A mechanic’s hands tell his story. Carefully touching one dirty engine after another, they become perpetually stained. They are calloused and bruised from continuous effort on a member that doesn’t turn the way it should.
A ballerina’s feet tell her story. She demands perfection from her flesh, so they become knarred and cracked. Sometimes bloody, sometimes broken, but always ready to give testimony to their purpose.
A parent’s brow tells a story. Wrinkles visible and invisible pressed on by our children through the skin to the skull. Mounting pressure brings crushing anguish causing tears to flow like blood from a wound.
A Christian’s life tells a story. It’s called “Fortress or Frontline Christianity.” The fortress Christian builds lofty beautiful walls, and stays clean and unscathed. The frontline Christian walks among the unclean and gets scarred. In the end, one will hear “well done” and the other will hear “depart from me.”