Let me set the scene for you.

It’s the late ’90s. Now, if you’re having trouble remembering the what the late ’90s were like, here’s a list of cultural touchstones that should jog your memory—or else remind you of things you wish you could forget:

Beanie Babies. The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Inflatable furniture. The Bedazzler. The terrifying nightmare known as “Furbies.” Cell phones with both the size and structural integrity of a literal brick. Pokémon—Red and Blue versions. Fisheye lenses in every music video. The return of bell-bottoms. Cereal with prizes—good prizes, like decoder rings and CD-ROMS. Pagers. Power Rangers. Oh, and a little thing called dial-up Internet, which was a thing you had to actually sign into when you wanted to use it, and if everything worked the way it was supposed to, what you’d hear is:

KKKKHHHHHHHHHHHH

EYOH EYOH

RRRRRRRRRRRR

“Welcome. You’ve got mail.”

It was an interesting decade, is what I’m saying.

But back to the story.

It’s the late ’90s. On the floor of Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Grantham’s classroom are roughly 20 second-graders sitting cross-legged and arranged in a somewhat nebulous and half-hearted attempt at a semi-circle. Mrs. Grantham is sitting in a rocking chair and reading aloud.

It’s story time at Hyman Fine Elementary school—and tragedy is about to strike.

Toward the back of the semi-circle sits a young Jeremy Lallier and his best friend in the whole world, Christopher Brown. They are poking each other in the side of the head—specifically, as close as they can get to the other’s eyeball without actually touching said eyeball.

You are going to ask, “Why are they doing this?”

I cannot answer that question, except to say, “Because they are 8-year-old boys,” and if that doesn’t clear things up, then you have never been and never met and 8-year-old boy.

Jeremy and Chris think they are safe on the outskirts of the semi-circle. They think their poking war is somehow hidden from the watchful eye of Mrs. Grantham.

They are very, very wrong.

* * *

This is a memory that resurfaces in my mind every so often, mostly because of what happened next. Mrs. Grantham spotted us—of course she spotted us; we were two clueless 8-year-olds who thought no one would notice us goofing off while the rest of the class was quiet and attentive.

Mrs. Grantham told us to go sit at our desks with our heads down, and we did, and that is when I broke.

It’s funny—as a kid, you’re building this mental construct of how the world works, and there is so much nonsense that works its way into that model—except you don’t know it’s nonsense, because you heard it from Billy Thompson, and he’s a third grader, and it must be true, because third graders know everything.

(Or, in my case, you’re watching an episode of Arthur, and one of the characters is afraid of something ending up on his permanent record, and instead of realizing their fears were being exaggerated for comedic effect, my brain said, “Oh, okay, permanent records. I guess that’s a thing.”)

And so, sitting there at my desk with my arms crossed and my head down, I knew, I just knew, this was all going to end up on my permanent record. My life was over. I wasn’t going to be able to get into a good college, I was going to have trouble finding a good job—I had a black mark on my permanent record, and it was going to follow me forever.

I, uh, may have been a little melodramatic as a child.

* * *

It makes for a funny story now, but back then, in the middle of my mental tail-spin, I was genuinely scared. I felt like this one bad decision was going to dog me for the rest of my life—like I had been branded by it and there was no escaping it, not ever.

Which is ridiculous. I mean, I know that now. The Great Poking Incident of ’98 did not, in fact, cut me off from the world of higher education, and it’s only come up in job interviews maybe once or twice.

I’m kidding. No one knows about it. No one cares about it. But I still remember how I felt when it was happening—that terrible, sinking feeling of knowing, just knowing that my life was ruined and stained forever.

Which is, as I said, ridiculous.

Well . . . mostly ridiculous. Because the truth is, there is a permanent record out there. It’s not your GPA, it’s not your credit score, it’s not your census data—it’s not even the unsettling amount of information Google and Amazon have about you. None of these records are the full and complete picture of your life. Your real permanent record is in heaven, and it is comprehensive.

