The Crafter of the skies, who sculpted my hands, planted a piece of his heart as a seed in the earth He formed, and all of creation was a flower that was founded from it. 

And as I sat on the ground He made, I dug a hole in search of my purpose in the dirt and clay I was molded from. 

I reached the end of the earth with my bare hands but I did not find it there, as the clouds had taken it long before my conception, holding it above my head out of reach until the day they’d decide to rain their blessings over me. 

I wiped off my hands, dusted off my feet, and cut down ten-thousand trees to build a ladder to the clouds in possession of my dreams.

My ladder broke two feet from the top, and I descended back to the ground I was born of. 

The fall caused me to land on my hands, the same hands sculpted by the Crafter of the skies.

I made casts out of the clay I dug up and made a pact with myself to try harder next time.

The clouds teamed up and poured their rain out at once, and I collected the drops in buckets I bought and attempted to find my calling within it.

I aimed to separate my purpose from the rest of the world, but water is quite a difficult thing to sift.

As I gathered the hundredth bucket of rain, they tipped over a cliff and the buckets and water were lost to the valley below me.

I jumped into that valley, wearing the wind as my parachute, and landed at the bottom on both of my knees. 

And the bruises and cuts I’d received from the fall didn’t phase me as I frantically fought to scoop up the dreams that’d been waisted from those buckets made of broken plastic. 

But as I dug once again for my purpose in the earth, and the dirt underneath my nails caked and gathered, and as I cried enough tears to match the water I’d caught from the rain clouds holding my dreams,

God met me there.

His hands reached down from the heavens above the clouds and planted my feet on ground I hadn’t gotten around to breaking into quite yet.

He handed me a dream that I hadn’t searched for in the dirt, that I hadn’t climbed towards on the ladder I built from trees I killed, or collected from the clouds below Him in buckets I bought, or jumped into the valley to find, with dirt-caked nails and bruised and broken skin. 

He handed me a dream I couldn’t search for, as it towered over the finite thoughts of my human heart and mind.

And the dream He gave, the purpose inside of me pursued by His hands, was more than anything my own hands could ever make or hold.