On Sunday evenings, I sweep through the house, tidying in preparation for the new week. Somehow this ritual has turned into a time of reflection and gratitude for this life, for my people, for the place we laugh, play, and work.
As I gather strewn clothing and toys, small collections of everyday, I ponder this idea of home-- all the history it carries, all the promise it holds. The home my parents built belongs someone I don’t know and the structure of my family as it once was has long since ceased to be. It’s not my favorite subject, but I’ve always said I could write a book about it. One day I will, although it probably wouldn’t be the kind my parents would carry around shouting, “My daughter wrote this book! Read it!”
But, I do know that I am not doomed to follow in the footsteps of others, even those who so influenced my early days. There are parts we are given, parts we do not choose, but I believe with great certainty in the one who collects all the broken pieces and makes something beautiful. Out of you. Out of me. In the way that an artist gathers fragments of inspiration, found objects, and slivers of splendor and composes a masterpiece. It’s the same. Do you see that? It’s what we do, because it’s what He does. In our creating, we reflect the universal story of brokenness, redemption, and promise. It’s all around. In scraps of fabric, splatters of paint, strings of words, bits of glass, devastation, loss, darkness, dreams, hope, goodness. Possibilities.
But, yes, I was cleaning on a Sunday evening, as my children played. Gathering socks and wiping sinks, catching a glimpse of the master artist at work.
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