Our days are fleeting like a blank canvas soon full with the artist’s desire.
One moment fresh and new we enter the world, and a few breaths later the Gallery Cathedral of the Great I Am.
It is silly for me to even think I have a sense of measured control in life.
I have control over my responses to events and the pursuits that I so choose. However, so much else is much like grasping water in my hand; impossible to control.
Laying in bed last night this thought struck me, “I cannot control my death.” Startling is it not? I sometimes fool myself into thinking I am assured of my next breath.
The last two days with the children have been as ideal as it gets with this mama’s limited patience combined with that of a two and four year old.
In the surprise moments of revealing in God’s created world, thankfulness for gifts each morning have been so sweet.
As the brush holds midair awaiting it’s next stroke, I pause to tell God thank you for this moment and this moment and this moment.
Then the next moment, when I forget and hasten to sigh, roll my eyes, clench my fists, and demand my own way.
The brush strokes black.
Next movement, the ultimate Artist’s Son’s blood washes it clean in the cup of everlasting life and brushes a vibrant color onto this canvas in it’s place.
So thankful that the Gallery awaits wretched sinners turned saints like me. Thankful for His brushstrokes. Thankful that I have this family painted on.
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