Our lives are books, you know. They’re books with covers and title pages and chapter after chapter of interesting, intricate, and beautiful material. There are pages of illustrations in bright colors and little chapter header sketches that give you an idea of what might happen as you turn the pages, only to be pleasantly surprised with some alternate outcome.
Most chapters slip by quickly. We pay them little heed and find ourselves wishing we could skip to the end—but with the book of our lives, we can’t. It’s not allowed, or even possible.
And every once in a while we come to a chapter that’s more than a chapter—it’s a journey. It’s a story by itself, filled with twists and turns and delightful characters and friendships forged and tears shed and laughter shared. When we come to the end of such a chapter, we want nothing more than to put a bookmark after that final page, close the book, set it aside, and ponder for a while on what has passed—and all the potential for what could happen next.
I came to the end of such a chapter today. It was a beautiful chapter. Flawed, yes. Intense, yes. Stressful, absolutely. But it was beautiful.
I’m glad to serve an Author Who writes such wonderful things—and lets me read them.