just chaff

A friend wrote to me and was struck by the impact our words could have in 100 years. It was an exciting and very real prospect for her because of the impact certain authors have had on her recently, 100 years after their books were written.

I was glad for her because writing and making an impact are very real and important things to her. I am not filled with that kind of optimism nor hope. I think my way on paper or in my blogs. I trust that most of what I've ever said is just chaff. In the end, it will be no more vital to the life of eternity than shavings or dust. My journalism is as lasting as lint. If you find some in your belly button, it's not a profound moment.

I think I imagine realistically that a few things I've said or written will be remembered by my few family members and closest friends. Snippets of conversations, lovelies spoken with just a look, probably something humorous. I won't know I'm being remembered. I won't be able to care. I will be at that forever-party with the One who ever remembers me as He looks on my engraved image in the palm of His hand.

I don't care if I'm remembered for my words. They're just tools for me to work out this salvation with fear and trembling, and to enjoy this life. But you go, my friend, and you work out yours. I love your words, and I will remember and treasure many of them. He will use all of it, all of this, all of what's to come, for the sake of that

One

True

Word.