David wrote to God, “You number my wanderings; put my tears into Your bottle; are they not in Your book?” (Psalm 56:8). Jesus told the disciples, “Are not five sparrows sold for two copper coins? And not one of them is forgotten before God. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered” (Luke 12:6-7). Even the book of Chronicles reminds us that “the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth” (2 Chronicles 16:9).

There’s no action God doesn’t see. There’s no thought God doesn’t hear. He knows you, fully and completely. If you lie, He knows it. If you steal, He knows it. If you’re sitting in the back of the classroom poking your best friend in the head when you should be paying attention to the teacher, He knows that too.

When it comes to God’s record of us, it’s really easy to be the kid sitting at the desk—head down, arms folded, thinking to ourselves, “This is it. I’ve blown it. I pushed the envelope too far, and now this is on my permanent record, and I will never, ever, ever get out from under it. I’m ruined and there is no way for me to recover from this.”

But how does God view your permanent record?

In the light of this holy day season—the symbols of Passover, the deleavening of our homes, the focus on the cleansing sacrifice of Jesus Christ and our own individual commitments to keeping sin out of our lives—being able to answer that question is so, so important.

* * *

God knows everything you’ve ever done, which of course means He knows every sin you’ve ever committed. But what happens when you repent of those sins? What happens when you come before God and ask for the blood of Christ to cover the penalty of those sins as you strive to change your behavior?

The physical consequences of the sin don’t necessarily go away, but it does change how God looks at the sin—and at you. Through Isaiah, God told Israel, “I have blotted out, like a thick cloud, your transgressions, and like a cloud, your sins. Return to Me, for I have redeemed you” (Isaiah 44:22). The New Living Translation ends that verse with, “Oh, return to me, for I have paid the price to set you free.” God doesn’t ignore the sins you repent of; He doesn’t overlook them—He blots them out with the blood of Jesus Christ.

That’s why that blood was spilled. That’s what we’re reminded of when we drink from the cup every year.

And it’s not as if God says, “Okay, you’re forgiven, but I know what kind of person you are.” He doesn’t forgive us and then keep looking at us as the kid who pokes people’s heads when the teacher isn’t looking. David said God removes our sins from us “as far as the east is from the west” (Psalm 103:12). He tells us Himself, “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isaiah 1:18).

God’s forgiveness doesn’t just blot our sins; it changes how He looks at us. When He forgives us, we are justified, made clean in His sight. And that’s the way He sees us. That’s the way He treats us. Clean, like wool—with our past sins as far away from us as the east is from the west.

That’s hard for me to understand as a human being. I know what it means to forgive someone, but the idea of never letting someone’s past mistakes impact how I see them? Phew. That’s tough. I mean, it’s the goal, it’s what we try to do, but man, that’s hard! And yet it’s what God does for us every—single—time—we repent.

Every time. Multiple times in one day, sometimes. God is able to look at us and hand us a blank slate, every time. And because of that mercy, we’re able to grow and to change.

God doesn’t hold our history over our heads and say, “You’ll never be better than this, so don’t bother trying.” Instead, He tells us to “put off, concerning your former conduct, the old man which grows corrupt according to the deceitful lusts, and be renewed in the spirit of your mind,” and in its place “put on the new man which was created according to God, in true righteousness and holiness” (Ephesians 4:22-25).

That’s a daily process, not a one-time event. It’s what this holy day season helps us to focus on. Putting off the old man. Putting on the new. Putting off the old. Putting on the new. Messing up. Repenting. Getting back on track. Putting off the old . . . and again, and again, and again.

It’s a cycle we might get used to or start taking for granted the longer we’re on this Christian walk, which is why it’s so important to remember the sacrifice that makes that cycle even possible.

Yes, we may have a permanent record, but it’s a record that God is happy to update for us along the way. We’re never stuck; we’re never ruined—and we always, always have the opportunity to move forward.

(Even if we’re the kind of person who thinks it’s a good idea to poke their friends in the head during storytime.)