A Crayola in His hand

Rainbows. Houses. Families. Animals. Grass, in green. Trees, trunks brown. And yellow, yellow suns shining awkward in the corner of the sky.

Who could tell, looking at new crayons marching in lines, what would spring from tips onto paper? Rocket ships? Race cars? Kittens? Anything–anything at all was possible. Beauty; creativity; drama; action, all wrapped up in that familiar paper, C-r-a-y-o-l-a printed up the side.

I move to a low table, taking my place. I’m ready for the next lively group.

It’s Ornament Day in the kindergarten class, and I’m a mama volunteer. We’re making Christmas trees with glitter, paint and sequins. Little’s face when he sees me is my reward.

I look at the faces that ring my table. And I’m thinking of those Crayolas. Here, a dimpled Amish boy. There, a budding cheerleader. This one’s shy. That one grins sweet, and this one–oh, he’s a little player. An alpha male, and I can tell by the way the girls simper and titter.

All these lambs, fresh-faced, new like unused Crayolas. Bright-eyed, young, bursting with promise. Who knew what they’d be? Where they’d go? What they’d do? Only One knew their potential; knew what lay hidden within. Only He could see the finished picture; could see what would burst forth onto canvas one day.

Looking at them, some sparkly, some muted, I’m thinking of the Artist. Thinking of how He sees rightly. How He sees clearly. And I give thanks.

I give thanks that no matter what anyone else sees, He always sees the heart. The ‘me.’ The ‘you.’ The real me and you. And in the seeing, He knows what we can be–all of it–and He knows how to get us there.

Oh, glory. Oh, grace! For in the Artist’s hand, a crayon of any shape or color can become an instrument of beauty.

No limits. No impossibles. All grace.

So happy to be in His hand today.