What am I doing to craft memories for my own children?
How am I instilling a love of art, of beauty, of story in their soft and tender hearts?
What memoirs will they sift through in their own minds when I’m gone?
And as the week has blossomed, I’ve found myself thinking more and more about how my interactions with my children this week would look if they were transcribed onto a stretched canvas or a sheet of 200gm watercolor paper.
Have I been painting with warm, soothing hues, or have my words been squeezed out of the tube in harsh tones, stark and bland against a thirsty page?
Have I instilled a proper perspective on the horizon, with Christ looming large at the forefront and all else paling in comparison, diminishing in size and significance?
Has my brush granted lines of gentleness and grace, or does the page reflect quick, impatient strokes, rushed and apathetic?
A person who has studied art history could walk into a museum and instantly recognize a Picasso, a Monet, a Kandinsky. Without getting close enough to see the signature in the corner of each piece, the style and language of the artist can be distinguished from across the gallery, be it a Renoir, or a Degas or a Rembrandt.
And I have to wonder — from a distance, does my life bear obvious testimony to my Creator? Can His signature be seen from a mile away?
What about my kids? Do they see the name of the Artist who shaped them, who knit them together, and continues to paint their story, breath by breath, stroke by stroke?
Do they see His signature style in the way my hands are used mold their hearts on the potter’s wheel of life?
“In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, ESV)
“Not to us, LORD, not to us but to your name be the glory, because of your love and faithfulness.” (Psalm 115:1, NIV)