Not once upon a time,
not once in a lifetime;
just... sometimes,
I feel like an inkstain.
And even if you are a Writer, and you Like Ink... that is not a compliment.
Sometimes, I feel like an inkstain on the written work of my life, penned by the hand of God. Like a very unsplendid blot that landed in the middle of the page somehow; the sort that makes you wince, trying to rub it away with your fingers, even though you know it won’t do any good.
I hear people say that “God don’t make no dirt.” (The grammar? Horrid. The phrase? Existent. More's the pity.) When I hear it, two things come to mind (apart from the miseries we shall soon endure if we do not learn to better wield the English language). The first: I know it is true. The second: I’m perfectly capable of making my own dirt, thank you very much, and ruining my life to the fullest of my abilities without any help whatsoever.
There are times when I believe I am more capable of doing wrong than I am of doing right. And it frightens me.
In the midst of this petty life, where the wakeful darkness of my Saturday nights is spent wondering how to be as impossibly perfect as possible at church the next day, living through a sermon about the splendid potential within the 'Good Christian' who has somehow invaded our expectations, and then returning home to face every unholy thought, word, and deed that has plagued my steps and not knowing which is better—avoiding the truth, or facing the reality of what I have been—I cannot help but wonder, sometimes, what this trembling heart could be missing.
Perhaps, it is 2 Timothy 2:11-14— the promise that no matter how faithless I am, His faithfulness never fails. That He is constant where my own failings can never be—into eternity itself. That He has overcome the self within me, and now: torn, slain, and conquered back into life, I am His.
What is His is His forever. Even an inkstain.
And by a queer thing called Grace, He turns those inkstains into love stories. Because the truly beautiful love stories are about those who were loved, without having anything loveable to offer—and through that love, becoming worth loving.
If you don’t believe it, just ask the inkstains.
