A boy steps out from the darkness, caught mid-motion as he pulls a cloak over his bare upper body. His gaze is downward—contemplative, somber—carrying the weight of the moment. The cloak he takes up is layered in meaning: its interior patterned like scale chain mail, evoking both protection and burden. It represents cultural inheritance, the armor of generations, the responsibilities we are handed—both chosen and unchosen.

This painting began with a simple phrase: “taking up the mantle.” I painted it while reflecting on the legacies passed from my great-grandfather to my grandfather, from my grandfather to my father, and now from my father to me. Some of these inheritances are clear and intentional. Others are unspoken—habits, wounds, expectations that move silently through bloodlines.

I thought of the prophet Elijah placing his cloak on Elisha’s shoulders, symbolizing a transfer of purpose and calling. And of Joseph, given a richly ornamented robe by his father—a gesture of love that bred jealousy, misunderstanding, and ultimately led Joseph into a destiny neither he nor his family could foresee. These stories remind me that the mantle is never neutral. It carries favor, but also consequence. Promise, but also tension.

The act of receiving a mantle is not passive. It requires willingness. This boy in the painting—emerging, bare, vulnerable—must choose whether or not to take it up.

As a father now myself, I find this moment more piercing. I wonder not only what I’ve inherited, but what I’m passing down—both intentionally and unknowingly. What am I clothing my son with? What armor will he be handed, and what weight will come stitched into its lining?