We are but pens in the hands of a Ready Writer. New pages we are writing every day. Moments of epiphany become the illustrations. The music of our souls become the plot.
Our birth was not our beginning, for the Master’s plan began before time. Our birthday we remember, yet the passage of time is of little consequence. The ink blots, the scribbles and the beautiful calligraphy of our lives all are verses, stanzas and chapters of our personal novel.
Edits litter the floor as He tosses aside the mistakes and the redeeming hand of the Master rewrites the stray deeds. Under His feet they stay, just another pivot point toward the fulfillment of the story. The story line has never changed.
Our death is not our ending, for the Master’s plan carries on beyond time. The anniversary of our going home will be remembered, but the passage of life is little consequence. Our story is just a part of His glory; our presence here was just the introduction.
We are but pens in the hands of a Ready Writer. The message of our lives He will write, one day at a time. Let me not speak for the Writer without His guidance for His divine plan was written by the pins in His hands.