I suppose that title caught your eye - huh? For some who've read the devotional, you'll probably be a little tired of this thought. But for me, it's become somewhat profound. Let me fill you in.
I received an email from a wonderful friend. It was a "getting to know you better" kind of thing consisting of some regular questions like "what is your favorite color, food?" etc. And there were a few silly ones such as "What color pants do you have on?" However the question that tickled me was a question pertaining to a crayon. "If you were a CRAYON in a box, what color would you be?"
I have to admit. That one brought a smile to my face. First of all, who really cares and secondly, what kind of question is that anyway?
I returned the joke and said, "A broken purple crayon" primarily because I love purple and well, most people who know me, know I somewhat cracked...so a broken crayon seemed perfect to answer the question.
This sweet friend returned the puns in reply email but along the way there was a remark which has profoundly struck me. Her reply was this, "I guess today I'm a broken black crayon." First of all, it stunned the socks off of me. That goofy crayon question just became abundantly clear to me. There are thousands of personalities all lingering within certain colors. Some are red with anger, others blue with depression, some yellow with sunny dispositions, others PURPLE with happiness. Black and saddness just never crossed my mind.
I actually went to the store and bought a box of Crayola Crayons and set them by my computer just to remind me of the colors of thought. I popped open the box lid and fingered through the colors, pulled one or two out and eyed them, then replaced them. Though I am certainly no psycharist or therapist, I am certainly smart enough to see a collation.
Again I pulled out the crayons one by one and a sigh slipped from my mouth. Where do I find my rest? I've certainly felt all these colors at one time or another but where is my rest?
We have a prodigal son who has seperated himself from us for just over a year. My prayers have been that God would soften his heart and protect him, show him that regardless of the mistakes, he is still our son and we love him. Tough love has to be executed at times and those sending out the punishment receive equally the blow of the pain. This was a broken black crayon time for me.
Still I prayed and continue to seek rest in the purple of God. Then on Christmas day, the prodigal son returned home. What a joyous Christmas present. And though I am not tolerant of his actions of the past, I do love him dearly and I have missed him greatly. My heart has ached for his return. And truly when the door opened and he strolled through, my heart lept with joy. I sprang to my feet and ran to him, embracing him tightly, brushing my finger across the now grown up cheeks of the little boy I helped raise. For an instant, all that mattered was the yellow of joy and the purple of happiness. God, ONCE AGAIN, offered me rest. All in a box of crayons. Wow. Perhaps this little question has only profoundly effected me, still there is new meaning in a box of Crayola Crayons.
So for those who suffer with the brown of despire, the blacks of saddness and the blues of loneliness, there is great news. The crayon box is full of brighter colors. God made all the colors for a reason.
There is rest in a Crayon box. Choose a new color.
