Desperately fumbling through the massive library of my memories, I longed to recount and write my story, or at least a close resemblance. I wanted to write one laced with laughter and joy ... and yes, an incredible love. But at the end of the day, torn and crumpled, tear-stained pages littered the floor about my feet.
Thousands of love stories have been woven over time, some real, some fantasy. Unforgettable tales are well known and retold throughout many generations. Some have happy-ever-after endings, like ‘Cinderella’ or end in tragedy, like ‘Romeo and Juliet’. But in none does the princess end up in ragged tennis shoes or cinder-stained jeans. And in all of them, love rings true.
My journey thus far doesn’t look like any of those infamous love stories I’ve read. It is a story told all too often in a hurting world, one of broken roads, abandonment, and broken homes. It is no appealing novel. And there is no grand ending in view.
I attempted twice to create a masterpiece from what little I do know of love. Twice, I failed pitifully. I was about to give up, to lay down my pen, to throw in the proverbial towel. But as I started to walk away, resigned to a life of rolling in the cinders, I spotted a journal sitting off in a corner to itself.
Some of its pages were yellowed. Some were stark-white, blank and inviting. Some were smeared with teardrops. Some were stained with blood. Some were lovingly folded at the corners -- precious memories. All were bound in solid gold. Its cover was emblazoned with ‘Your Journey, Your Story, Your Name’.
I held it in trembling hands and hesitated to read. Were it any other story, I might have rushed forward in eager anticipation. But I was anxious and afraid because I knew it was my difficult journey penned for the whole world to see. It was my story thus far. It contained, somewhere within it, the tragic story behind my name. Such a painful, painful memory.
I closed my eyes, pleading for the strength to go on. When I opened them again, I found them resting on the first page. And I couldn’t help myself; I read:
“It is written, even engraved on the palms of My hands, hands that fashioned you in My image. It is written by the Author and Finisher of your faith. It is written in a covenant of sacred blood. It is written in the Book of Life. It is written and it is sealed forever-after. It is written with loving, knowing fingertips, those fingertips that lift your chin. It is written, My Betrothed, your new name carved on a white stone. It is written in love, abundant life without end. It is written. Yes, and amen.”
Written long before my journey began were the Words, “Many waters cannot quench love. Rivers cannot wash it away.“ Whatever broken roads I travel, whatever storms rage within waters beneath the bridges I cross, Love turns the stumbling blocks to stepping stones and carries me over on the sleeves of a spotless robe. Mine is the love story being consistently written still, today.
I am resigned to not being able to write my own story. That story belongs to an Author so much more capable than myself. My pen is tossed without care at His feet, as will be my crown one day.
I am but a journal in His hands.
© February 1, 2010
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