I still do not consider myself to be a creative person. My pastor always identifies me as creative, but I am not sure I can see that yet. I have come to recognize that I think in pictures. Sometimes I hear words strewn together so beautifully that I can see those words come together as a whole in the form of a picture. It is new to think of myself as an artist.
Recently, I read Romans 8:26, “Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.” That to me is what helps me to claim my prayers on canvas as art.
Art is an expression of the self—there are as many ways of expressing a truth as there are people. Probably more. Art leads me to wholeness in the same way God breathed life into a lifeless being: it defines my identity and gives me purpose. Without art, I’d exist, but mechanical would be a better word to describe that existence. With art, I am able to be passionate, to define what makes me feel whole, and own the liberty to pursue it. Art allows me to depart from the world of materialism and find value in something rich and intangible. It’s what I’ve been circling around this whole interview. It’s the thing that saved me in Iowa, saved me again and again in my darkest moments. It’s what brought life into my existence, whether it be through writing or something completely other. The art isn’t as important as what it expresses.
It’s called love.
Scraps and scribbles. The corners of receipts and the edges of envelopes. Idle moments in traffic. A stroll down the grocery aisle.
Inspiration has no grand arrival—she shows up in spurts, often beyond the realm of convenience, announcing herself to you. The question is not if inspiration will show up; the question is if you'll be attentive enough to notice and courageous enough to respond.