Yes. I know. It is there. I see it. Feel it. Hear it. Every. Last. Part. I’m aware. Painfully. Of it’s presence. I have not forgotten.
My actions might speak differently. I recognize that has left you to wonder if I am unaware. The look on my face does not show the response you seek. The tone of my voice has not changed as you expected. My words are silent and reserved. You wonder. I feel your wonder as the look on your face speaks of the confusion in your mind.
How can she be oblivious.
Has she given up.
Does she even notice.
That character flaw could not be more apparent to anyone other than me. I am aware. Painfully. I have not forgotten. Every time I think I have, it is there. Like an ink blot in the middle of a blank page faded through from the page before. The elegance of the words matter none because the blot of faded ink leaves them marked. It is a distraction to the content of the chapter.
In my attempt to wash the ink blot away it only smeared into a larger surface covering more of the story than before. I made it worse. So, I have left it alone. As I struggle to write around the smudge, I find myself, aware but not as preoccupied with the mess. Each page brings a lighter more conspicuous version of the smudge than before. Less noticeable. There. Just less.
The author of my story continues to write, line by line, paragraph by paragraph, and page by page until the next chapter is closed. The faded blot of ink seems to matter none as he writes over it. Soon the faded ink is but a distant memory. It’s a few pages of an entire book with a reminder of the time when the ink spilled over. A part of the story. Not THE story.
You see, I am aware. I do not need you to point out your distraction with the smudge of circumstances that have left behind their mark on my story. That character flaw you cannot seem to unnotice is the blot of ink that spilled over on my hands, clothes, and pages of my story. Just when I think I have washed it off, it is there, again. I find it everywhere I look. A stark reminder of the time I took the pen and started to write my own story.
The author of my story has assured me the ink blot on those pages gives my story character. It affords me the opportunity to tell the story of when I tried to write my own story and how the ink faded as the pen was handed back over to the author. That flaw has found purpose.
I am now thankful for the flawed circumstances that have left behind a mark. Their mark represents a time where I had to find my way back. I had to put the pen down and allow the author to pick it up. He writes so beautiful. In ways I could never write myself. As the story comes together it is nothing like it was at first glance. The plot has turned in ways I never saw with the characters at hand. I am captivated by it.
Your reminder of the smudge as you look back over those first few chapters, is better left unsaid. The frustration you feel as the blot of ink distracts you from my story is a reflection of you not me. Do not worry, as you turn the page, the ink fades, and then, it is no more. But the story carries on. Soon you’ll forget about the smudge. Keep reading.
God has written my story long before a single day had passed. He knew every thought I would ever think. Every word I would ever speak. Every step I would ever take, to him and away from him. He knew which path I would lead myself on before I allowed him to shepherd me home. Yet, he loved me enough to pick up the pen and begin to write my story where I left off. He took that smudge of ink and wrote new, right over the old.
As you speak, let it be of the good that has come from the times shadowed by an ink blot.
As you tell me the story from your view, let it be focused on the page at hand not the previous chapter.
As you share with others, let it be of the time when God, the author of my story, picked up the pen and began to write in a new plot.
Let me tell you of the goodness of a loving God who took the pen and began to turn a short story into a novel.
Let me tell you of a time when God reminded me that although I know him, there is more to him than I can even imagine. He is good to me. Better than I deserve.
As you talk today, let it be of the way God rescued me from myself. Let it be of how he sees me as he works on me. Tell if the promise of good he has given for my life. Share the testimony of a broken vessel flowing with the Spirit of the Living God perfecting the imperfect. Speak the word of victory as dry bones become alive. A heart that is quickened by the fire of the Holy Spirit.
I do not need you to tell me of my flaws. I am aware of them. God is too. He knows them better than I or you. Yet, he calls me whole as he mends my broken, heals my hurt, and saves my lost. Speak of that today.
“With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be.”
James 3:9-10 NIV
