His fingers are still a bit pudgy, left-over remnants of a fat babyhood. Our heads inclined towards each other. My center leaning towards him as if pulled by a gravitational force. Small pieces grasped between a thumb and forefinger. He breathes out and I breathe in; our breaths co-mingling, a strange sort of incense. We are not aware and yet so aware. Together we create with few spoken words. We fall into a rhythm. I collect the pieces for the next step while he attaches them, pain-stakingingly. I am winging through a world I barely know. Fully unconscious of myself, fully conscious to this task at hand. Could this be a sacrament? Something so mundane? Something maybe so commercial? And yet snow falls, the world coated in impenetrable white. And the pieces rustle against other. A sigh of satisfaction when things fit. Maybe every act of creation, of creating order out of chaos- of quieting your mind and dying to self- maybe it all- every time- is an act of love. It’s wonderful to paint a picture that shows the inner life. Or write a sonnet that moves others to tears. Or to play a song that every person enters into as if it is their own emotions embodied in that melody. But those are not the only acts of creation accessible to us. Our identity, formed by the Creator can only express itself through creation. As if love shattered into a million pieces and we are left picking up them up, each tiny fragment at a time. Each lego car, each loaf of bread, each perfect spreadsheet, each wildflower bouquet puts one more piece in place. And in the end we will be able to see ourselves for what we truly are.