Our Father who 'Arts' in Heaven
I grew up in a family of seven children and when we were kids, my parents would crowd us into the van and take us down to Presque Isle. The lakeshore is situated on an angle, so it appears like the sun is sinking down into the water at sunset. In the summertime, my dad would come home from work and we would go down to the beach to catch the sunset.
Sitting on a weather-worn wooden picnic table, the August wind whipped through our hair as the soft sand gathered between our toes. Hugging each other as young families do, we would watch as the giant orange orb slowly descended into the rippling water – sending out vibrant rays of purple, gray, and orange across the dark greenish-blue water. I don't remember who first came up with it, but someone started saying, "Our Father, who 'arts' in heaven..." and we all chimed in.
As a little boy, I was surrounded by artwork. My father was a prolific portrait artist, so he was always working on another painting. The smell of oils, acrylics, and turpentine filled his studio. I knew him as "my father who 'arts' in Erie."
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