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  • Writer's pictureSharon


Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight,  O Lord, my rock and my Redeemer. Psalm 19:14

When I walked away from the old brick building that had been my work-home for nearly three decades, somehow I knew I would one day roam the halls again. A few weeks ago, I walked back into the building with my new job.

The old building, built in the 1930s as a warehouse, is undergoing a major renovation. On three out of the four floors, all interior walls have been knocked down leaving wide-open spaces. On our floor, employees have been isolated to one hallway, with workspaces tucked out of the way into once-vast computer rooms. As I walk the hallways, I am surrounded by memories and a sense that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Renovation has brought with it a lot of clutter, with left-behind things getting shoved into unused rooms. Curious, I ventured into one of my old now-disassembled office spaces looking specifically for one thing. When I found it, I giggled. I picked up the packet of estrogen supplements, which expired in 2011. I clearly remember the day I tossed the packet on my desk, and watched in dismay as it slid across my desk and disappeared through a small opening between the desk and wall. I was mortified; there was no way to reach it and one day, when the workspace was disassembled, someone would find it and know a mature woman had once occupied the space. I allowed myself to reminisce for a moment and tossed the packet in the trash.

While in the room, I snagged a couple of discarded notebooks for re-use. I flipped through the pages. Filled with copies of meeting notes and memos from the late 1980s, I recognized the handwriting of several coworkers. Then I saw my own name, in a neat penmanship, a tasking by a former supervisor. I was caught off guard by an odd feeling…these pages were evidence that I had indeed been there and was forever a part of a specific history.

As I gathered the notebooks, I took one last look before I turned out the light, I had a stop-in-my-tracks convicting thought. While the discarded supplements and my name scrawled on a page offered physical proof that I had been there, was there any evidence that I had made a difference in the lives of those with whom I shared a history? Had my words been kind and encouraging? Had my actions benefitted others and made their workload easier?

The thought has challenged me. I want to make a difference. I want to know that when this routine day becomes history, a snippet moment in time in the lives of those I encounter, that I will have made a difference in some small way. Even more, I want there to be compelling evidence that I serve and glorify the One True God.

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