“And God saw all that He had made, and it was very good.”
— Genesis 1:31
Sometimes I look back at something I’ve written and feel satisfied with the result. It says what I mean and means what I say.
But more often, I read it again and feel like it’s still not done—that nagging sense of incompleteness.
Last night reminded me that this feeling—that things are never quite finished—may simply be part of being human.
Painting to Gogh
A few friends from what started years ago as our little book club—now affectionately known as the Booklique—came over for a paint-at-home party. M, L, A, and R arrived promptly at 4 p.m. My sister-in-law B, who is visiting, joined us for the painting project, while my husband, K, ducked out to another room to give us our space.
Within minutes of arriving, M waved her arms enthusiastically at something L had said, causing A to drop one of the two dishes she carried. The beautiful bowl from Poland shattered, and the green edamame dip splattered across the tile.
At first A exclaimed, “Oh no!”
But then, characteristically, she smiled and shrugged.
“Oh, well… good thing I made two dips.”
We got the situation cleaned up and then moved to our easels to begin the evening’s painting challenge: the Aurora Borealis.
Before our paintbrushes were even wet, Wendy—our Painting to Gogh video instructor—talked us through a quick warm-up.
“Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and repeat: ‘I was born to create. Tonight, I am an artist!’”
The painting hadn’t even started and we were already in tears laughing.
Our canvases began to suffer the immediate impact of our clumsy brushstrokes. We reminded ourselves what Bob Ross always said:
“There are no mistakes—just happy accidents!”
R studied her canvas and announced that her trees looked like seaweed.
I glanced around and saw that each of our Northern Lights had a look all their own—none of which looked much like Wendy’s.
We teased each other constantly while yelling out at video Wendy to slow down and explain things better.
I told R she could add a clownfish—just plant a little Nemo behind her trees and make it an aquarium scene.
I don’t think that was very nice of me.
When it came time to make stars using Wendy’s “flick” technique, I enthusiastically splattered my canvas… unwittingly nailing the back of the couch in front of me with white paint dots.
Fortunately A noticed.
“Oh no!”
She ran for water and paper towels before the paint could harden on the leather.
Meanwhile Rosie—the poodle we’re dog-sitting—managed to acquire a streak of mint green paint that looked just like eye shadow.
Rosie, resting after a hard night supervising the Booklique artists.
We finished the paintings, and while doing a little cleanup I heard a thud in the kitchen sink. A suddenly cried out that she’d broken the handle off our faucet—mortified.
She breathed a sigh of relief when I apologized and explained it was already broken and K just needed to fix it.
We sat down to enjoy some corned beef sliders and chatted.
That’s when B clipped a wine glass with her forearm, sending red wine splashing all over herself.
“Oh, B.A!” she muttered, scolding herself with her first and middle name the way we sometimes do when we’ve just done something spectacularly clumsy.
Napkins were passed. More laughter followed.
Our paintings were set up on their little easels—arranged in a circle atop our round dining table.
Each one different.
A absolutely nailed her trees.
M turned hers upside down and announced that it was Matisse.
Or perhaps… “Mo-tisse.”
We laughed.
Then K emerged from another room to be our blind judge for “the best in show.”
“Well first off… everybody gets a trophy,” he said.
That made us laugh even harder because all our boys played soccer in a league when they were little where everyone got a trophy just for showing up.
After a long and dramatic inspection of the table, K placed the prize—a bottle of wine—next to my painting.
No time like the present to share!
Dessert was up next: M’s lemon bars.
They were out of this world.
Her secret, M explained, was the Irish butter from Costco, which really elevates the shortbread crust. Also, it didn’t hurt that the lemon came straight from her tree and was bursting with juice.
We lingered—talking, laughing, admiring our paintings.
Every one of them different.
Every one of them imperfect.
Every one unmistakably reflecting the person who made it.
As the evening wound down, I found myself reflecting on the stories we had just added to our ever-growing mountain of Booklique memories.
A shattered bowl and the demise of a perfectly good dip.
Seaweed trees.
A clownfish suggestion that probably wasn’t very charitable.
Paint splattered on the couch.
Rosie’s accidental green eye shadow.
A broken faucet handle.
A red wine bath for B.
And a circle of northern lights on multiple canvases—each one wonderfully unique.
I think the best moments in life come when we pause long enough to look around in gratitude at the good things we’ve managed to play a part in making.
Scripture tells us that when God finished creating the world, He stepped back and looked at everything He had made.
And He called it very good.
The phrase in Genesis translates to more than simple approval. It means complete—whole, flourishing exactly as it was meant to be.
Our little gallery of northern lights certainly didn’t approach the grandeur of God’s first creation.
But the evening itself—the laughter, the mishaps, the paintings, the food, the stories—felt like it belonged on that canvas too. It was beautiful, and it was complete.
Sunrise
The next morning, our Booklique banter continued through text messages. A posted a funny tribute to her fallen bowl and beautifully captured the spirit of our evening together.
She wrote:
“R.I.P. my well-used Polish pottery. You were a workhorse, always a bowl-half-full kind of a bowl, and fully served your life’s purpose.”
Then she added something Blanche—M’s beloved mom—used to say:
“Better to use and live than not.”
Maybe that’s true of more than bowls.
Joy seems to find us most easily when we’re participating—creating, sharing, serving, laughing together.
And perhaps that’s why moments like this feel so complete when we simply pause and notice.
Because in some small way, they echo our Creator’s own delight.
And those first words of Scripture ring true as ever:
“And God saw all that He had made, and it was very good.”
— Genesis 1:31
