At her house, she had a huge, ornate bible. One of those bibles with a rock hard cover and a flip over piece with a lock on it. A bible with a lock on it. Only man could design such a thing. It was one of those bibles that people put out as a showpiece. An inheritance for some adult child to leave on their own coffee table someday. Displayed for years in a formal parlor, where no one was allowed to sit.
My grandmother had such a bible. And if you opened up the rock hard cover (if you were lucky enough to know where the key was) you would have seen my uncle's name handwritten in blue ink at the top of the cover page. This meant that this ornate, unused, dusty book would be his someday and there his name stayed for years...until one day he made my grandmother angry.
Now, I don't know what he did, or why she was so angry. She just was. Angry. And because she was a person who would not forgive others, she took a black magic marker and crossed his name out of that bible and wrote another name. And there that name stayed until that person made her angry. And out came the marker. Again and again.
As far as I know, my name was never written in that book. It could have been, and I can assure you if it had been, there would have been a black mark through my name. Just like the others.
Why write this? Because the only Book I care about my name being written down in is His Book. The Lamb's Book of Life. And His Word tells me that I don't have to worry about my name being marked out with a black magic marker if I mess up or make someone angry. His Word says this...
The one who conquers will be clothed thus in white garments,
and I will never blot his name out of the book of life.
I will confess his name before my Father
and before his angels.
I have a responsibility to wake up and strengthen what remains, to remember what I have received and heard. To keep it and repent. To not soil my garments and walk with Him.
No black magic marker can erase my name. Ever.