I remember the first set of real colored pencils I was given.

Specifically, I remember the surprise I felt when the kind stranger put that box in my hand. It was a glossy stone or ivory color, and the sides were dark burgundy. The calligraphy on the face said: “Artist Series”. Suddenly, the box felt weightier. I wanted to go home immediately and see what was inside. 

When the car pulled into the driveway that day, I hurried inside the house and quickly opened that box to find a stack of three plastic holders. An array of 12 premier, prismacolors in each. The first contained warmer hues, the second held all the cooler tones, and the bottom holder contained monotones. They were all in vibrant order and perfectly sharpened. In awe that I had been given such valuable tools, I began to wonder how I should use them. 

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Almost 20 years later, this faint memory was rekindled as I opened a suitcase full of chalk pastels, watercolors, paintbrushes, and multipurpose sketch books in a small rural village called Ombeyi in Kenya. Seven curious children peered over my shoulder as I began to carefully lay out supplies on the rough, concrete floor — hoping to stir excitement and creativity. 

In this room, make-shift easels and cardboard boxes had supported the weight of broken ceiling tiles — which were used by these children to paint bible stories and depictions of God’s creation. Looking at the slightly translucent colors, I wondered if they had watered down the paint to create enough color to fill the canvas, or if the surface was just too rough to hold any pigment well.

On the chalk board behind us, I noticed a poem written by their instructor, Kalaba, titled: “My Passion for Art“. Kalaba explained that his students recite this poem at the beginning of each class to help shift everyone’s focus from the responsibilities and burdens of each day toward creative endeavors. He explained how much the kids enjoyed this safe, set-apart space to express themselves and grow in skill.

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I thought about how bringing this suitcase was actually a last minute idea — now, I could see the purpose of God’s provision as I read Kalaba’s poem, calling for God’s help to minister and bless others with his passion while encouraging his students to do likewise.

When Kalaba asked if I could teach a lesson sometime that week, I already had something in mind — for God had been preparing and refining it long before I had even considered travelling to Ombeyi. 

Later that week, I brought a small, hand-carved, wooden bird into the classroom and stood beside Julia and Haley as we each shared a bit about what and why we create.

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