old painting new frame
Two summers ago I took my first trip to Europe with two dear friends. We planned out our 7-day itinerary well in advance with plans to visit some of the most sought-out places in Scotland. After an overnight flight—during which we tried to sleep with our foreheads pressed against the headrest in front of us—we hit the ground running in Edinburgh. I normally spend my days in a town of 10,000 so most cities feel like a booming metropolis to me, but Edinburgh was particularly dense. Dense in population, sure, but more in aesthetics. There were more historic landmarks, picturesque buildings, epic cathedrals, and soaring castles than I could digest. By the time we exited the city after less than 24 hours, I felt like I was leaving a dessert trolley and heading for a plate of greens. I craved a palette cleanse from the decadence of the city. After a brief stay in St. Andrews (hands down the most beautiful city I’ve ever visited) we continued to head west. With each mile the expanse widened, and the sheep count climbed. By the time we settled for our final days on the coast of Isle of Skye I could feel my soul begin to breathe. The landscape and the people were effortlessly beautiful and kind. Sheep dotted the front yard of our little cottage, and a wide lake (or loch) was our backdrop. It was easy and sweet and memorable.
A little over a year later my mother-in-law visited, bringing an armful of items from her late mother’s home, which she was cleaning out after her passing. Most of it carried more meaning for my husband than me, but one little painting of a small village in Scotland stood out. Pastures of sheep and rolling green hills propped up a small white house on the coast of an obscure lake. It was not the same spot as where we stayed but it might as well have been. My husband’s family spent several years in England as part of the Air Force and this particular print was picked up along the way. But its resemblance to the backdrop of my trip felt serendipitous. I knew quickly where I wanted to hang it but also knew that I wanted to make one minor change: I wanted to reframe it. The frame it came in was fine but lacking. I prefer frames to have large, white mats to hold the print in space and let it sing. I do a lot of thrifting when I have the time and often find pieces of art that I like for one reason or another and all it needs is a new frame. A fresh frame with a crisply cut mat can change everything about the way the contents land. The art can speak when it is held well by its frame.
The more I sit with clients and the more I sit with the story of my own life, the more I realize that most of our lives are one long story arc of learning to let go on some level. We come into the world ready to trust, that trust gets broken, and then we learn to trust anew. We come into the world with desires aflame, those desires get squelched, and then we learn to long again. We come into the world longing to be loved, we get hurt, and then we learn to be loved again. It’s a story of beginning, breaking, and beginning again. And if we play our cards right, we move from rigid expectations to flexible hope. I believe that mostly it’s the movement of God that carries us along the story arc, but I also know we get to play our part. We are invited to participate the way a grandparent might invite their toddling grandchild to help plant a garden. They don’t need their help, per se, but they honor them by giving them a shovel and a chance. So, as we participate in the story arc I’m believing more and more that learning to reframe is one of the ways we help with the forward motion. I can’t change the facts of my story, the realities of my hurts, but I change the way I interpret them by putting them in a different frame. This is in no way the same as putting a positive spin on something so that it looks nicer in the light. That’s not the purpose of the frame. The frame is there to set off the art, to hold it, to let it sing the song it was meant to sing.
When I survey the Gospels, I can’t help but notice the invitation to reframe life when it seems to be only dark. Jesus invites Martha to reconsider her complaints with her seemingly lazy sister. He asks Andrew and Simon to reconsider their life’s purpose when their nets come up empty. Nicodemus is stunned by the idea that, in order to live, he would need to be born again. A little fish and bread are reframed into a feast. The paralytic is offered a healing he neither asked for nor knew he needed. And when asked about his mother and brothers Jesus puts a new and larger frame around the definition of family when he looks at his disciples and says, “these are my mother and brothers,” Matthew 12:49. The invitation seems to say that life will not be as you thought it would be and your experience of life will be inextricably tethered to your willingness to accept that. To not only accept that, but to frame it as good and better than if life had gone exactly as you wanted.
I’m curious, what part of your story is asking to be reframed? Maybe it’s sitting behind some clutter in your long-term memory bank. You’ve assumed that it has little to no value and that it’s better forgotten. What would it look like to slide it out from the forgotten past and prop it up for a little while? To put some white space around it, cock your head to one side and wonder, “What else could it be trying to say? What song is it trying to sing?”
Kristin Leathers began work as a Licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor in 2008 and became a member of Barnabas Triad in 2019. In addition, she has worked for Young Life for 14 years. She earned her MA in Counseling from Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary and her undergraduate degree from Meredith College. Kristin has been married for 17 years to her husband, Eric, and together they have two children. Kristin enjoys being with her friends, playing games, exercising, and all things related to home design. She is proud of her family, her work, and to be rounding out her third time through all seasons of Downton Abbey.
