"If I lost the use of my hands tomorrow," I say as I hold up my right hand and stare at my palm and skinny fingers, the ripples and tides impressed with an endless amount of things: thousands of stories to write, watercolour art and letters to paint. "If my hand stopped working -- if it withered and shriveled up -- and I couldn't write anymore, and I couldn't paint, and I had nothing left to create with, who would I be?"
I say this to Leah tonight over the table. It's late and we're some of the last lingering in the restaurant, my left hand still wrapped warmly around my peppermint tea.
"I have to choose to believe that I would still be worth something," I continue telling her. "Even if I had nothing left to show people."
I get caught up in needing something to show you -- on Instagram, here on this blog, through my shop, through my sketchbook, through the dozens of notebooks that sit precariously on my bedroom dresser. I'm so visual. It always helps me to write and draw things out so I can see them. And this is the best way I create -- art I can see, words I can read. They are my offering; my worship.
Unfailingly, my hands have been my favourite. I have a fascination with them. They're so beautiful -- hands -- and they can do so much, can create so many things.
So I can't help but wonder.
If I lost it all, who would I be?
I would have no pretty words left, nothing poetic or fancy or raw. No books on a shelf with my name on the spine, no drafts piling up in the writing folder on my computer. I would have no art to hand you. My watercolours would dry up, the paper would fade, the brushes would harden and go crisp and bristly.
I look at my hands again -- curl them in and press them out, long and gaping, so much left to offer, so much left to bring.
But if I lost it all, I would still be invaluable. I would still be worth loving. If I had nothing left to show the world, no tangible symbol of my worth, I would still be the same girl I am today.
I'll choose brave as I believe that, grabbing hold of a God who chooses me as I am, not for what I'll write or paint or create. I could lose it all, and still, he'll love me.