His name is Ken, and we meet under the most unusual circumstances.

It’s Saturday, and the Montour Preserve is hosting a Wildlife Artist Expo. I drive my oldest – the one who announced at her preschool graduation that she wanted to be a wildlife artist when she grew up – the scenic twenty minutes it takes to get there, past the farmer’s market, the Amish boys behind horse-drawn plows, the towering smokestacks of the power plant.

We arrive at the environmental education center where she shyly tucks her sketch pad under her fleece, a strange combination of eagerness and embarassment about showing off her work to the “real” artists inside. We enter the modest room where bird calls are coming from a CD player in the back, where a dozen or so exhibitors are set up, displaying ducks and wild turkeys carved from wood, oil paintings of winter scenes and white-tailed buck, and photographs of blue jays, cardinals, and red-bellied woodpeckers.

“This is awesome,” she whispers to me, and all eyes turn to watch this little girl, fascinated, as she slowly and carefully takes a closer look at each creation.

A photographer engages her in pleasant conversation about the life stages of a butterfly, the amazing metamorphisis he’s captured on film, and another offers her a complimentary portrait of three blue jays feeding on an old tree stump after she blushes and bares a few samples from her slightly concealed portfolio.

“To encourage her budding talent,” he tells us.

She thanks him silly, and we walk past more wood carvings, more watercolors and more smiling, friendly artists. We almost complete the circle around the room, the keys are in my hand ready to leave, but something catches her eye.

It’s a small table, not much bigger than a card table, and a few neutral-colored frames are spread out across its surface. She takes a few steps towards it, and suddenly she’s waving me closer. I’m by her side now, crouching low, and I’m intrigued, too, when I see several highly-detailed pictures painted on the faces of autumn leaves.

The artist is nowhere to be seen, just a framed picture of a young man and his bio accompany the display. So Rainey starts firing questions at the woman monitoring the table instead.

“How does he preserve each leaf? What kind of paint brushes does he use? What kind of paint? Does he use a magnifying glass? How old is he? How does he find all those leaves?”

The woman smiles politely at Rainey’s enthusiasm, and looks around the room before lowering her voice and leaning in closer to say, “Actually, it’s kind of a sad story.”

She tells us the story of Ken, the tale of a troubled childhood, of an abandoned man-boy, and how he taught himself to paint just six years ago at the age of 22. Cindy, the woman behind the table telling us the story, met Ken through a prison ministry, and she and her husband quickly “adopted” him and encouraged him to pursue his new hobby. Now Ken, who relies solely on the leaves that blow into the prison yard, spends his days behind bars painting nature scenes on his chlorophyl-faded canvases, and Cindy spends hers quietly showing them to the world.

The story captivates both of us, the paintings take on a whole new beauty, and I want to reach out and squeeze this woman, this spiritual mother, who’s taken a budding artist, like mine, under her wing, too.

But Rainey picks a framed leaf instead, the one with a tiny, fluffy duckling swimming in a pond, and we pay a small price, knowing that what little money Ken earns from it he will probably use to buy art supplies, and we thank Cindy for her time, for her story, and for her ministry to the least of these.

The whole way home, as I watch the farms and fields around me falling asleep, the last of the autumn leaves giving way to winter, I can’t help but think of Ken and Cindy and how, like nature and its seasons, we witnessed a change that afternoon, the kind that can transform a human heart when it knows it is really, truly loved, and it makes me offer thanks…

18. For what has been and what’s to come.

19. How God can open doors, even prison doors, for new life to enter in, for beauty to shine out.

20. Sisters helping each other with morning chores.

21. Back pain that brings me to my knees.

22. Friends who answer the call to travel to faraway places to be His hands and feet, for inspiring my daughter to do the same.

23. Homemade drumsets.

24. Girls night in.

25. Made-up words (That one’s for you, Candace.).

26. Dirt-caked hands busy in the garden, young yardwork helpers.

27. Front doors open wide on a warm November day…

{Pssst…if you would like to send Ken a card in prison to lift his spirits this Christmas, shoot me an email and I’ll send you his address.}