Once again I stare at a blank page, but this time the blank page seems to stare back at me. So I rummage through my mind, anxious to see what kind of creativity I will discover. Will I pull out some words to weave a novel, or poetry to create a symphony of sound? Either way, I cannot find anything like this to call my own, no matter how hard I try. So I turn to the One who holds creativity in the palm of his hand, only to realize that his hand is holding mine.
"The heavens declare the glory of God;
the skies proclaim the work of his hands."
3 days ago