I could hear it from the back of my 2002 Chrysler van, grandkids seizing a moment, celebrating a right of passage. The discussion centered around the ability not only to read, but most importantly, to read “chapter books.” Stories within stories. Passages that are a part of an overarching story line. A chapter, distinct in time, but submissive to the whole. Pieces of a puzzle.
Twists. Turns. Highs. Lows.
Chapters.
Never an island. A chapter.
Sometimes it’s scripted Classical, and sometimes improvisational Jazz.
Some chapters are a page or two, others are decades long.
Sometimes the chapters are tear stained, sometimes laughter inducing.
King Solomon, in his wisdom put it this way…
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
Every matter. Every word sown into the story of life.
Chapters we wish to forget. Chapters in which we long to linger. But only and always, chapters.
Fractional, but important. Significant, but a sampling.
Random? Hardly.
Hovering over every chapter, pen in hand, paper as a blank canvas, God. The author. The creator.
Never a story in isolation. Always heading a direction. THE Direction. Sometimes clearly. Sometimes mysteriously. But the story belongs to the author. It is His to weave together. One chapter at a time.
Try as I may to pull the pen from His hand. Try as I may to end the chapter to my liking. Try as I may to write my own ending… the pen remains. In His hand.
His hand.
All powerful. All knowing. Never changing. Always present. Just. Righteous. Holy. And yes, the essence and definition of love.
His hand.
Chapter books.
Life.
Tragedy. Comedy. Drama. Suspense. Mystery.
The pen. In His hand.
Each chapter, a part of a mega-story. A magnificent story.
Creation. Rebellion. Rescue. Glory.
An arc. From start to finish.
Villains. Victims. Victors.
A blood-stained hero.
A right of passage. Chapter books. Life.
The author and perfecter of our faith.
My chapters. His pen. His story. For His glory.
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