Last week my wife and I took our three young children to the Portland Art Musem. Through rooms of ancient Chinese, American Indian, romantic, and modern art they stuck by our side, and showed interest in many pieces. As parents we were gratified and surprised.

We crested the top of a stairway and came upon one of Monet’s enormous Water Lilies, a brilliant masterpiece in purples, greens and blues. We entered the room, nodding to the security guard. He swiveled like a dour weathervane, pointing always in the direction of our family. Under the guard’s watchful eye we discovered many well-known artists’ works I would expect to find in such world-class institutes as the Smithsonian and Metropolitan Museum of Art.

My wife and I sensed from our little ones’ sagging composure that they were running near empty. They needed a change of scenery. They needed food. They needed to leave. We neared the elevator when we passed Vincent Van Gogh’s The Ox-Cart. Van Gogh composed this work before discovering the brilliant colors of southern France that would distinguish him as one of the world’s great masters. His palette in The Ox-Cart is dismal–browns, grays, black and greens. Van Gogh emphasized the painting’s disconsolate mood by depicting cow dung as the cart’s contents. The painting stopped me in my steps. Van Gogh’s works are, in my mind, of incomparable beauty and emotional power. Being near one of his paintings was a gift to me. I imagined Van Gogh, some 125 years prior, standing before this canvas crafting his creation.

“They have a Van Gogh!” I said to my wife. She was preoccupied as child-shepherdess and unable to join in my wonderment.

I saw she needed a second shepherd. Navigating an art museum is a two-shepherd job, especially when the sheep are uneasy. The doors to an elevator opened. My family entered. So much of me wanted to stay with The Ox-Cart. It then occurred to me that my children are young, Van Gogh is dead, and his painting will be here when I return. My children will not always be children. These thoughts surfaced not as clear gems, but through much struggle.

What we choose reveals what we truly hold dear. I don’t mean to sound like I’ve figured out life or parenting. I haven’t. My point is that good choices, those choices that contribute to the lives of those we love most, are almost always preceded by struggle. Entering into this struggle is our project as we seek to serve those we care about.

When my wife and I return to the Portland Art Museum we’ll not bring our children, or if we do they’ll no longer be little. The guard can again be at ease. But I’ll be grateful then, as I am now, that I left Van Gogh this year to return to the painstaking work of building a family–my masterpiece.