The book on my hearth gets picked up every morning while I sit with my coffee and that warm blue and white blanket that my grandmother-in-law made so, so long ago. They both warm me and I read. The words make me wonder
Then I tromp off, more awake to my shower. AFterward, I stand in front of the mirror, eyeliner in hand. I like to accentuate the eyes, mine are light and I want someone to see my eyes when they see my face. My eyes, they are not broken. They don't need fixing. But I paint them to add the art and the color, creating what I like to see, what I want you to see.
I brush my hair and I think on my soul and how though it's been pressed and hurt, burdened and smooshed it is not broken. My heart, my mind and my flesh, they are not broken.
That God is not a mechanic who comes to replace the broken parts.
God is an artist. My heart, my soul, my mind are His creation and with brushstrokes He adds to me.
I was always beautiful to Him. And I cannot possibly wrap my brain around this. In the mirror I just see a girl in grown up clothes fumbling around trying to figure the best way. Figure who I am supposed to be.
And I cannot wrap my brain around the beauty that God sees in me now. Well, I can maybe. Because I can see the beauty in my own back yard and the teeny bulb sprouts that push their way up through the winter-dead grass and I can see what it will be, and what it is today.
Those little green rockets that shoot through the sod are promises of life, spring, new and color and I love them, right in the dead winter. And God must look at me and see all those little rockets of promise shooting out all over and just love me for the new, the color, HIM right inside of me.
Because Art is never ugly or unwanted. Lacking, maybe, but never broken. God will not discard us, or fix us. He just grows in us new beauty, quiet and small, painting HIS GRACE all over the canvas of me, and you. Beautiful you.
