I feel so thoughtless, so empty, like all my uncontrollable words have metamorphosed into inexpressible feeling. I vaguely want to cry, but I don’t think I can, which is so backwards. I want to write, but not poetry. I’d like to go home and be alone and write beautiful stories. Could that be worship? I think that’s why worship has been so difficult lately, it feels like trying to force those inexpressibles into specific, small, trite words. Maybe if I could just play beautiful music without the words. This is a day when art worship would make sense to me. Could I worship by painting or drawing a portrait or a landscape? I want to give glory to God, but I seem to have forgotten how. I’d rather make something beautiful with the talented hands God gave me and simply offer it to him. See, I am in your image, I have imitated you by creating. Take this woman’s sad face in charcoal, this ocean sunset in oils, this warm blanket of colored, twisted yarn, this delicately woven story, this carefully metered sonnet and be glorified, my Lord.