God's fridge

Thou Knowest by Katharine Lee Bates

Thou knowest, Thou Who art the soul of all
Selfless endeavor, how I longed to make
This deed of mine, adventured for love's sake,
Thy deed,--sweet grapes upon a sunny wall,
A rose whose petals into fragrance fall,
A glint of heaven glassed in some lonely lake
Amidst the heather and the fringing brake,
Our secret,--ah, Thou knowest.
Though it call
Only for pardon, still to Thee I bring
My poor, shamed deed that craved the Beautiful,
--To Thee, the Master-Artist, Who alone
Wilt of Thy grace see in this graceless thing
The pattern marred by the imperfect tool,
And know that dim, wronged pattern for Thine Own.

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This is what I sometimes feel like when I write...that my descriptive words are flat smudges of charcoal on canvas when what I am trying to create is a three-dimensional event, a breathing soul.

I long to make words come alive on the page or in a prayer, or for my work to be a blessing to be of some value, as God creates in His kingdom.

But I have an imperfect tool and imperfect talent.

My good works, good words, are filthy rags except for God's grace. He sees my attempts to paint, or write, or serve, or love. My "poor, shamed work that craved the Beautiful." He recognizes His handprint on me, sees Christ's blood covering my attempts at righteousness and beauty.

God recognizes His pattern in my feeble artwork, and hangs it on His fridge, because He knows me. He delights in me.

I think He looks at the feeble scribbles of life I offer Him and says, "Look what My kid made!"