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Pieces Collide

It only occurred to me a few years back that minimalism was more than just a practice I could apply to my physical world. Purging my mind of the negative thoughts that fueled low self-esteem could bring me the same sort of peace and calm I felt when decluttering my space.


As a creative I can be very critical of my work. Feeling unsure about whether I am truly an artist. Does what I do really matter? How do I rid myself of a way of thinking I've lived with for as long as I can remember? Proverbs 18:21 tells us death and life are in the power of the tongue (CSB translation) so this cleaning house of the soul will need to begin with the words I hear and say. When I remember where my creativity comes from and who authors my identity, the truth becomes clear. I am a piece of the Master... I'm His masterpiece.


God knows the truth about who you are. He speaks only words of love over you. Read His love story. Speak the words out over yourself. Start to believe His truth and begin to live!

 

She couldn’t see her worth;

Her gift.

She was too close to it.


The tapestry of beauty

she wove in every brushstroke.

Every pen stroke.

Every move,

every flick of the wrist

was a reflection of Him.


She made the Father’s heart tangible

by her love offering.

His creativity came alive

in earthly form.

From His heart

to her hand.

Off the brush

onto the page.


His soft beauty,

His fluid dance of light and love.

His razor precision,

His endless outpouring

of inspiration.


When she could be still

let go of the struggle

to make it just so

and let Him lead

she became limitless.

Together

they moved mountains.


At times she felt small,

silly,

simple.

But in small glimpses

when her heart was open

and her guard was down,

the Maker would take her hand.

Lead her to the secret place.

Release her in the open space

so she could breathe...

Be filled.

Be free.


And when her eyes could adjust

and see through the lens of His heart,

without the fog of judgment

or the crippling weight of perfectionism,

she could see:

Every piece of her

and every move of Him

colliding together.


It was in this holy space

that she saw whose she was.

An orphan no longer.

And in this revelation of belonging

she saw who she was:

a piece of the Master.

She was His masterpiece.


He pieced her together.

Every cell was a celebration.

An extension of Him.

And every creative collision

she birthed

was by His hand

and through His heart.


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