Beauty or Ashes

"Harrison, the ashes from the fire we built last night haven't been emptied out yet," said Mom. "Can you take care of that? And don't forget to bundle up--it's cold out there!"Harrison put on his coat and boots and filled a bucket with ashes from the fireplace. He hurried out the door and trudged through the deep snow to the garden. Standing at the edge of the yard, he tossed the ashes from the bucket and then watched as the wind scattered the dark soot across the snow.Dad came and stood beside him. "Those ashes sure messed up the beautiful snow, didn't they?" Harrison nodded, and they quietly watched as the wind continued to scatter ashes across the yard.Harrison looked up at the sky. "It's starting to snow. The new snow will cover up those dirty ashes, and then the yard will be all white and clean again. Mom will like that--she likes it when a fresh layer of snow falls and covers up the dirt.""I know," said Dad. After a moment, he added, "Those ashes remind me of what sin does. It leaves dirty marks behind. The only way to clean them away is for Jesus to forgive our sin.""We had a lesson about that at church," said Harrison. "When we confess our sin, God forgives us and makes us clean. A verse we learned says He makes us whiter than snow.""Yes," said Dad. "Another verse tells us that when God forgives us, He doesn't remember our sin anymore--He doesn't ever think about it." Dad pointed to the ashes. "New snow covers up the dirty ashes, but we might still remember that they're under that fresh, clean layer of snow. And even after God forgives our sin, we often remember the blot it has made. We don't always forget it so easily.""So what should we do?" asked Harrison."We need to remember than unlike the ashes under the snow, our sin truly is gone," said Dad. "Jesus paid for our sins on the cross, and when He forgives us, He makes us completely clean." Harrison and his dad watched as the falling snow began to cover the ashes on the ground. Then they smiled at each other and made their way back toward the house. – Trula H. Bensinger