There are no great boasts of creativity on my resume, no grand skills of which to claim. There will be no gallery to hold my art, no historian to quote my philosophies, no choirs to sing my songs. I bear no special skill for rhetoric or athleticism. There is nothing particularly magnificent to share.
There is, instead, another chip in this no-longer-perfectly manicured nail polish. These hands are so dry and cracked now. The feet ache and the back moans, "Sit down," and the head spins and the sink fills and empties, fills and empties. The fridge clears and the stomachs cease their growling. From nothing, something comes.
This. This is it. This is how I love, this is that for which I was created. There is no doubt of that in this place.
While there may be, in so many ways, nothing at all of note to share; it is in this place that I know He meets me. This place with porcelain sink and cast-iron pan -- this, this is sanctuary. This place where I taste Creation. This place where, if only for a moment, I see in part the creating of something from dust. And He walks with me.
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