I quickly walked from our church van to the inside of the homeless shelter, hoping to avoid the freezing cold. Nodding a polite “thank you” to the gentleman opening the door for me, I stepped inside the building. It was a cold night in downtown Cincinnati, and just the thought of spending another minute outside sent shivers up my spine. Even though it was November and the ground bore no snow, the air sent flurries of cold rushes every now and then. I gently stamped my feet against the carpet several times, trying to regain the feeling in them.
Soon my youth group and I were swept away. We followed the person who seemed to know where he was taking us. Walking through winding passages, we passed by mysterious doors. The closed doors had just enough sound coming from the inside to make you curious to know what’s behind the doors. Finally, our short tour through the building came to a close, as the group stopped. I peered ahead, straining to see where we were led. Looking ahead, I noticed a room filled with people. We had arrived just in time to catch the end of the sermon the homeless shelter was providing.
After the sermon, my youth group and I were signaled to quietly follow our youth group leader. He lead us along more passages, until we stopped at the kitchen. We were given a short introduction of how to do things, then told to put on gloves and necklaces. Putting on my gloves, I quietly laughed at how big they were on me. Next, I was handed a beaded necklace, with a plastic chili pepper dangling at the end. Carefully placing the necklace around my neck, I stared at the design for a few seconds, smiling. It was a Mexican theme dinner, and they definitely wanted everybody to know that. The food included spicy rice and chicken. The brightly lit room held decorations on the colorful walls, making the room dance with glee. Rubbing my gloved fingers against the smooth crescent shape of the chili pepper necklace, I waited for the homeless people to come in.
Within minutes, a flood of people came in through the doors. Taking seats quickly, the people sat down expectantly. I took two plates, one in each hand, put on a welcoming smile, and set out to serve the women first, as we were instructed to do. Next, we gave the men their food. They seemed especially hungry, and were soon asking for seconds. After a continuous motion of picking up two plates, and setting them down in front of people, finally, everyone was content. I smiled at the large, chatty, happy group. I was glad to be able to help someone in need. As the demand for workers died down, a few of my youth group mingled with the crowd.
My eyes searched the large room, looking for a welcoming face. They wandered to a certain table. At that table was a man with a short white beard, his fingers were opening up a battered and torn sketchbook, revealing a crystal white, blank, sheet of paper. Watching a girl in my youth group, Melissa, he was carefully studying her face. As long as I can remember, I’ve had a passion for art; unfortunately, I’m horrible at it. You can’t even recognize what I’m drawing! My love for art took me over to that table anyway. He had already completed the outline of her face, adding in stray bits of her hair. I glanced at his materials for drawing. A sketchbook, a well sharpened but small pencil, two colored pencils, one was a light brown, and the other was a deep blue sea, a pencil sharper, and an old, well used eraser. The eraser looked like it could stand for only one more use, before it would crumble up into practically nothing.These were all the tools he had for drawing.
In less than ten minutes, he had completed all of her drawing. The finished work nearly took my breath away, glueing my eyes to the sketch. He didn’t add much color, couldn’t, with only two colors to choose from. However, he did color in her eyes. A gorgeous light brown. That was the only place he added color. Few people really consider how gorgeous light brown is, but when you see it used like I did, it was simply amazing. Wisps of hair ran slightly into her face, making the drawing seem more realistic. The shading was perfect in the drawing, lightly filling up some corners, and adding more shade in others. He gently tore his drawing out of his sketch pad, and said he wanted her to have it. She thanked him and walked away, after chatting politely for a few more minutes.
I just couldn’t seem to leave that table. So I sat down to talk with him. I asked him if he’d ever taken art classes. “I’ve never taken an art class in my life,” was his simple answer. He was just naturally good, saying, “It’s not my best art work, I had to hurry and finish, it’s really not that good.” I told him about my love for art. He said he felt the same way about art. He told me never to give up, and told me what was most important in artworks to him. “Details matter the most,” he said repeatedly. He encouraged me in my love for art, telling me that I could do better than him one day.
Eventually, it was time to go. I asked him for his name, but only caught the last part. Hill. Mister Hill. It’s his encouragement that’s kept me going throughout the frustrating artworks I draw, that never seem to look like anything but scribbles and lines. If he, with only a stub of a pencil, a sheet of paper, and sheer determination could create something that beautiful, then surely I could continue to try to draw as good as he. A stranger encouraged me in my passion and love for art. He knew I could do it, and he had faith in me.
Kayla Joy
