It truly is
amazing how
constantly God's
fingerprints, in
each life, are
palpably
observable. Those
fingerprints that
confirm day in,
day out, His
incomparable love
for us. Those
fingerprints that
anchor us to the
reality of His
love. Those
fingerprints
painting meaning
into every breath
of life. Take this
morning's sink
episode for
example.
This past Sunday
my mother brought
the flowers for
decorating the
church sanctuary
for the morning
service. She'd
been planning for
days just what she
would do, and had
come earlier in
the week with a
specific objective
in mind. She was
looking for a vase
that would
highlight her
arrangement. Not
simply the
flowers, but the
vase’s contents
would be an
important part of
the overall effect
she yearned to
create. In the
end, along with a
"just in case"
vase, she selected
what she was
really after. A
clear water
pitcher. It would
prove the perfect
showcase for her
careful design.
My mother, for
several years,
been treasuring a
special water vase
additive, and this
particular Sunday
morning afforded
the perfect
opportunity to use
it. Once the
vessel was filled
with liquid, the
treasured additive
would be poured
in. It would
expand in the
vase, all around
the flower stems,
creating a
glorious
crystalline
pattern, making
something quite
elegant in its
simplicity
transform into
something
breathtakingly
unique in its
beauty.
Imagine, upon
pouring in the
treasured
additive, her
disappointment
when nothing
happened. No
crystals grew. No
dazzling fractured
glass appearance.
Nothing. Just
clear water
remained, the
additive having
dissipated into
nothingness. It
was a sweet
arrangement. But
every time my
mother looked at
it, she could see
what it wasn't,
rather than what
it was.
The week has drawn
to a close, the
flowers having now
crossed the line
of no return, and
I took it upon
myself this
morning to remove
them from the
vase, and
carefully discard
them. Plenty of
water remained,
nearly as much, I
imagine, as when
she first filled
it. Without a
second thought, I
dumped the
contents into the
sink preparing to
quickly snatch
those few leaves
that had fallen
into the water ...
before they were
sucked down the
drain.
Imagine my shock.
The water went
down the drain in
an instant. But
the sink? It was
full of cup after
cup after cup of
clear gelatinous
fragments. The
crystalline
elements had been
there ... all
along. They simply
were not visible,
even to searching
eyes.
The entire time I
was cleaning up
the unexpected
"leftover
treasures" from
the vase, the
wheels in my mind
kept spinning. The
fingerprints
becoming clearer
and clearer. The
arena in which
they fell? Fruit
... spiritual
fruit, of which
life is replete.
Like so much of
life, the
spiritual is a
two-sided coin.
Light and
darkness. Sin and
holiness. The
seeds of each
falling in our
Edenic clay.
Being made in the
image of God, the
capacity for us to
live a reflection
of His holiness,
refracting His
light in a fallen
world, is very
real. We are His
masterpiece,
carefully formed.
That image of
Himself,
meticulously
molded into our
clay by His own
hand, making us
His vessel. A
vessel to bear His
reflection
remains, forever
His divine call,
on every life.
Never in our own
strength, but
always through His
indwelling.
Here lies the
beauty of the
crystalline effect
my mother was
after. The beauty
of light,
reflecting off of
innumerable
facets,
projecting,
magnifying, the
glory of the light
itself.
But the coin has
another side.
Formed from Edenic
clay, man is
susceptible to
other seed.
Another spiritual
seed, hidden from
human eye,
disguised as clay
itself, multiples
and multiplies and
multiples, until
the light within
the clay is no
longer
distinguishable.
So why did the
vase of my
mother's labors,
filled nearly to
the brim with
gelatinous
fragments, not
produce the light
reflective
qualities she
yearned for?
Maybe the answer
is not as elusive
as we wish it
were. Maybe it
goes back to a
fundamental truth
that God has
alerted us to over
and over and over.
We discover it
most clearly in
the Old Testament
concept of
dwelling with the
Canaanites ... of
becoming one with
the very elements
driving piercing
nails into
battered flesh
until a scarlet
river flowed down
a splintered tree.
Maybe it is seen
most easily in
that vase, a vase
my mother's
careful hands
filled with clear
liquid. A liquid
the same in color
as the reflective
surfaces ... and
thus, the
treasured additive
lost the
reflective quality
built so
intentionally into
its design.
In a colored
liquid, the
crystalline
properties would
have refracted
that light into an
exquisite
magnifying and
glorifying beauty.
Therein lies the
answer.
For me. For this
clay, made in the
image of God,
created to reflect
His light. For
this clay molded
by Divine fingers
to glorify and
magnify Light
Himself.
But, to do so, I
can't dwell with
the Canaanites. I
must keep myself
free from being
colored by the
Canaanite pen ...
free from
absorbing their
essence until it
becomes mine.
Failing to do so,
I become invisible
among them.
Invisible, even to
the seeking eye.
Incapable of
reflecting the
light.
God's
fingerprints, this
morning, were all
over that vase. As
they are all over
me, a fragile
vessel of clay so
lovingly molded by
light. A vase into
which He has added
the priceless
treasure of
Himself.
Transforming
something simple,
something
ordinary, into
something
exquisite … that
the facets of my
life may reflect
the dazzling
brilliance of His
glory.
by DeAnna Brooks
©
9/24/2006/Christian
Living
http://www.inthebeginning.god.blogger.com
Article Source:
http://www.faithwriters.com/
