A few weeks ago, my daughter took it upon herself to create this.
In her mind’s eye it was a labor of love, a work of art, a masterpiece. She worked tirelessly on it for hours and then proudly showed it to me when she was done. Of course I ooohed and ahhhed appropriately and assured her of its beauty and splendor.
Of course what I really saw was a bunch of junk glued together.
But not my daughter. She looked at that collection of glue-ridden broken Triscuits, crumpled Kleenex, milk cartons with the remains of lunchtime’s chocolate milk, and scraps of construction paper, and she saw a beautiful creation.
And it occurred to me that sometimes I look in the mirror and all I see is a bunch of junk glued together. And just as that dirty, used milk carton was so precariously glued atop that unstable foundation of paper, some days I feel about to come apart at my very delicate seams. And yet, in my creator’s eyes, I am a beautiful creation. Not because I know how to artfully apply eyeliner, but because he formed me in my mother’s womb and knew me before the foundation of the world. And I just think that’s pretty stinkin’ cool.
My daughter wanted to take her creation to school and give it to her teacher, but I looked at that wobbly milk carton and knew that her opus would never make it down the street, onto the bus, and to school in one piece. I gently convinced her that she should keep it here and enjoy it.
In the days that followed, it was forgotten, collected dust, and yes, it got thrown away. But before I tossed it, I took a picture as a reminder that someone made me and thinks I’m beautiful.