(I’ve been stretching this story out so long in hopes that it will help the Christmas season last longer, but it’s not helping me write it. I’ll probably rewrite this story when it’s finished, I don’t think the beginning and the middle are clicking. They’d be fine as different stories but I’m not feeling them together.)
A week passed and it didn’t get any better. I was stuck. I still worked on my other paintings, and cleaned offices, but my thoughts were constantly in a stable in Bethlehem.
One day on the way to (the little art gallery I haven’t named yet, please help me think of something) I had an epiphany of sorts.
I was about to go in to (the gallery that lacks a name) when something made me turn around. A young father was holding the hand of his son, strolling down the street together. Nothing was said between them, but I saw the father impulsively reach over and put an arm around his son. The little boy looked up and his father looked down for just a second, but that second communicated great love for the son and trust in the father.
I completed my business at The Unnamed Art Gallery as quickly as I could, then hurried home to paint.
Joseph was finished by dinner.
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