Author: Abi Ririe
My morning walks often take me along a quiet path in our neighborhood park. Built along the side of this trek is a red brick retaining wall, holding up the hillside and the busy highway beyond. The last time I strolled by this wall I noticed for the first time that passersby have placed small stones on the ledges. Sometimes there’s only a few in a
small area. Other times the stones seem to climb all the way to the road, and run for many steps in either direction. I am made an artist. And these little stones brought me joy.
We have many things pressing for our attention, even on walking paths. Burning calories, tasks awaiting us at home, and squeaky stroller tires can crowd actual presence out of our thoughts. But dozens of people have lifted their head from the asphalt. Pausing, they’ve collected a small stone. And they’ve participated in creation.
No one walking down this path would think random, chaotic forces happened to organize so beautiful and functional a thing as a wall. No one would think the rocks all rolled into place on their own. Who could imagine a wall suddenly becoming exactly where it was needed? Strong. Orderly. Premeditated beauty.
There are scientists and philosophers who could argue creationism versus evolution with more piercing insight and intelligence than I will ever possess. I’ll leave atoms, molecules, and the origins of the universe to their capable hands. I’ll leave them DNA, and so, put such incredible craftsmanship in far better minds.
But where they falter, explaining the experience of joy in art, different for every human being, and always seeking this strange and elusive beauty, there my King has allowed me a voice. I will sing of a Creator. I will dance the moment He first called my name. I will make music that reverberates with His whisper. I love that science screams His presence. But I worship because the greatest proof of His reality is inscribed within every human being.
When we create, we prove Him again.
When we choose decency and goodness, we show His reflection in us.
And when we pick up little stones from the side of the path, we long to be like Him: the Artist, the Creator, the One who made all things, and who makes them new.