Maybe I’m the only one who buys beautifully bound journals and keeps them on the shelf untouched. Leather ones, silky ones, miniature ones, grandiose ones, all sitting silently because I’m not willing to mar their preciousness with my imperfect, unedited musings. I’m not ready yet, I tell myself. I want so much to be more than I am. I want to be gracious in suffering. I want to record more glorious victories. I want to be more joyful in the day to day. I fear not producing a finished work my children and their children would marvel at.
That’s why the grace of God captivates me. The great love of Christ offers me a brand new, fresh, beautiful book to write in each day. Yet, when I gingerly turn to the first page, hoping not to “mess it up,” I find with great relief that He has already filled in the pages. His voice is eloquent. There’s no pretense in his words. He gets every detail just right. The imperfect becomes perfected in Him, as I find more of Him and less of me. And then I find, as I end each day, that though none may sing my praises for generations to come, Christ has accomplished a finished work in me that makes the Father rejoice.