I thank you for this portion, this life I live, this air I breathe.
I thank you for the story You are writing in me, with me, through me. I, the spirited, wide-eyed, mess-smeared, child, crimping my small fingers around the paintbrush You have given me, glopping paint on canvas, fingers-covered, face in concentration.
I try so hard to stay between the lines. Eyebrows, neatly pinched together, tongue in the corner of my mouth, I wipe a snotty nose with a rolled-up, paint-covered sleeve and add a little of myself to the already-green canvas.
Some people in an art gallery would call this a glorified mess. They’d stare and point and try to decipher if it is pure madness or pure genius. “I could do that,” they’ll say. But they probably won’t.
And to be honest, You’re the one who really places worth in all my smudgy, mostly-ugly clumping. Blue here, a burst of yellow there. Green, pink, purple, even a corner of black and grey for the sad parts.
Is it a masterpiece, I wonder? Am I worth all the mess, all the wasted paint, all the correcting and redefining, guiding and touching up? Who knows?
All I know is that You smile when You see me try to be like You, when I try to create, emulate, become more like You, the Perfect Creator. I look up, paint-smudged, hair-awry, clothes-covered in muck, “Does it look ok, Daddy?”
You squint your eyes, peering over my shoulder, and smile. You, curl me in your arms, whisper in my ear, “It’s beautiful, princess.” You wrap your clean fingers around mine and add a stroke to the chaotic swirl of colors before You.
I’m thankful You are in the mess with me, no matter what the story looks like as it unfolds.
Some people in an art gallery would call this a glorified mess. They’d stare and point and try to decipher if it is pure madness or pure genius. “I could do that,” they’ll say. But they probably won’t.
And to be honest, You’re the one who really places worth in all my smudgy, mostly-ugly clumping. Blue here, a burst of yellow there. Green, pink, purple, even a corner of black and grey for the sad parts.
Is it a masterpiece, I wonder? Am I worth all the mess, all the wasted paint, all the correcting and redefining, guiding and touching up? Who knows?
All I know is that You smile when You see me try to be like You, when I try to create, emulate, become more like You, the Perfect Creator. I look up, paint-smudged, hair-awry, clothes-covered in muck, “Does it look ok, Daddy?”
You squint your eyes, peering over my shoulder, and smile. You, curl me in your arms, whisper in my ear, “It’s beautiful, princess.” You wrap your clean fingers around mine and add a stroke to the chaotic swirl of colors before You.
I’m thankful You are in the mess with me, no matter what the story looks like as it unfolds.
