This one is for all the creatives and for those of you who live with them! I have been spending a good bit of time writing light hearted poetry for my girls simply to make them laugh a little and encourage them in their own walks with Jesus. The one below was written for my middle child, Virginia. She is intensely creative, always has a new project or idea running through her mind, and is totally and utterly unconcerned with the clock. I have spent a large part of my motherhood standing by the kitchen door waiting for Virginia.
The process of writing the poem turned out to be a reminder to me that yes, she needs to be held accountable to time, but as a creative she is also going to need lots of space and time to tinker, wander, and play. What may seem like aimless wandering to me, may for her be the very thing that causes her to bloom.
As a creative, I have been attempting to carve out that same kind of space for myself recently. I would say I am mostly failing at it in the fast paced life that we live, but I keep hearing God say that for my calling, it is sometimes “a kindness” to withdraw from the busy-ness and simply play. For a lot of creatives, play and tinkering is often the place where ideas are born and even executed.
Recently, I have been wondering if in all our busy-ness, we, as the body of Christ, have forgotten how to play. And I wonder if in the midst of that forgetfulness, we are missing out on some of the creativity that He wants to impart to us in order to build up the church. So during Lent, let’s dig deep into repentance and remembrance, but let’s do it knowing his burden is light and give ourselves the space to play a little. And give the people in your life the space to play as well. You never know what may bloom in the midst of it!
“Hold on.”
She said.
“I forgot something.”
So the four of us,
we waited
by the door
while she ran
to fill her hands
with more
of her belongings
for school.
We waited patiently
for her to return.
We twiddled our thumbs
and tapped our feet.
We twisted our hair
and wondered what
in the world
she was doing
in there.
Was she humming a tune,
tying her shoe,
adjusting her socks,
unaware of the clock?
Was she brushing
one last tooth
or rushing to find
a cure for Lyme
before school
began?
Did she fall into
a pool of rhymes,
find a wonderland
where time
does not exist?
Did she fall
into an endless
abyss,
making lists
of craft supplies
for me to buy?
Was she making
one more batch
of slime?
Did she know
God made time?
“I’m coming,”
We heard
but no
twelve year old
emerged,
so we left her alone
to make her home
in the black hole
that had grown inside
her room.
She bloomed
in there.