A child’s grip puts crayon to paper and gives color to white, turning a blank space into the inside of their mind. Every stroke and swipe made by the little hand picking up and putting down colors tells their secrets. Colors sing their song, details map their development and subject tells you where they are.
My daughter drew a picture for me the other day. It’s of a little girl playing in front of her house. Birds, flowers and lit windows were part of it, but the thing that made me laugh was the little girl’s huge smile. My children tell me how I’m doing as a mom when they draw their own faces. The little girl made of crayon was a giggle from head to toe.
Pride and gratitude breezed through me like a cocktail of provision and gift as I thought of how loved my little girl must feel. There is so much pain that she doesn’t know. Her steps are not weighted. Her drawings are not disjointed.
I already knew the answer when I asked her who the girl in the drawing was. I couldn’t help but smile back at the little crayon girl as I waited for her creator’s answer. My breath caught in my throat when she answered, ‘It’s you.’
In an eight by ten span of crayon, I get to have something that didn’t exist before. My daughter has no idea what she’s done, but she has given me a window into a world where I can see what I missed. She made me her age and she gave me her giggle.
I see God in art. I hear God in music. I see purity in child’s play. I see God in their faces.
I know it’s just a drawing in crayon but, to me, it’s something more. Not because she made it, I have my children’s art coming out of every crack of every space of my existence. I’m the mom who throws stuff away while they sleep. There’s something special about this one. It’s my child giving something back to me from her excess. Her life is an electric giggle and she has infused the little girl in me with infectious life. In all I do for her as her mother, she is still a much bigger gift to me.
This is beauty. To me, this is a little crayon portrait of Grace.