God saw everything that He had made, and indeed it was very good. . . . —Genesis 1:31 (nkjv)
I’ve dreamed for years of writing books for children. This book, my first, seemed like a daily rebuke to that dream. I couldn’t get it right, no matter how hard I tried. Now the workday was over, the kids were in bed, the dishes done. I saw the computer on my desk. I knew I should go back at it.
Instead, I walked outside to the driveway. Deep twilight. The Santa Cruz Mountains, normally visible to the west, were smothered in a blanket of fog. The fog piled up against the peaks, reaching for the sky and sending pearly rivulets down ravines.
A little to the north, the fog trailed into streamers silhouetted against the last of the sunset. Bands of yellow and orange hugged the horizon, backlighting the trees on our block. Birds sang. The air filled with that strange, heavy luminescence that always precedes the moment just before dark.
I had spent all day laboring to find a few perfect words, and here was God throwing off a composition of stunning beauty like an afterthought. His art was impermanent, meant to be given away.
“Am I trying too hard, God?” I asked. Maybe that’s the problem with perfectionism. Not once during my frustrating workday had I offered the work to God.
I waited until the last of the light was gone and then went back inside. Tomorrow, I vowed, would be different. I would start the workday with prayer. I would let God be the artist.
Written by Jim Hinch
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