AfterWords | Sketches of the Soul

A short read
by Jared Ray

Do you ever consider the shape of something? Not the object itself, but the outline—the silhouette that emerges from the quiet around it.

An art professor once urged me not to draw the object I saw but to trace the negative space that surrounded it. “By doing so,” she said, “the object will come into focus—clearer and more refined—when you stop looking at it directly.” I was uncertain, but I tried. And to my quiet amazement, what I was reaching for appeared—not because I grasped at it, but because I made room for it to reveal itself.

I remember multiple times in my life when I have tried to force something to happen—staying up late at night, the glow of my laptop casting a harsh light on weary eyes, scouring job listings. Or distracting my own mind— binge-watching the latest season of Slow Horses or—just as often, racking it as I stare at the ceiling, trying to solve my problems, my family’s, the country’s, or even the world’s. I wanted clarity, direction, certainty. But all I felt was silence. 

It wasn’t until I stepped away—closing my laptop with a soft click, walking through my neighborhood under the dim glow of dawn, or sitting by candlelight, the wax slowly pooling as I journaled and prayed—that I began to sense a gentle pull. Not toward answers, but stillness. A faint line, forming before I even knew what it was.

I wonder if discovering who we are in God is much the same—less about striving for clarity and more about noticing the space around it.

When we turn inward and sit with the restless questions and quiet longings that shape our days, each moment becomes a pencil mark, each uncertainty a faint stroke forming the edges of who we are becoming.

I achieved what I thought I wanted, but why do I still feel unfulfilled? A mark.
I am surrounded by others, yet why do I ache for deeper communion? A stroke.
They already have their people; they don’t have space for me in their lives. Another mark.
Why does that place—with the salty sea air that clings to my skin, the hush of the forest where every crack and soft crackle underfoot feels sacred—call me home? Another line.
Why do I yearn for work that feels more whole? Another mark.
And what might that work be? A line. A pause. Another line.

This is slow, sacred work. Painful at times, frustrating for sure, like any true creation. But I have come to believe these faint lines are sketches of the soul—imperfect, incomplete, yet drawing us ever closer to the shape of who we were created to be.

There have been seasons when I found myself waiting—hoping for a clear sign, a whispered calling, or even a divine email spelling it all out. (Spoiler: The email never came. I still check my inbox… just in case.)  Maybe the long stillness of the pandemic added to this. I waited for the community I longed for to find me, for a friend to reach out, for the right path to unfold before me.

So I waited.
And waited.
And waited.

Until waiting became a kind of living. And time passed, as it always does, leaving me in the same place I began.

But now, I am listening. Listening to the faint pencil marks—the quiet questions that nudge, the curiosity that beckons deeper, the gentle tremor that says, stay a little longer. I see now that I was trying to rush to the end, to see the whole picture, forgetting that the beauty is found in the becoming.

I am not sure you can stare at the soul head-on and expect it to yield its truth. You must approach gently, with reverence, with patience, as if holding a candle to the darkness, its soft flicker revealing only what is ready to be shown.

So, I wonder, dear friends—if you too gather the quiet lines, the subtle strokes made by your fears, your hopes, your longings—can you begin to glimpse the shape of who you were made to be? Perhaps even who you already are? What might happen if you stayed with those lines a little longer? What faint line is waiting for you to notice today? And perhaps, as we hold these sketches in our hands, we might see that the becoming itself is the masterpiece.

I leave you with a poem by John O’Donohue—a poet who knew well the slow work of becoming.

For Light

Light cannot see inside things.
That is what the dark is for:
Minding the interior,
Nurturing the draw of growth
Through places where death
In its own way turns into life.

In the glare of neon times,
Let our eyes not be worn
By surfaces that shine
With hunger made attractive.

When we look into the heart,
May our eyes have the kindness
And reverence of candlelight.

That the searching of our minds
Be equal to the oblique
Crevices and corners where
The mystery continues to dwell,
Glimmering in fugitive light.

When we are confined inside
The dark house of suffering
That moonlight might find a window.

When we become false and lost
That the severe noon-light
Would cast our shadow clear.

When we love, that dawn-light
Would lighten our feet
Upon the waters.

As we grow old, that twilight
Would illuminate treasure
In the fields of memory.

And when we come to search for God,
Let us first be robed in night,
Put on the mind of morning
To feel the rush of light
Spread slowly inside
The colour and stillness
Of a found world.

Perhaps the light we seek is already flickering within, waiting to be seen in the quiet, still spaces around us. May you find time this week to notice the quiet lines forming within you, and may they lead you closer to the One shaping you still.