I was thinking today: 

Once, in front of a room packed full of people, the pastor thought it would be a great idea when he was out one day, to let his Children's Director (me) take his spot. 

Preach the sermon. 

Deliver the message. 

Or--how I like to think of it-- talk. 

Call me young (which I was) or naive (which I still am...), but all I really wanted to talk about was Who or What God is. 

In prep for this I asked multiple people to fill in the blank: 

God is _____. 

I hung it on doors, set it as my status, brought it up in everyday conversation. 

And the answers were great! 

Love. My hero. Everything. 

One (sassy) friend even just filled in the blank with a period ("."). 

But, the thing is, that even in my sermon prep, I never really sat down to take a good look inside my self to see how exactly I would finish that sentence. 

Sure, there are minutes and hours in the day that I have filled it in. Maybe when I'm about to go to work-- God is my words. Or to coffee--God is community. Or maybe just before I go to bed--God is faithful. Full. Beautiful. Security. Savior. 

Honestly, if the tide was turned and someone asked me to fill in the blank, I would have a hard time filling it in with just one word. He's so much more to me. He spills over the sharp tops of t's and the rounded edges of o's. He demands more than just one word in the same way that he demands more than just one hour a week. 

Tonight, however, as I was talking to a great friend, not pondering this question in any way, form or fashion, an image assualted my mind like a mac truck. 

Suddenly, I saw this mad artist. He was a stout and tall man, the kind of man who takes up the whole room simply by being. He wore a dark herringbone hat that was worn out and worn backwards, smashed atop his slightly curly hair. That same hair stuck out from all sides-umkempt and unruly- yet he was so caught up in what he was doing he paid it no mind. 

He had a canvas in front of him, it was propped on an easel and so large you could only see his hat above, his knees below, and his elbows sticking out from the sides. When I saw him, he was in a small room, working madly on a piece that he was painting from memory, or imagination, or a startling combination of both. 

He paid me no mind when I walked in the room until suddenly he ducked his head around the canvas and smiled a smile so bright that the joy friends was tangible. It was the kind of joy you feel when you're with the person you love the most. You know- that giddy type of smile? Or when you have accomplished something you never thought you'd be able to do: excitement and awe. The kind of smile you show when you are so encapsulated by something you are uber-passionate about, and whatever it was turned out better than you expected. 

You know, that smile. 

But, no matter how grand that dimpled, joyful smile, the best part were his eyes. His eyes were wild. At first glance, he seemed mad and only upon closer inspection did you realize that he was not mad, only consumed. 

He went back to his work, and I walked around and behind him, allowing the master his space. Around the clutter, around the supplies, the mix of dry and wet paint spots on the floor and counters, past the unforgotten supplies of an artist enthralled. 

I walked around back of him to see that he was painting a portrait. It did not look like a portrait. As he worked feverishly, the color was everywhere! Streaks here and there-some fat, some long, others short and thin. Splatters. Bursts. Streaks. Blobs. 

It was so beautiful. It was so unfinished. 

But I knew that the finished product wouldn't even give a fair fight to the most beautiful Rembrandt or Van Gogh. They just wouldn't stand a chance. This painting would be too beautiful. 

And beyond a shadow of a doubt, I knew what it was. 

Even though it was coming, one feaverish stroke after another- from the mind of this beautifully mad artist with his radiant smile- I knew exactly what it was. 

He was painting me. 

And he had made me breathtakingly beautiful. Why? That's the great news, friends- because someone who puts that much passion and love into their creation cannot make it any other way. 

And even thought he was somewhere in the middle of it, somewhere between the start and the finish, it was still beautiful. This mad, mad artist has the power to create something that was beautiful not only in the end, no, but also in the process. 

Today, this is who He is to me: the One who meets me where I am. The One who makes beauty out of the process. 

I will enjoy that process.