Power of the Highlighter Pen

My husband and I were somewhere between Texas and Florida, eager to see our girls at home after almost a week away.  Unable to cover the whole stretch in a day, Ross had picked a stopping point and booked one of those super-economy, just-a-bed motels that we could reach by 10pm.

Granted, anything would have been a step down from our previous accommodations. Old friends had moved into a luxurious home and treated us to their plush, private, second-floor guest room. The fancy coffee machine downstairs crafted lattes at the push of a button. And the jacuzzi was available after our evening meetings. The whole stay had been rich with conversation, food, tours, and down time.

This Louisiana motel, on the other hand, didn’t shout rich by any stretch of the imagination.

Cinderblock walls. Harvest-gold polyester blankets. And a roach in the bathroom for starters.

I have slept in inner-city Sunday school rooms, overnight foreign trains, friends’ couches. I have spent nights in hospital waiting rooms, airport terminals, and a campsite or two. I don’t think of myself as a spoiled princess.

But this room wasn’t lovely.

It was the boot prints on the folded edge of the sheet that got me.

I asked if we could have another set of sheets to change them ourselves. The front desk said she’d work on it. When I thought I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, she knocked on our door with two sets of haphazardly folded, gray-cast linens. Probably stripped from another room. I accepted them both so I could use the cleanest of each set. Or the ones with the fewest cigarette holes, as was the case.

We still decided not to change out of our traveling clothes and opted to touch as little as possible in the room.

I had already made my quiet, standard announcement to any unseen critters in the spiritual realm that tonight this room belonged to servants of the King, and thus they would have to vacate immediately. I felt sorry for this piece of land that felt so depressed and unclean on multiple levels. It didn’t change the sanitary level of the room, but I’d rather sleep with dirt than demons, right?

Regardless of my spiritual warfare tactics, the morale in the room remained palpably low. My normally easy-going husband was beating himself up for a poor lodging pick.

I could think of some things it would be a good idea NOT to say right now.

But for this tide to turn, I was going to have to do more than just keep my mouth shut. I was going to have to come up with some better words, as we lay there in our jeans in the dark.

“Well, we’re not spending the night in an emergency room,” I offered.

“Good point,” he conceded.

“…Or a jail cell,” I continued.

“…Or a concentration camp.” He had picked up the flow and finished the sentence, while the atmosphere of a dingy motel suddenly felt a lot better. We had each other, a locked door, and a place to lay our heads. Not too bad in the grander scheme of things.

I still remember the night I had to give myself a similar talking to. This grumpy mama was not in the mood to clean up the kitchen. I was exhausted. It was a mess. I don’t love to clean up on a good day.

And then I started making a mental list of the significance of what I was looking at. First of all, this mess means that I had food to eat tonight, and so did my family. More specifically, I had a family to eat with. And whatever I fed them must have had some nutritional value, because pizza boxes and burger wrappers do not leave this many dirty pots and pans in their wake.

Irritations like dishes and motel rooms are part of the nitty-gritty of life. And so are the “heavies” that aren’t so minor. Life has a somber edge that is harsher than I wish for.

I’m a dreamer and an idealist, to a fault some would say. That bent can keep me painfully aware that this life is not all it could be. We can all too easily default to pointing out what is broken and lacking and disappointing around us.

Sometimes I need to put away my red proofreading pen and stop circling all the things that are wrong around me.

I don’t have to deny their reality. That would be to fall in the ditch on the other side of the road.

Sometimes I just need to pull out my yellow highlighter pen and start by underlining some of the things that are right. And good. And beautiful. And consistent with the God who Himself is all of that and more.

The sunrise this morning was beautiful. Again today. I got to talk to a friend on the phone. My car started without any hiccups when it was time to go to work. I found an old journal entry of a prayer conversation I had with Jesus—I think He really loves me. Supper was healthy. Tomorrow has opportunities. And I’m going to sleep in my bed tonight.

A member of our extended family graduated to heaven recently. He was known for many lines, but this was my favorite. When he would savor something good, he often remarked, “Wow, all this and heaven too.” That’s a spirit that highlights the good with awe and gratitude in a way that changes us and the atmosphere around us.

The world is still a mess. My heart still breaks. There’s an appropriate time to circle those things with my red pen. But I hope that my highlighter is the one that runs out of ink from overuse first.