Fingerprints

I found myself this evening wiping fingerprints off of doors.  You know...the grubby remanents of working hands coming and going, grabbing the door handle and leaving their mark.  

Can't people touch less of the door when they come and go?

Couldn't they at least limit the grunge to the handle itself.  Same with light switches.  I feel like they are in a constant state of fingerprinted ick.

But then, I remembered that my 21 year old son is away for the next seven weeks...and at his age, one never knows when he'll stop calling this place home.

And my husband has been out of town all week. No gardening, no shared meals.

And my middle child is working at camp all summer. The youngest is home, but she's working two jobs.  

So there will be fewer fingerprints all around. 

This really isn't a weepy reflection about fleeting childhood or even time with loved ones.

Why are fingerprints so offensive?

For that matter, why are scars something we seek to remove?

Stains?

Practically speaking, clean is good.  Of course.  But really, don't lingering marks change things?

Don't those fingerprints remind us of someone, something. I can tell you the source of every scar on my body.  And let's talk about stretch marks. 

Lately, I've been challenging myself to extend more grace to those I encounter.  I am a product of amazing, irresistable grace.  And it has made me new.  It makes me new every day.  Those scars, those life experiences that have left flaws and dents and pock marks are all shaping a new creation. 

And so I am feeling a little nudged.  Instead of wiping away the fingerprints of conflict, can I accept them as part of a new picture? A new way of being and seeing the other?

God of unbounded grace and inventive, stunning, innovative creativity, help me to revere the lingering fingerprints of life, the scars, the stretch marks...on myself and others.  They mark experience.  They mark good things and bad things.  And you are reflected in what continues from them.