Words are kind of my thing. They are capable of so much—honey to the soul, weapons of warfare, tools for change. With our words we bear our souls, say I’m sorry, tell our kids we love them; we fill books and write songs and give speeches and make campaigns. Words give voice to the tangled web of thoughts and feelings bubbling up inside us. And although I’m often quick to use them mindlessly, I believe they carry so much more power than we can see in the physical realm.

Which is why I fell in love with my good friend’s yearly tradition of choosing a word to guide her into the new year. We have been stewarding this tradition together with my family for the last few years, taking turns reading aloud thoughts and ideas scribbled down in lined journals. After tucking the boys in bed, we gather around my parents’ living room, sharing and praying over our goals and our words.

This year, I chose the word Make. (Although, it feels much more poetic to say the word chose me.) As children of The Maker, the conviction to carry on the legacy of shaping and creating holds a heavy weight. I am making, not just in those unicorn moments when I’m painting a picture or assembling a wreath for the front door, but when I’m creating space for God to speak in my morning quiet times. When I’m crafting an encouraging text to send to a friend or pausing to relish in a moment with my boys. We are Makers, not because we are master crafters or bakers or Pinterest DIYers, but because making is woven into the fabric of every moment we live and breathe and we often don’t even realize it.

We make because it’s etched into our very DNA. And we get to choose what tools we want to use to produce the most beautiful harvest we can dream up.

Every day, we wake up and make up our minds on whether or not it will be a good day. We make the choice to spend time in the Word or a few extra moments in prayer, asking for strength for the day. We make our beds and make our houses feel like home when we sweep the floors and pour the coffee and wipe crumbs off the table. We make mistakes and make amends. We make memories and magic with our kids when we take a few minutes to look them in the eyes and truly listen. We make friends at the park or church or work. We make and clean up a hundred messes and fix a thousand meals that may or may not be reciprocated with appreciation. We make plans and make excuses and we make up our mind to do better the next day.

We are makers, not because we are good with a paintbrush or a camera (although if making in this way brings you joy, this is your permission to fill the world with your art), but because when God breathed life into man, He didn’t make him a statue or a robot, but a partner—an active participant called to carry on the work He started.

We create because we were created to create. We make because it’s etched into our very DNA. And we get to choose what tools we want to use to produce the most beautiful harvest we can dream up. We are given gifts and desires and a passion burning in our chest, hand-delivered alongside a blank canvas with only the instructions: Make something lovely. Make something that matters.

And so that is what I am working on this year—to use all the scraps and found objects throughout an otherwise very ordinary life, to make something life-giving. Something good. Something lasting.

What will you make?