The sound of a great name dies like an echo; the splendor of fame fades into nothing; but the grace of a fine spirit pervades the places through which it has passed, like the haunting loveliness of mignonette. James Thurber in Collecting Himself: James Thurber on Writing and Writers, Humor and Himself

    “Okay, just relax your fingers and let me do the work.”

    These were the instructions I received as my fingers were squeezed, smashed onto an ink pad, then rolled over a thick sheet of paper labeled for each of my ten digits. Right thumb, right index, right middle, and so on.

    Yes, I was at the local police department being fingerprinted. No, I hadn’t committed any crime, and I wasn’t under arrest. My husband, Mike, and I were attempting to adopt a child, and an investigation into our background was one of the requirements of the home study. Our fingerprints would be recorded and sent to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, where, through some technical wizardry, the authorities would check to see if our prints were linked to any crimes. So there we were — trying to look respectable and hoping that no one we knew would see us and think we needed to make bail.

    After several weeks, what we already knew was confirmed: Our records were clean. (And by about that time the ink had worn off our hands, so they were finally clean too!) But I also knew that from that point on, my fingerprints were on record with the FBI. A permanent record!

    Remember your grade school days? The teacher leaves the room on a quick errand and leaves Alicia (the cute blonde with springy curls) in charge, telling her, “Make sure no one gets out of his or her seat or makes so much as a peep!” Of course the door is barely shut when Steve (also cute but very mischievous) starts shooting bits of eraser at everyone.

    Alicia stands up, gives a slit-eyed glare at Steve, and announces, “If you don’t stop that, I’ll tell the teacher.” She pauses for effect, then adds, “And it will go on your permanent record!” A gasp is heard throughout the room as everyone turns to see what Steve will do. And because he lives in fear of damage to his permanent record, he gathers the remaining eraser bits in his hand and stows them in his desk. Ah, the power of the permanent record.

    Of course, in grade school we never really knew what this “permanent record” was, who made entries into it, or who got to read it. We didn’t realize it was simply a file folder in the school office that held our past report cards and notes from teachers regarding our progress (or lack thereof). For most of us, that record is long forgotten, most likely having made its way to a paper shredder or a landfill years ago. Not so permanent after all!

A woman’s touch makes a lasting impression.

    But we do have another kind of record — and this one is permanent. It’s made up of all the fingerprints we’ve left, through our words and actions, on the lives of others. It also includes all of the fingerprints others have left on us.

    For example, each time I speak to my son, Tony, the impact of my words is recorded on his heart — on his permanent record — and they become a part of my permanent record too. What kind of record will I leave? Will my words he kind, leaving an imprint of love on his heart, or will they be harsh, leaving a permanent red mark of anger?

    A woman’s touch makes a lasting impression. My own heart bears the imprints of women I have known throughout my life. Their kind words and deeds have become a positive addition to my permanent record. I can trace much of who I am today back to their fingerprints. Over the course of this book, you will hear about many of them.

    What about you? What’s in your permanent record? As you look over the pages of your “file,” do you see a record of people you have touched? Do you recall those who have permanently touched you?

    The fingerprints we leave behind on the hearts of others tell who we are, where we have been, and what we have done. They reveal much about our character, our priorities, and even Our relationship with God.

    In 2 Corinthians 3:3, Paul told the Corinthians that they were a message from Christ, written by the Spirit of God. That message, of course, was one of God’s love, acceptance, and forgiveness, written on their hearts for all to read. As we consider our touch upon the lives of others, we need to ask ourselves: What message are we writing? God’s message is love. Ours should be too. Let’s write it in permanent ink on everyone we touch!

Lord, you have touched my heart with your love and permanently changed me. Help me to touch others with your love so their lives will be changed as well.

You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts. (2 Corinthians 3:3)

© From her book, "A Woman's Touch: The Fingerprints Left Behind" © 2001, Howard Publishing Company. Used by permission. This article cannot be reprinted in another publication without written permission of the publisher. Click here to buy this title online!

Title: "A Permanent Record"
Author: Amy Nappa
Publication Date: February 13, 2002

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