I'm in a rather practical mood. I am wearing plain, comfortable clothes that take the chill off, and my wild hair is pulled back in a most unbecoming bun.
And yet I should write something worth reading. Shouldn't I?
But who's to judge?
I'm beating around the bush.
I shan't keep you waiting much longer.
Sometimes life doesn't make sense. There comes a time when you realize that all your childhood dreams may not come true.
I found a page in a box under my bed the other day. It's one of those sheets that makes you see just how poor your handwriting and logic once were:
"If I was an Artist"
If I was an Artist I would make tons of pictures and hand some out for free at church. I would sell others at an Art Gallery. I would draw cards and send them to people. I would frame some and use them as gift's. I would use the money I earn for offering and to provide food for myself.Some things just have to be capitalized, you know? If only all I needed was food. To be honest, I found my artwork in that box, too ... picture giant heads with hot dog buns for lips.
Nowadays, my work has slightly improved. I have a better sense of proportions and facial features. But I'm no Artist. I am simply an artist. I am terrible at drawing hands and feet. I sell most of my work for charity, and the few that I sell personally, usually end up going towards hair product or undergarments. Ah, the life of glamour. I do give some pieces away, and I've drawn a fair share of cards (translate: two), but I have yet to be featured in an Art Gallery, and I doubt that time will come. This is where the train of practical thought leads to ... unless you dare make a stop and acknowledge that our God has mysterious ways.
I am no prodigy, making billions of dollars without a single lesson, but I have seen God somehow use my sketches to make His voice heard.
I've sent a piece of artwork to a friend who was hurting, when I had no idea what to say, and He spoke through it in a crazy real way.
I may not have expensive, professional paints and brushes, but I can use an old mascara tube like nobody's business.
My pictures don't hang in Art Galleries, but they sit on kitchen shelves and office desks, and I think I prefer those displays.
It's not my elementary, picture-perfect plan, but I like it better. Because it doesn't depend on me. Who cares if I draw poor hands, if my hands are miraculously being used to do something good, that I couldn't have, and wouldn't have thought of on my own.
So this is my thought process. A wild and practical one. If I am to remain at home for longer than I had planned, and in a home that is far from my ideal plan, then God must have something amazingly good to do with my life here and now. And I might have missed out if I was able to sit in a cafe that looked out on the Eiffel Tower.
The same principle goes for the rest of my life. If it's not what I dreamed of, it's better, ultimately. Because I could never plan out my own salvation, or organize the redemption of a fallen world ... best to leave my little life in the hands of One who can, eh?