales and clings to the angel, then covers her face with her hands. The angel takes her hands in his own. They are gentle.
"OK. If I can't take your children, I will take you." Jane looks toward the stairs. "Don't worry. We won't be long," the angel says. He turns toward the front window. "Come with me."
Jane follows hesitantly. She feels the wind rush past her face as the room falls dark around her. Suddenly they stand in the shade of the large maple tree that towers above her home. It is a summer day. On the cool porch that surrounds the house a young woman sits, painting.
Jane leans forward to see what the picture is but cannot make it out. "Who is she?" she whispers to the angel.
The angel doesn't answer. He smiles knowingly and motions for her to be quiet. "Look closer," he says.
Jane studies the woman's gestures and the lift of her chin, her profile. "Why, it's me," she whispers in awe.
"Yes. It's you. If you had never had children, you would have been a well-known portrait artist."
"Well-known? Like tours and exhibitions and stuff?" Jane asks incredulously.
The angel nods. "Yes. And can you see what it is that she is painting?" Jane shakes her head. The angel draws the scene closer, and Jane peers over the woman's shoulder at the canvas.
"Can you see it now--the portrait?" the angel asks softly.
"Why . . . it's ... a child at play. My child with her dolls," Jane whispers.
"And look again at the artist's face."
Jane sees a familiar expression in the eyes of the woman. It is dreamy, wistful. Could it be that if she had not had children she would be as obsessed with painting children as she now is with painting landscapes?
"Come inside," the angel says, and having spoken it, they are there. It looks familiar except for one thing: the home is spotless! Portraits of children line the walls, portraits the other Jane has painted.
Two kinds of awards
"Look at all the awards," ]ane breathes, noting the blue ribbons that adorn many of the works. "She must be very proud of these."
"Receiving them has given her pleasure. But of what use are they to her now? Nobody sees them anymore, and when she dies she can't take them with her. They just hang here silently."
"Look! Here's an award signed by the curator of the art museum!"
"Do you know him?"
"No, but. . ."
"Neither does this Jane."
"He must like her work. He gave her an award..."
"It's his job. He doesn't care about Jane. It's just his job to hand out awards. His is not a spontaneous expression of his appreciation of her work."
"But at least he gave her an award. And she can display it with her portraits..."
"Does an award gain value because you can touch it and hang it on the wall?" the angel asks gently. "And does it mean as much to receive it from someone you do not know as from someone you love?"
"Well, it means much more when you get it from someone you love, but . . ." Jane studies the blue ribbons wistfully. "I have never received any awards. I don't ever have time to paint; I'm just with the children all day."
The angel leads Jane gently to the hall mirror. "Look at your face," he says. Jane raises her eyes to her reflection. It is the same wistful expression she saw in the face of the other Jane. She gasps and looks away.
"Will you ever be happy, Jane? Is it really because of your children?" the angel wonders aloud.
Jane falls silent and moves to her favorite chair. Again she is startled by a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't take my children," she pleads. "Please. There will be time for painting later. Don't take my children! I can be happy!" She turns to look behind her.
"Jane." It is her husband. "What's the matter? Were you dreaming?"
"Oh, it's you. I'm so glad. It's just you."
"Here. I brought you something. A quotation that Sara found. She felt that you have been discouraged lately."
Jane reaches for the paper and smoothes it across her lap. She reads the first sentence quickly. Then, her attention arrested, she takes in every word.
"No other work can equal [the mother's] in importance. She has not, like the artist, to paint a form of beauty upon canvas; nor, like the sculptor, to chisel it from marble. She has not, like the author, to embody a noble thought in words of power; nor, like the musician, to express a beautiful sentiment in melody. It is hers, with the help of God, to develop in a human soul the likeness of the divine" (The Adventist Home, p.237).
Jane sits quietly in the chair for a moment. "Thank you, "she says. "I had a dream ..." But it is too personal to share. She follows her husband up the stairs.
As she passes her children's room she hears a whispered request. "Mommy. Can you come here for a minute? I have something for you." There is no trace of annoyance this time as Jane pads to the child's bedside.
"Can you sit down for a minute?" the child whispers.
Jane settles herself beside her child, and immediately two warm, chubby arms encircle her neck. "I love you, Mommy! You're my favoritest mommy in the whole wide world!"
"And I love you, too," she says hoarsely.
My works and awards, Jane thinks to herself. And I can take them with me!
