And suddenly, he is drawing.
Last week, Plum drew a picture of his Daddy, complete with beard. This week, ladybugs, leaves, aliens with eyebrows and even a self-portrait.
It’s wonderful watching all this erupt. Of course, we’ve seen his creativity before – his playing with language, sorting the world out by sifting through the muddled things his mother tries to explain to him, finding the bits and pieces that interest him and, step by step, building meaning. All amazing creative work.
But now he is creating, too. Made in the image of the Creator God, my Plum is learning how to create.
Perhaps one of the loveliest suggestions of the Church is that we are each made in the image of God. All of us. Not just the shiny, accomplished ones. Each of us, no matter who we are, has the glimmer of God’s own face about us.
But not just for our creative capacities. For as many reasons as there have been people – which boggles the mind a bit, doesn’t it? And raises an interesting question. If my child is made in the image of God, what can I learn about God from watching him?
That there is life and love in quiet focus. That comes to mind first. Plum sets up camp in my office, dragging a pillow and blanket with him, a few chosen toys. I sit in my chair with an open book, quietly watching him as he arranges his things and lies down on his back. He holds a piece of ribbon in one hand and carefully, thoughtfully, weaves it through his splayed fingers. This way and that, in and out. Its shiny sheen must feel soft and slippery on his skin as he suddenly pulls it away like a scarf from a sleeve, then begins patiently to thread it through again. He pays such close attention to this small movement. It’s beautiful. It makes me think of God’s own small things, the tiny movements too small or too hidden for us to see, all the microscopic matters that keep life ticking along. All these things are held in God’s gracious focus.
I also learn about God from my small Plum’s need for connection. He has recently graduated to a proper bunk bed with his big brother up top and lots of space for his own teddies and books below. We hoped that this bit of novelty might convince him that he is big enough to stay in his bedroom all night long. But still he comes to find me. He knows that I will return him to his own room (or his Daddy will), but for a moment or two, we will be together to share a pillow and hold on tight. It is good to be connected. So very good to remember that there are always open arms. In that nightly ritual, I see the image of God.
Then daily, he teaches me that rest is good. Why can’t I remember this? Or learn it well enough to listen to my own weariness? Too often, Plum’s quiet times are my working times. Then in the evening after he is soothed with stories and songs and has slipped into sleep, I rise again to work. This is practical. It is even necessary, and good, because without my work, my own ability to focus and connect would be hampered. But rest is good, too.
And on the seventh day God ended his work and he rested…
Plum is sleeping now as I write this. We’ve come to the library this afternoon to return books before picking up the big kids from school. The morning’s puddle-jumping has worn him out and now he is sitting in the stroller snoozing away. The sunlight is bright on the table where I am working, and the room is quiet, though there are people all around me. Some are working, some resting. Two men talk quietly near the community bulletin boards and closer, another mother balances her child on her hip, swaying gently as she takes a moment to look at the titles on the poetry shelf. When she finds what she is looking for, I think I’ll take a look myself. Today might be a good day for poetry.
In the meantime, my child sleeps and I look at all these faces. All these glimpses of God’s own face, all around and everywhere.
