Sick Pilgrim
I have spent much of the past year reflecting upon what it means for me to be created in the Almighty Creator’s image. I am sure that my writer friends and my family and the dog are sick to death of hearing me blather on about it.
The one thing I know for sure is that like our heavenly maker, we are born to make.
Creators create.
It’s what we do. We aren’t all DaVinci or Shakespeare or even Marth Stewart. We all have it in us to make something, though—stories, paintings, songs, sculptures, dances, landscapes, bread, hairstyles, cookies…
I haven’t made any resolutions this year. I don’t have a word that is my word for the year. Nothing like that.
What I have done is decide something.
This year, I am going to do my best to shut off the voice that judges everything I create as crap, and just freaking go ahead an create stuff.
I’m going to write things, sew things, plant things, bake things.
I’m going to mess about with my grandsons and art supplies.
And when I am done with something, I am going to do as God did before me: I am going to behold it, and declare it good.
A Maker Space.
My remarkable husband, a far more talented and competent creator than I am in oh so many ways, blessed my socks off by giving me (and our grandkids) a space to make stuff. Seriously, this man spent the majority of his vacation week sanding and painting and building stuff for me.
He has the whole Practical Demonstration of Love thing down.
It is good.
I leave you today with a challenge.
You, too, are made in God’s Image. Go make stuff. Share something of what you’ve made—or the space where you create—on our Facebook page. I promise you, it is good.
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