Art

Some days everything is art.

The way the sun bounces off of the hood of a car and reflects it's light to a small piece of metal making it impossible to look at. The way a helicopter seed falls from a tree. The snow falling in both large and crystal flakes. The way the water smashes gently against the rocks in the middle of the night. The way the street lights look as they cast their shadows in the back seat, only really visible to a small child who has nothing else to look at.

I used to lay on my bed at night as a child and trace my fingers around the outlines of the sponge paint on my walls, making pictures only visible to me. I would lay there all night and worry. Mostly about nuclear war and Freddy Krueger, but sometimes I would worry about being OK. I have always felt different inside. It's funny because I sit down in front of the therapist as he tells me everything I figured out about myself in third grade and now realize this is normal. It may not be to everyone else, but to me this is normal. How I feel is normal. I am made to be the person I am. Not the sin, but even that teaches me something about myself, God, and grace. I think God is art and expects us to notice the way he has designed everything to point to Him. I find beauty in the way I was knit together, torn, and mended. I find beauty in brokenness and God finds it in contrition from broken people.

For some it is really difficult to revisit the things in their lives that have been hard for them. Abuses, abandonment, apathy, addiction, and anything else that sits silently with such a weight in the cellar. These things shape us into who we can be. They give us character, like a really cool looking facial scar from battle. The scars they leave remind us that we have been in the fight and have emerged alive. We have been cut and trampled, but stand with our heads to God, holding up the head of Goliath.

This Bible verse keeps bugging me.
1Th. 4:13   Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope.

It is easy when you are so distraught to lose sight of the point of grace. We do not grieve like those who have no hope. We have hope. We have Christ. We know that the Maker who made everything art is still making art in us. Death is defeated. Lost it's sting.

John 16:20 I tell you the truth, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy.

I believe it. Without seeing it, I believe it.










Sing.
Migrate.


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