You Can't Delete the Resurrection
Anyone who has ever written with a computer knows how scary it is. Where are your words? I know they're on that disk—but where? Back in the typewriter days, a writer could at least fondle his precious manuscript. Now he trusts the fondling to cold, heartless memory chips deep inside his word box.
About a month ago, I thought I had
lost nearly half of a book I was writing. Where were my words? I couldn't find
them. I put my thumb in my mouth. I stomped. I cried for my mommy. Nothing
worked. Because unless you have spent forty-five minutes debating whether to use
the word "babbling" or "gurgling" to describe a river, then
you cannot imagine the horror of losing the labor of twenty or thirty thousand
In my agony, I went downstairs and
complained to my wife. She was sympathetic, telling me we were having chili for
supper and—would I care for crackers?
In my dark hour, God gave me a
thought: Words. That's all I was caring about. My family was healthy, my home
was waterproof, my health was good—what were mere words compared
to those blessings? But even that was nothing.
What is the most important thing of
all? I asked myself. Wasn’t
it that God's Son assumed flesh and died on the cross to save the likes of me,
and that nothing could ever separate me from His love?
Now there was something that no man
or computer could erase. This comforted me. It comforted me a lot.
Then it hit me, five simple words: You
can't delete the resurrection.
"Delete" is one of the most
heart-thumping words a writer storing electronic words can hear. One zip, and
his words are poised on the edge of oblivion. One zap, and they're gone.
But not the resurrection.
"You can't delete the
resurrection!" I came stomping into the kitchen, slapping my knee,
slapping the counter, slapping everything. "You can't delete the
resurrection!" I ran up to my three year-old son and put a finger in
his startled face: "You can't delete the resurrection!" Then
the poor baby got a face full of my trembling digit: "You can't delete the
resurrection!" Then my wife Melody, who was trying to crumble crackers into
her chili, suddenly saw my fingernail inches from her eye: "You can't
delete the resurrection!"
It was good news to everybody,
whether they liked it or not.
An hour later, I'm not sure how, I
found my words. God put me through that just so I could think of that wonderful
saying to share: "You can't delete the resurrection!"
I wish He'd quit doing things like