Crayola Christian

I hate crayons. I hate the six-Crayola starter pack and the thirty-two piece, rainbow-color box. And I especially despise and detest the sixty-four brilliant hue set with built in crayon sharpener.

When I was six-years old, all the potential of the universe lay before me. I was a coloring connoisseur. I had dozens of those slick-covered books; each one filled with coarse, beige pages. Each page empty except for black outlines and the weight of potential. Those two-dimensional lines only hinted at the elementary masterpiece to come. And always, the goal was perfection- a Rembrandt in wax.

Harmonious colors, smooth stokes, and, most importantly, no boundary infractions. No purple smears on yellow kittens. No ecru slats on buttercup flowers. It had to be perfect. Perfectly, perfect. Time after time, I accepted the challenge to bring those dull, flat pages to impeccable, Technicolor life. I would slowly, carefully outline each picture. Erecting a wax barrier to stay the errant hand. But the harder I tried to stay inside those lines, the worse the results. Never at the beginning or the middle. Always, when the picture was nearly complete. It happened. So close, AND THEN...SNAP. Powder blue skies intruding on pristine white clouds. A disaster of Titanic proportions. Perfection denied....

I never produced that elusive masterwork. The perfectly-perfect page. Time and time again, I failed. I was six years old with unfulfilled potential. I had met adversity and was defeated. I stopped trying. I gave up on crayons.

For years, I was a Crayola Christian. Striving to be perfectly kind, perfectly generous, perfectly loving. Perfectly Christian. But inevitably, SNAP.

I wasn't perfect; I wasn't close. I was, occasionally mean, usually tired and frequently short-tempered. Certainly, not perfect. Definitely, not Christ-like. I tried to stay within the boundaries. I tried and I failed. No matter how determined or careful, I couldn't do it. I couldn't. I stopped trying. I couldn't be perfect; so I gave up on perfect. I gave up on Christ.

I am no longer six; I am forty-six. And, I hadn't thought about those crayons for years. Not until the day, I re-committed my life to Jesus. I was tired and defeated- burden by all that potential. When Jesus said, "Give me your troubles and I will give you rest." I did. I gave Him all the years of unkindness, weariness, pain, and failure. Then the still small voice said, "Give me your broken crayons."

And, I did. The defeated six-year old gave up forty-six years of pressured and broken crayons. I gave Him the pieces and He gave me His peace. I wasn't a failure in His eyes. He didn't see the blue streaks in sun or the purple smudges on kittens. I was inside His lines. Forever.

I still try. Not to be perfect; I strive to let Him perfect me. I let patience grace and mercy have their perfect work. And, I still miss. But, everyday Christ hands me His Supernatural Crayons.

UN-SNAP-ABLE.