Colors

“Excuse me, Miss Corey”

None of the children can pronounce my given name. It’s too foreign. Too much of a boy’s name. They stare at me quizzically every time they ask my name. They all attempt to pronounce it correctly as I carefully mouth each syllable. But every time it comes out “Corey.” So Corey it is. I find it ironic. I’ve been praying, struggling, wrestling for a new name – to drop my unfaithfulness, my harlotry, my old dirt that clung to my rags. I’ve needed a new name – a blessing, an living inheritance. I am christened from the mouths of babes “God’s peace.”

I spin around, my skirt catching in the ever-present breeze.

Before me are the espresso brown eyes of my new 16-year-old friend, Moses. Moses is one of the more fortunate children. His mother has scraped and saved enough Ugandan shillings to keep him in school. He began the trimester January 30th.

I take both of his hands. “Yes, Moses?”

He smiles back at me. It’s a contagious smile that overwhelms his entire face. Eyes, nose, and mouth are all involved in this party. It spreads to me and I can’t help but laugh. Joy is meant to overwhelm. It does just what the sign language I’ve been teaching them week does: it bubbles up and overflows.

“Yes,” he starts. “May I have the broken colours when they are done?” My heart, for the zillionth time that day, breaks. Colours, by the way, are crayons. Moses is a talented artist and has nothing but the things he finds discarded to draw with. We brought bookoos of dollar-a-box crayons for
the children for the makeshift VBS we’re conducting. And Moses wants the broken, melted-by-the-equator-sun, squashed by dirty little hands, leftover pieces.

Because in the hands of the Artist, the broken pieces are enough for him to create a masterpiece.