We are, not metaphorically but in very truth, a Divine work of art, something that God is making, and therefore something with which He will not be satisified until it has a certain character. . . Over a sketch made idly to amuse a child, an artist may not take much trouble; he may be content to let it go even though it is not exactly as he meant it to be. But over the great picture of his life — the work which he loves. . . he will take endless trouble — and would doubtless thereby give endless trouble to the picture if it were sentient. One can imagine a sentient picture, after being rubbed and scraped and recommenced for the tenth time, wishing that it were only a thumb-nail sketch whose making was over in a minute. In the same way it is natural for us to wish that God had designed for us a less glorious and less arduous destiny; but then we are wishing not for more love but for less.
-C. S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain