“We are God’s work of art, created in. Christ Jesus for the good works which God has already designated to make up our way of life.”
Ephesians 2, 10
When I write–whether poetry, fiction or even these blog posts–I find myself lost in the process. The same happens when I engage in painting, photography or any sort of creative effort. The most powerful thing occurs when I go back, for example, to a poem or the novel that I’m in the process of publishing and can’t even remember having written the words I discover. Art takes us outside of ourselves.
Is that what it’s like for God when the work of the Holy Spirit takes hold of us, when grace enters in and fashions us into a Masterpiece in God’s own image? Have you ever asked yourself, “How did I get here? Who did this for me, in spite of myself?”
Thank you, Divine Artisan.
The day wind felled a weary oak,
we donned old clothes and boots,
took pails and spades in hand.
We ventured out into the brumy cold
to scoop red clay, harvesting Earth.
That night we sat around a fire.
Faltering flames dispelled the cold
that seeped through dense stone walls—
walls caching sacred secrets of a century, or more.
We worked the clay for days,
extracting grit and stones—
Earth’s grainy cells
that would, ignored, destroy
our own creative efforts.
Tediously, we toiled for perfection.
And when the day arrived to mold
and fashion terra cotta worlds,
figures formed of toil and imagination,
We discarded clods of mud
still clinging to our hands.
Yet now and then we’d find a pebble.
Copyright: Victoria Slotto, 2011
(This poem is an account of an experience I had while living in France in the early 70’s.)