Becoming

The process of becoming is complicated I thought. I looked up at the framed picture hanging over my desk, the hand-drawn face of a girl in charcoal. I had peeked in at my daughter many times as she worked to bring out each feature. I now understand why art is sold for such a huge asking price because it is hard to create something from nothing.

Last night as I read to my youngest. He was laying down festooned with fluffy blankets and happily warm in his zipper footie pajamas. We were reading a book about the human body. One page had a whole diagram of the stages of development in the human fetus as she grows in her mother’s womb. He was fascinated by each picture.

“Mommy was I really that little?” he asked in unbelief as he squeezed his stuffed Incredible Hulk. “Yes, you were,” I said smiling at the wonder in his eyes. He continued, “I was as small as a thumb?” He laughed thinking how strange that had to be, to be as small as a thumb.

Remembering that year of pregnancy, I was 39. I didn’t have a stitch of baby clothing left from the others. He was a wonderful surprise, but the process of becoming an expectant mother again was stretching and painful.

Graduation is just around the corner for Elaina. At seventeen, she is looking toward her independence with hungry eyes. In her imagination, the land beyond her parent’s home seems brighter and full of vibrant color. She feels ready for a head-long leap into this new level of becoming. My mother’s heart knows she is not wrong, but I fight the urge to try to smother her with my concern.

Just be careful…

How did the years fly by like discarded paper in the wind? Why did I not hold on to each moment for the sacred beauty it held? I grieve the thought and yet in the present, I am no better at savoring moments than I was when she was little. 

She’s almost grown.

Yesterday I Facetimed a friend. I appreciated the technology, helping to bring us closer. But as I caught a glimpse of my hair in the little square on my screen, I tried to ignore it. I was painfully aware of the gray taking over my once dark locks. This is the part of becoming I wish I could escape.

We all change, so what must remain constant? Is there anything that continues on without change? 

This is a deep question for the philosophers. I am merely a mother, wife, and creative so I am befuddled. Still, I thought it over, and this is what I came up with: Faith though ever challenged can continue to grow despite the trials of life. Love can deepen even when outward beauty and charm seem to fade. Riches are never guaranteed but Faithfulness is a true treasure even a pauper can afford. Forgiveness is a healing balm found not in a hospital, but in the heart of the freest human beings. And Hope is the closest thing to angel wings. It is ever lifting one’s eyes from down in the dirt to the glorious heavens. 

I wonder if the Lord is taking a charcoal pencil in hand to slowly sketch out my life. He is a stickler for detail I see as I think over my seasons of becoming. In the darkest moments, He has sustained me. Great is His faithfulness.

As I pause again to look at the face of my daughter’s charcoal work I hear the paper girl call out to me…am I precious? Do I have value?

She is merely charcoal on Versalite, Heavy-weight paper. She took my daughter months to complete, and she is her most treasured creation.

Lydia at work

Is this drawing more important than you or me? Sure, we are made from the dust, but we also hold God’s breath in our lungs. I believe we are the masterful work of the Divine Creator, and I don’t think He is finished quite yet.

Give space for that thought.

No, He isn’t finished with you yet.