Credit

I don’t want to be a slave to credit.

Wanting to create beautiful things so people think I’m a beautiful person. 

Wanting to weave my name into every line so they know it’s mine. I made it. 

That’s not how you create. 

You don’t obsess over credit. You didn’t sign ‘God’ onto every leaf as you crafted its veins. 

You let love lead the way. And poured your passion into its beating heart and gave it a name. 

So help me do the same. 

For the things I make feel like a part of me. I so desperately want them to be great. 

I want to wow a crowd, let them ruminate on my prose and admire my flow. 

I admit, God, I want to steal the show. 

Because what’s the point of creating if I can’t create an identity from it?

And what’s the point of making if it doesn’t bring me profit?

But that’s not how you see it. 

No, what you make is love made tangible, and you give it away. Like a gift. 

What you made in me, and others, every ant, every leaf, every tree, every mountain and sea, reflects something of your passion and glows with your glory.

For you love to make, and you don’t exploit creation. You pour yourself out and leave the gems, the residues, for us to take pleasure in. 

Let me be the same, for all it comes from you anyway. What point is there putting glory on my name when I buckle under the weight? When, left to my own devices, everything I make breaks? 

My workmanship comes from prayer, I ask to make and you stir my spirit in such a way that beauty comes out and it feels like my soul made tangible with you weaving the pieces together. 

You are the spaces in between, bringing harmony to fragmented ideas and off-kilter theories, bringing order to the chaos of me until it makes something with the substance of eternity. 

Let me be like you, God. Let me make out of love, present it with pleasure, and delight in it with others, for that’s who it was made for anyway. Let me pour my soul out in every word and let you take the glory. 

For my greatest masterpiece is only a fragment of your big story.