It’s a blank page. It’s always a blank page. And yet every time it’s turned into a beautiful story. Even though it’s often far from eloquent, far from coherent, far from perfection, it’s a story. Your story, my story. Any word poured out on a page, any syllable uttered from the mouth, any brush spread across a canvas, any root stretched a little deeper. They are utterances of our stories. And they matter.

There are a handful of word artists that I deeply respect. For some, I haven’t even read all of one of their books. But the theme coming from each of their voices is that your art matters. Your art that my not feel like art at all? It is. It matters because it releases your person as you really are. It leads you to notice the beautiful and creative around you. It leads you to express, release, and give thanks. It leads you to the King. Every little step of the process is important, so much more important than anyone can make you realize unless you believe the Creator Himself. I read Shauna Niequist, Emily Freeman, Hannah Brencher, and so many more, and in one way or another I’m redirected to my King in the purest, most sensible way my heart knows. I think that is art accomplished.

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It's gooey. It's warm from the oven. It's dusted in sugar. It's crispy and fudgy all at the same time. It's pretty much a circular, underbaked brownie that you get to call cake and can serve for the fanciest meals. In fact, I would like to test the theory that this cake, in all its messy and delicious chocolatey glory, would unravel even the tightest of dinner parties. Pursed lips splitting with laughter, uncomfortably straight backbones swaying with chatter, and previously clasped hands waving with expression. That's how great this brownie-cake is.

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