The first few years of my married life, I was pretty sure my wife was broken. I would share some new philosophical idea with her, stand back, and wait for the applause.
What I got was a bland, "Uh huh." I would restate it. "Uh huh." I would try again. "Uh huh." It was like trying to start a car with a dead battery.
I have always admired my wife's ability to sew. She makes it look so easy that once I was inspired to sew a pair of shorts. I spent a small fortune on a pattern and some fabric. She showed me the scissors and the gas pedal on the machine. I promptly crashed.
Last night, sitting under the stars with Julie, I realized something I should have figured out a long time ago. There is nothing wrong with her or me.
My wife is a culinary genius, a botanist and an interior designer. She paints in the concrete world of physical things. My medium is the abstract world of ideas. I am lousy at her art and she is lousy at mine, but nobody is broken.
I have been seeing this everywhere. My mechanic is an artist with an engine. My farmer friends create with the soil and seasons. Managers paint with people, bankers with money, teachers with students, parents with children.
Our Maker is an artist and we are meant to follow suit. We are most fully alive when we discover the picture we are meant to draw and draw it with all our heart. It is no good coveting someone else's crayons. We must color with the set we are given.
The world is a gallery. If we are wise, we will not only paint. We will also slow down and savor each others' masterpieces.