His eyes become razors. They’re his most precious tools; if he does not whet them against the truth of his own soul, he will dull his creation before he even starts. His gaze, like the Father’s, divides and separates his small sliver of the universe into order.

Let there be order among my building elements, each one organized according to its own likeness and kind. 

His apt hands glide across the flat plane of his workbench to marshal the necessary materials. With unbroken focus, his fingers bring shape and form to his mass of disconnected components. He fastens them in place, each one bolstering those around it. 

Apart, the components are tohu va bohu, which means without form. They drift without form or purpose among pale, watery chaos. Without their creator’s fingerprints to give them a place and a function, his components remain without form and void. They are exactly what they appear to be—nothingness.

Let a solid foundation emerge upon which I may construct my cosmos. 

A mason at heart, the master craftsman erects his cosmos in his own image. He finds a particular position for each unique part, and relishes its placement. He pauses and rests his head on his chin. He sits in deep contemplation for several minutes before a rush of Spirit-wrought creativity blows over his countenance. 

A flame flickers in his eyes, and he resumes building. The fire of his hands sets the workbench alight, like an altar burning bright before the First Maker. The craftsman’s bench is a place of worship. Each time he sits down to work, he meets with the First Maker. In unison, they form something out of the dirt with their hands. His workshop fosters worship. It is his garden set atop a holy mountain. His temple. 

Let my bricklaying be complete. 

“What do you think, Dad?” asks the master craftsman. 

There stands the master craftsman fresh from his labor. He gestures toward his complete creation with open hands. His face glows radiant with the joy of a finished task. His work is done, and he has spoken life over the visible image of his spirit. 

To the untrained eye, the master craftsman’s materials are only Lego blocks. Bits of colored plastic perhaps fit only to injure an unshod foot in the middle of the night. But to the craftsman, they are the delicate fibers of all beautiful things. 

“It’s good,” says Dad. “It’s very good.” 

What your sons create will tell you about who they are. Creativity demands much of a man. To “make,” a man must draw from what is inside of him—his suffering, his striving, and the swirling tohu va bohu of his own heart—and form it into something he can lay his hands on. 

I have two sons: Noah and Jude. Both of them love Legos, but how they play with these plastic bricks is very different. Give Noah an unopened Lego set and three hours and he’ll have the entire thing assembled with zero pieces left over. He will follow the instructions to the letter, and that method never fails him. But Jude is my artist. Hand him three hundred random Lego bricks and describe to him what you want. He’ll build it every single time. It may lean to one side or appear lop-sided. Yet, he will create just what you‘ve asked for. 

When my sons sit down to assemble their next project, they’re playing and having fun. But an astute dad can observe what’s happening underneath that play. Proverbs 25:2 (ESV) says, “It is the glory of God to conceal things, but the glory of kings is to search things out.” The Lord hides things in plain sight (like playing with our kids) for us to search out. When we search out those things, we are acting under a kingly order. His kingly, fatherly order. 

Our sons and daughters mold their creativity and craftsmanship through play. Activities like these require them to direct their attention and time to a single, sustained undertaking. They help our children develop what Byung-Chul Han calls a “lasting and slow gaze”. This digital information age trains us to rob ourselves of time. Though it’s not just the time we spend scrolling; it’s that we forget how to linger, to contemplate. Our eyes are not satisfied with all of our seeing, and so we lose the ability to look, to observe, and to behold. 

Your ability to craft depends on your ability to have a lasting and slow gaze. Rediscovering that gaze requires time and deliberate effort. We might refer to such time as “leisure,” but that word has unfortunately become synonymous with laziness and lack of effort. To craft a business plan, a budget, a novel, a song, or a woodcarving, a man must intentionally occupy himself with less occupation. And for some of us, a rediscovery of leisure would do well for both our soul and our health. We need margin, unscheduled space and time.

By instinct, our children know how to do this already. If there’s a young master craftsman in your house, have a seat at their workbench. Be willing, for a little while, to be an apprentice. Let them teach you how to gaze at something with no interruptions. In time, you may yet become a master craftsman yourself.