A blank page calls me to paint something on it with words, but I feel more like I am finger painting with chocolate pudding.
“Look Mom!” she says, (she is four years old and her artwork is a masterpiece to her - especially given the fact that it is somewhat edible, and this is an extremely attractive combination to a child) “I can erase it with my tongue!” she giggles with wide chocolate covered lips.
“Oh don’t do that sweetie…let it dry and I will put it on the fridge…it is wonderful,” she says holding a warm cloth – prepared for action - it is the amazing act of a mother to save a child from licking pudding off of dirty paper while at the same time elevating esteem.
Mothers must be tricky at times.
I don’t have to be a Picasso for her to be proud of me, I could be a finger painting made with pudding, and I feel like that at times; yet she would put me on my grandmother’s fridge, and be proud of everything that their womanhood has created.
When I think of heaven, I think of a place God has papered with our worst art; when I think of God I think of my mother…love's total lack of pretension, and the beautiful exaltation of imperfection.