an artist without art

unfiltered sunset

Sometimes we give allowances to people who are eccentric, or artistic–for not keeping up with the details of life. You know, “she’s in her own world,” or, “he just needs a little help with his taxes…that’s how artists are.”

Artistic types can be, well, flaky. But that’s ok. Because they’re artists. They give something back with their work. Beauty. Perspective. They produce something that fills in gaps for us.

Here’s the thing I’m pondering. What’s my art? I show all the signs of the moody, absent-minded, tardy, artsy-fartsy. And I certainly live in my own world. But what do I have to show? What do I give?

I used to dance. That was my art.

I used to create stuff. That was my art.

What is my art now? What is beautiful, depicts a deeper truth? Or expresses my inner world in a tangible way?

Sometimes I feel like an artist without art.

Jesus, what is my art? Teaching my children, is that my art? Loving my family? Serving your people? Is writing my art? Can that be enough for me?

I’m bursting with this tension–of something blooming in me, something to express—combined with constraint. A waiting.

I just read in John 3 where John the Baptist responds to his disciples’ concern about all the attention Jesus started getting. This sticks: He must become greater and greater, and I must become less and less.

 I feel the becoming less.

And I will embrace it. Because I have this crazy, imperishable hope…that He is making art of me.