After a drought of writing, God set a fountain of creativity loose through my pen and an insatiable desire to write and write. So, this morning during church, I was the girl-woman scribbling furiously, legs crossed dainty-like, just sparked and pricked by a single phrase in a sermon.
Enjoy:
How quickly I forget my Maker.
The one who knows every cell, every fibrous matter, the numbers, ratios, equations to calculate my being and breathing life.
The one who stretched skin across my skeletal frame, seeping living oils into every pore, choosing the hues and tints that would pool into my soul windows and ice my outer image in the form of melanin.
The scientist who figured the perfect configuration of my fidgeting organs and beating lifelines, the density of the architecture which houses the most particular masterpiece of all: the Soul.
He speaks lullabies to the children.
He makes, He soothes with word-lotions.
He rocks us back and forth in arms so strong, one named Guarantee and one named Promise, wrapped around.
Without fail, He knows.
He counts.
He counts the sins He shall forget, the painful number of times my hammer pounds into the nails, diving deeper into holy, blessed flesh.
He counts the breathless moments, those times my heart is a bird sprouting wings to try flying.
He knows where. Where and How.
Ah, but He, He is the Why.
He is the tailor of the fine gown I will wear as His daughter, incandescent with Him, despite my trying.
"Remember" my heart cries bloody tears of salvation, "Remember your maker!"
The Knowing.
The Artist.
The Father of All.
Just remember.
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