We’ve been immersed in the world of Play-doh for hours, rolling it out, twisting it together, squishing shapes and colors into a messy rainbow. With every new creation, she squeals, “I MAKE!”
What she makes? Not important. She’s just giggling with pride and dancing her way around the coffee table because she made something. For my little two-year-old friend, creating is fun regardless of the results. And watching her squish Play-doh in her tiny fingers is teaching me something about Jesus.
We were wired to create. After all, we were made in the image of the God who created solar systems and sushi, Saturdays and sand dollars. I used to create because when I did, I felt my heart align with the One who set it beating in the first place. But somewhere on the road from feisty child to freelance writer, creating started to mean something different. In recent years, you’d never find me dancing around the coffee table simply because I made something. The dancing would come only after other people saw it. Affirmed it. Shared it on Facebook.
In the craziness of creating for others, I forgot how to create for myself.
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