Bud.

This is not another anthem of my inability to consistently concentrate; this is not a song of my sorrow or a proclamation of my pride. The screeching espresso machine in the bakery and roar of the highway can't drown out this whisper. So I'm whispering my response.

"I'm kind of a mess! And I'm so loved!"

God created my mind, and it flies around in circles. But He loves me that way.

"Merry Christmas" portraits are my side job. I looked at the sketch yesterday and smiled as the forms started to take shape. A stranger's passing glance would create skepticism toward my artistic ability. Only I can see where this picture is going, and no one knows what it looks like in my head.

I'm a bud. God sees me as a rose.