Easter Ink
Pens seem to be scarce at my parents’ house, always getting stuck in those black holes called “junk drawers,” sometimes never to surface again.
In my job, black pens are very important. They are the only writing utensils we can use. For some reason, whatever I am required to use in one venue, whether a black pen, Times New Roman font, printing ink, etc., I find myself doing it all the time. Hence the reason I write almost everything in black ink now. Recently, I used the last of the ink in my favorite pen, and made it my mission to buy new ones. I bought a pack of 5 Z-grip Flight pens from Zebra and have been using them ever since. When my dad discovered them, he liked them too. On a whim, I gave him one, albeit a bit begrudgingly, hoping it wouldn’t disappear into the “black hole” like one of the five already had a hotel.
This morning, Easter Sunday, I was sitting beside my dad at church when I noticed the pen in had given him in his shirt pocket. I smiled and commented on it, glad he had remembered and the “black hole” hadn’t swallowed it. As small as that pen may be, it is a big deal to me, because it showed me my gift was not forgotten.
It reminds me of a huge gift, 2,000 years ago, which was given ungrudgingly.
The days leading up to Easter in my area were very stormy this year, then on Sunday, the sun came out. I fine this very fitting, because Jesus’ followers probably thought the gift giver had taken away the gift and forgotten how much He meant to them. Then on Sunday, that glorious resurrection Sunday, the Son came out of the tomb, and the gift was restored. The ink was the blood that He shed now evident in the scars on His hands and feet. He is the gift I now see when
I think of that pen. And no “black hole” can ever hold Him captive!