This morning I woke up before the boys, hoping to get a few minutes of a quiet heart and still soul before the day officially began.
I got about 20 seconds, but that’s still something, isn’t it?
I do this thing where I just open to a random page and ask God to speak– He’s a kind one, our God, even in dealing with our silly idiosyncrasies.
I opened to “The Resurrection,” Matthew 28.
The first thing Eliot wanted to do this morning was draw. We’ve got a basket full of markers, pens, and crayons. For the past few days, he’s spent hours hunched over paper with glue and pens, stickers and paint. He’s discovered a whole new world.
I imagine that the journey of the resurrection, especially for the women at the tomb, was a step-by-step revelation, an unfurling of words and events that left them speechless and spiritually prostrate at every turn.
They feel the quake, see the angel, hear his words, run from the tomb with “fear and great joy,” meet Jesus on the way, and go tell the disciples the beautiful, holy news.
What a day it must have been.
Eliot is learning to use his imagination. The boundaries of his brain are expanding, and his world is transforming at every moment.
I think there’s something beautifully holy about the creativity of a child as he displays his whole being on a white sheet.
I believe his journey is like the journey from the tomb to the disciples, his experience from nothing to a piece of paper covered in stickers, glue, ink, paint.
And I believe somewhere along his journey, Jesus meets him and reminds him of who he is.
And by the end of the trek, his masterpiece is complete and there is a fullness in his little toddler heart.
Friends, what I’m daily realizing is that SO much of life is a journey, a transformation, an opportunity to hike the beautiful trails and climb the beautiful mountains to reach the real, deep sunset.
Sometimes we just need to pick up pen and paper, sift through book, grab guitar, steal away and let the journey lead us to a new promise.
“Do not be afraid,” He said.
“It’s me,” He said, “and I’m leading you on.”
I want whatever I’m doing today, every day, to mean something. I want it to take me somewhere, to guide me down a road that leads to Jesus, who is waiting to tell me something new, who is waiting to speak of adventure and abundance of all kinds.
My son experiences full joy in drawing a whale in the ocean or a sheet of music notes.
Can’t we experience it in something, too?