Scribbles.

I remember seeing a story about an artist who took her child’s scribbles and turned them into beautiful pieces of art.

It’s kind of like the dark scribbles that now grace our dining room table, the green scribbles that decorate our dining room wall, the pink scribbles that add to the trim next to the front door, the multi-colored scribbles that take over the signature tablecloth.

What to some may look like mistakes, moments of disobedience or kids undisciplined, to me they are reminders that my grandchildren sat at our table and played in our home.

I have a friend who knows scribbles well.

Her life looks like scribbles right now. It’s very messy. It’s sometimes not very beautiful. It is a problem to some, an annoyance to others, a distraction to a few, an irritation that sparks bitterness in the hearts of some who have to look at the scribbles on a daily basis. Some of her scribbles were made by her, intentionally. Some of them were mistakes. But other scribbles in her life have been made by others, deep, scarring scribbles that she has to live with, to endure, to learn to appreciate for what they are and how they shape and define.

Yet, Jesus sees her scribbles. He sees them up close in the tears that flow on the inside, in the pain that comes out in anger, in the crazy chaos of not knowing and searching for answers and just wanting to belong.

He sees how those scribbles are not just scribbles. They are shaping her, they are teaching her.

He sees the scribbles from afar, looking at what they are going to actually become, what they will turn into.

She is going to see this one day. She will see that the scribbles of her life have made her strong and have given her a unique quality that others will want to emulate, will want to notice and gaze upon, others will appreciate. She is going to share her scribbled life stories with the world and have a piece of artwork uniquely hers.

I am grateful for scribbles and for the realization that they can turn out to actually be beautiful.