I once sat across from a woman in a medical waiting room, watching her fingers move steadily through a tangle of yarn. She was knitting something — a scarf maybe, or a blanket. I don’t remember exactly what it was. What I do remember was the peace that surrounded her, a kind of quiet confidence that settled the space around us. We didn’t speak, but I felt connected to her in a strange and comforting way. Her hands told a story of patience, of purpose. Her craft became a bridge.

That moment lingers with me. It comes back especially when I hear people say, “I’m not creative.” They say it as if it's a settled fact. As if creativity were a club with exclusive membership — singers, painters, writers only. The rest of us? We carry on, buried under responsibilities, convinced we’ve missed the creative gene or, worse, that pursuing creativity is indulgent. A luxury. A waste.

But that’s not the voice of our Maker.

We were fashioned in the image of a wildly creative God — a God who sculpted stars, whispered galaxies into being, and painted flowers with such unnecessary but breathtaking detail. A God who knits each of us together in the secret place (Psalm 139:13). When He made us, He placed in us a divine urge to create, not just for performance or profit, but for communion. For healing. For joy. For worship.

The enemy knows the power of that creativity. He knows it has the potential to draw us closer to God, to others, to ourselves. So he works hard to distort it. He whispers lies: “You can’t draw. You can’t sing. You can’t write. Don’t embarrass yourself. Don’t even try.” And so we bury our creativity under shame and fear, and call it adulthood.

But here’s the truth: creativity is not a performance, it’s a lifeline. When we deny it, it doesn’t disappear — it just finds other ways out. Sometimes it emerges as anxiety, or restlessness, or sadness that we can’t quite name. Other times it erupts like a volcano — all the words and colours and movement we’ve pushed down suddenly forcing their way back up.

We were made to make. Whether it’s bread or poetry, pottery or song, a garden bed or a well-set table — these are sacred acts. And each one can become an altar, a place where we meet God in the work of our hands.