I walk into the room, and there are no paintings on the walls…not even paint on the walls. It is completely white. Completely clean. I see a desk, like the ones we used to occupy in younger days at school. On it are some materials: a piece of chalk and a clean slate.
At first, I look around to see if this is some sort of trick. Why am I given this opportunity to step into a new room and create something from scratch? Does the One who brought me here not remember what I did the last time? Does He not remember the mess I made on the walls and the way I broke the slate out of frustration?
As soon as these thoughts pass through my mind, they disappear. I try to hold onto them, mulling over my past blunders, yet I cannot seem to maintain a grasp while I am in this room. There is something so special about it—and while I would love to figure out what it is that is giving me this feeling of freedom here, I feel this urgency to sit down at the desk and pick up the chalk.
This desk, that seems built for a third grade version of myself, somehow holds me perfectly. So I sit with excitement—unable to wrap my mind around why exactly I am so excited—and I pick up the chalk. I don’t understand…there is normally a sense of fear when I am presented with an opportunity to make something new. It’s gone. I look around to somehow locate the fear that has always accompanied me in such situations. Hmm, maybe it really isn’t here this time.
I take in a deep breath and pick up the clean slate. Holding slate and chalk in hands I hear a Voice in my heart:
“Write. It is a day of new beginnings. The old has gone, and the new has come. It is up to you. I will not paint these walls with all of your past failures. I will not hang artwork of all of your sin and weakness, decorating your tomorrows with your yesterdays. That is what you have done in the past, dear one, but I plead with you to start over…again. Write and re-write. I cannot wait to build this room with you, because I know that together we can make something beautiful.”
With a profound sense of joy and hope I look at the chalk in my hand. Looking up in reply, holding up my writing utensil, I whisper with a smile:
“Here. I trust the true Author. Will You do the re-write?”
2 Corinthians 5:17