The Smallest of Things

 

  “Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” Psalm 91:1

  I’ve whittled away a good chunk of the day making miniatures: a boxed set of paints, brushes and a tiny artist’s palette. It literally took some whittling to pare down toothpicks into brush handles. My thumb frequently bears witness to the sharpness of the Exacto knife point but not today. It escaped unscathed.

  

It’s time to get down to business. So, here I am, Lord, at the kitchen table, surrendering to the process.

  Cricket and I haven’t finished talking about our core beliefs; the toxic ones that are deeply ingrained.

  How to not believe is the challenge. I wish it was simply a matter of saying I don’t believe the lies. But, here’s the thing about core beliefs, they become core beliefs because they are reinforced time and again through different circumstances and different relationships.

  Core beliefs can also be good but they are extremely vulnerable especially when a hurt that is contrary to this belief starts the record spinning. For those of us old enough to remember record albums, they would get a microscopic scratch which caused the needle to skip, repeating the same few words over and over until you moved the needle.

  I need help moving the needle because I am done listening to this broken record, the one that plays the song of pain and doubt and ugly.

 

  God is not a liar.

  This I know for the Bible tells me so.

  Jesus loves me, this I know because the Good Book teaches this, too.

 

  Cricket remembers being at the doctors. He was examining my hands, feeling the thickness of the finger bones closest to my palm but wouldn’t operate to make them thin and ladylike. I was stuck with thick, ugly fingers.

  Thank God.

  What these good, strong and healthy hands have accomplished! Music, rising up from my soul, is played without thought. Letters are typed without thought. Without letters, there would be no words. A paintbrush, a pencil, a pen moves across a blank surface to create the image in my head without thought.

 These not so “ladylike” hands are the subconscious creators of so much beauty!

  I am thankful to not be concerned about wrecking an expensive manicure because these “ugly hands” never deserved one. Instead, they are adorned with calluses and scars that tell a story uniquely mine. Like when I slid into home plate at a childhood softball game…unfortunately, this clumsy teenager slid face first. The right hand trapped beneath my stomach raked across the ground. The now faint scars are still on my knuckles where the gravel tore them open.

  Good things don’t leave scars, do they?

  So maybe, instead of fighting the scars, both visible and invisible, I need to let them tell their story. I need to let Cricket tell her story. More importantly, I need to let her tell Jesus.

  Amen!