When your thoughts are all swirling around so fast, you can’t make sense of them; it’s like a huge piece of modern art. Swirls of intense, confusing colors, blotches of blood red so deep it hurts to look. Gaping holes of untouched canvas, where the questions were never answered. Unfinished edges, because the story isn’t over. Details so fine you can’t imagine orchestrating them. A palate, so full of colors you’ve never seen it’s terrifying to think what they could mean when they’re splashed onto the canvas.
You can’t see the artist, and there’s no paintbrush. There’s no cloth to wipe up mistakes, because He never makes any. There’s no scrapers to remove sections, because your story was written before the foundation of the world. There’s no changing it, no going back.
As you look at your canvas, it’s so familiar, yet scary. You can’t understand the patterns, and though you wish you could, there’s part of you that is glad you can’t. Your finite brain couldn’t handle it.
As you turn to leave, you whisper, “Creator, I can’t see you, but I know you exist. Help me trust that You are making my canvas beautiful.”
You turn to get one last glimpse, and hear a Voice. “I Am.”