Fingerprints.  We find them on glass bottles, table tops, and window panes.  They’re frequently the focus of attention at crime scenes.  They make each of us unique—different from each other.

These ridges, lines, and grooves leave a trail.  They tell a story.  They point out where we’ve been, and how we’ve spent our time. 

There’s another kind of fingerprints.  The kind that can’t be seen in the dust or in smudges.  No piece of equipment showcased on CSI will discover them.

They’re the fingerprints we find on our hearts.  Left by people who have touched our lives. They also tell a story.  Stories about the people who left them, and how those fingerprints changed us.

I’m sure that each of us has fingerprints on our hearts that represent sad times.  Hard times.  Times when we felt like our energy and life was being squeezed out of that muscle by large, rough, uncaring hands.

And we have fingerprints left behind by caring hands that held our tired hearts and gently pumped oxygen and life back into them.

Today I am mindful of the fingerprints left on my heart by people who cared, loved, and made me a better person.  People whose lives I have recently celebrated in their deaths.  My uncle Harold Nornes, my friend Mabel Koppang, and my pastor and teacher Harold Brokke. 

These three people have left this earth, but their fingerprints can be found all over the world in the hearts and souls of the people they’ve touched.  Their lives continue.  Their legacy is forever.  I am grateful.

We make choices every day about how we treat each other.  We change hearts and lives through our words and behavior.  We leave imprints.  Fingerprints.

What stories do your fingerprints tell?  What legacy are you leaving?

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