Fingerprints of... Who?

Just a few minutes ago I was listening to Fingerprints of God, by Steven Curtis Chapman.

Every time I hear that song it makes me think, do people see the fingerprints of God on me? Can they see that he made me, and that I am his. That I believe in him, and worship him? I sure hope so.

Yesterday was the first day of the county fair for us. Since a few of the family members had entered something we decided to go see how they did and check everything else out.

Both Eyebright and I left saying, "There are a lot of scary people in this world."

To tell you the truth, I do not see any of my Lords fingerprints on someone who is showing more skin then needs to be seen, has more then I can count body piercings, with a purple mohawk.

I don’t see anything in that person that glorifies God. I don’t see his fingerprints anywhere that say, "I molded this person into who he is. He is my creation."

All I see is Satan’s work, and I don’t know about you, but I would much rather have God’s thumb print on my forehead, then Satan’s.

Who’s fingerprints are on you?

When the Ink Stops Flowing

That horrible moment when you realize the ink is fading. The t, is not as dark as the s was. The word you were writing fades into the paper, never to be seen in it’s true form.

"NO! You can’t do this!"

You direct the tip of the pen to the top corner of your paper and scribble furiously. "Stay with me!" You shout.

"Come on, you can make it!"

Next comes CPR, you shake it vigorously, then start mouth to mouth, licking the ball point briskly and scribbling again. "You can’t do this to me!"

It’s no use, your forever faithful pen is gone, finished, never to be used again.

Someone pats you on the shoulder, and writes all the faster with there special little writing tool as the horror of what just happened sets in.

Then someone steps forward hand outstretched. "Here, take mine. I have two."

Your eyes water, and the tears begin to fall. "Thank you."

The school report is finished in blue ink, instead of black, and the world goes back to normal.

So it is at my house. Moral: Never waste good pen ink.