creation crept into my morning
not primordial creation
nor artistic creation
but the conundrum of creation itself

how often I merely re-create the creation of others
act out a role penned by Shakespeare
play a melody composed by Bach
read aloud the words of Steinbeck

personally speaking, I am brilliant at re-creating
I rehearse steadfastly
I perform flawlessly

yet, re-creation cannot provide a balm for my troubled soul
only when I compose my own stanzas
publish my own words
plunk out my own melodies
do my demons skitter away

I ask myself…why?
the answer is found in creation itself

I was created by the God of my understanding
molded
gifted
stamped with His mark forever

but life has obliterated His signature on my soul
I need to wipe away my errors of self-will
sand off the grime of greed
polish my self with the soft cloth of His grace
so that His name will once more become visible

I need to leave off re-creating the creations of others
and humbly create my own
only then will I reflect the image of my true self
as imagined by my Creator before my birth