The Scrapbook

If every life was a scrapbook,

Started the moment we're born,

Its purpose was clear and intent

Even before the writing's begun.

And if every scrapbook had an owner,

And that owner had dreams, to scribble, paste pictures and draw,

We'd best allow that to fruition,

If we'd just open up our pages and absorb the ink that writes.

And how wonderful this scrapbook would be,

When the pages are turned

To reveal a carefully crafted life,

That exhibits the splendid creativity of the One who wrote in it.

But what would this scrapbook be,

If its pages didn't want to be written on?

What would this scrapbook be,

If it didn't capture moments, memories, choices, miracles and pain?

It would be empty, and blank

Nothing more than scraps of paper bound together.

Which looks pretty and new, on the outside,

But is blank and meaningless, on the inside.

But I know a fresh scrapbook

Who's pages are only beginning to fill.

And as his stories evolve,

Will bring smiles to all around- his maker and all who love reading him.

And as every drop of ink forms on those pages,

And every smear of gum to hold bits together,

And every picture, movie stub and sweet wrapper that goes in,

This scrapbook will be put together so tenderly.

So I pray, and hope and waiting to see,

What this little scrapbook will be.

Even as I continue to figure out what will be written in mine,

I wonder if we'd share a couple same pages, as I have with another as well.

Thanks for this poem, bro!