I stare at the screen waiting for words to come. This is where I struggle. This part of the resistance taunting me to give up. I expect the words to fill my mind and spill onto the page at my whim. They never do. Push and pull. I type then delete. I jot down thoughts throughout the day.

Some days the fight against the resistance stronger. Others I wonder why try at all. The same resistance that asks why I paint, why I brush acrylic against canvas. Encouraging one another this paint and these words. One sparks another.

This sparking, it’s good. And needed during this season of waiting, this season of quiet listening to his sufficiency.

So I paint. I write. Some days poorly and others better.

This act of writing, of painting, regardless of how well is my fight. The resistance seeking to push the perfectionism back. So I pray and remember Grace, a reminder to give myself grace. Perfectionism is the voice of the enemy.

I have to remind myself of this truth. One day my bones will know this.

Here and there words raise their hands in my mind during otherwise preoccupied times. Folding laundry, driving, and especially as I settle in to sleep. Never the convenient time. A change of space required when the tension fills. Necessary to get away from the ever calling responsibilities of home. The change of space an attempt to trick my mind, to clear away the rubble cluttering it. And there are others. Rocking on the porch staring at the stars. Bubble baths and deep breaths.

So I persist. On days when words do not seem to find their way I keep pushing. Pulling to flesh the thoughts jotted down amidst life all the while knowing it is grace.

I wonder if this is the pursuit of the creative life. Not to create a masterpiece, but in fighting the resistance to reveal His grace to ourselves and each other.

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