art·ist  /ˈärtist/ A person whose work shows exceptional creative ability or skill.

Miss Anna will be showing one of her paintings next weekend at the Annual Fine Arts Festival (put on by our homeschool group). It seems I’ll never see the top of my kitchen table again… it is covered in art stuff. But I’m OK with that. Our homes are kind of like a workshop, gallery and stage for each of our own individual ‘arts’, aren’t they? We live among fishing boots, anchors, fillet knives, slickers, miles of stacked ropes. Framed prints of fishing boats, receipts and orders for fish, endless weather reports. Max’s room is brimming with test tubes and beakers, a microscope, several chemistry sets, so many books on science and chemistry. His walls are covered, not with movie posters or photos, but with large depictions of ‘The Periodic Table’. Anna’s art takes over pockets all over the house. Her books, paintings, supplies, stacks and stacks of sketches… stowed away here, folded and stuck in places, pinned up on walls, spilling out of overstuffed cabinets.  Over the next few years, as our littlest man grows into his own his artistic talents will come bubbling up… I love that part of being a Mom. Watching as your babies become their own ~ seperate, unique ~ and displaying that deep down God given special talent for all of us to marvel in.

I’ve never considered myself especially artistic. I love taking photos and writing a bit. But, I don’t have a ‘thing’ that is mine ~ with supplies and books and a spot for it all. But, at my house, I feel like a Curator of sorts in a museum filled with Masterpieces.

I hear a sweet minuet in Chris’ sigh, after he’s showered off the day, eaten a nice meal, and finally collapses into his chair. There is a full orchestra going when we return home after a full day out, & my kids rush the front door and in concert, boom out: WE’RE HOME!  When school is done, the chores complete and given the chance, my kids beg for their friends to play here, at their heart is deeply affected, as if I’ve personally watched the brush strokes of Van Gogh. My children’s hearts are satisfied here. What beauty!

I see Anna’s paintings, and Max’s experiments & diagrams, and Micah’s little toys lined up on the bath tub railing. I see Tippy and Tucker, stretched in the sun. In this carved out dwelling that serves as studio and gallery and stage for my dear ones is, at least in part, my own art. This is our place to rest, learn, play, grow, work, fight & forgive, hope & pray, heal and lavish love. It’s messy…. a work in progress, for sure. But what inspired, creative masterpieces our homes and families are! How blessed are the Mothers who observe it all, from up close ~ behind the velvet ropes… to be the one’s to watch the sketches come to life and to wipe the spilled paints and to help tune the strings. How wonderfully blessed are the Mothers!

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