There I was, standing in the longest line, holding a heavy stack of envelopes to ship every which way, all out into the world. Days before, I was sprawled out on the floor signing and sealing every envelope, preparing to send them off to the ones I love. As usual, I spent just as much time preparing the outside of the envelopes as I did preparing what was on the inside.

I stamped the envelopes and splattered them with paint. I took great care addressing each one with elegant handwriting. I smoothed beautiful strips of washi tape along the length of the envelopes, and I left handwritten messages along the closure on the back — just like I normally do. I always send my cards and letters out this way — artfully and soulfully. Sometimes they’re decorated with watercolor; sometimes with ink. Sometimes they’re decorated with my sons’ handprints, stamped across packages sent out to friends and family.

This time was no different. Holding my heavy stack of pretty envelopes, I stepped up to the counter and greeted the postal clerk. After glancing at my stack of envelopes, he looked me in my eyes and asked, “Are you an artist?”

The question came as a surprise. Nevertheless, I suddenly replied, “I guess you could say that.” I smiled as he continued scanning and stamping each envelope. An artist, I thought. Never have I ever called myself an artist.

I don’t have a stunning studio with shelves of supplies and windows that let light pour in. I never learned about painting techniques or brush strokes, never stretched my arms like a ballerina in graceful port de bras. I have not sculpted clay into fine figurines, nor have I studied at The Julliard School to master Bach’s oboe concertos. Never have I ever called myself an artist because, let’s be honest, never have I ever considered myself worthy of the title.

But I do write songs with lyrics that drip with longing and lament . . . and I have a few abstract paintings sprinkled throughout the pages of my journal. I design graphics and I design bedroom spaces. I take old pieces of furniture and I restore them to look like new. I make soup and I bake dinner rolls. I preserve pretty flower petals. I take photographs of my children. And sometimes, when no one is looking, I dance while I cook.

Are you an artist?

“Yes, I am,” I should have said.

I am an artist because I make beauty in the mundane. I am an artist because I design the things I see in my dreams and because I paint pictures with my poems. And, I know that I am not the only one whose eyes see beautiful things that have yet to become. I am not the only one who finds pleasure in making things — writing poems, making meals, and building businesses. I am not the only one who works wonder through the work of her hands, even if it is just the stuff of everyday life — making spreadsheets for work, sewing buttons back onto shirts for the kids, tending to the roses at the front porch, cooking up warm meals for the ministry at church.

With breath in your lungs and light in your eyes, you, too, are an artist. You are making magic in the mundane, Sis. I see you — taking ordinary moments and making them extraordinary. I see you using the work of your hands to serve your people and soothe your own soul, too.

And when you can’t believe in the work of your own hands, believe this: You are a work of art, yourself — ever growing, ever evolving, ever becoming, ever blossoming, and ever bringing beauty into this broken world.

So, however and whenever the question comes — whether filled with celebratory tones or seeping with sarcasm, don’t let it conjure up inferiority or insecurity. Don’t question or doubt yourself. Don’t deny it. Don’t deflect. Claim the label and take the title.

Embrace the work of your hands — your life’s work and all you do for the ones you love.

Are you an artist?

“Yes, yes I am,” you will say.