Grace, it flows like a River

This morning, all is calm. The two twins that I rock and sing to sleep are, for once, doing just that–sleeping! I love these sort of mornings–the frosty ones where the cold kisses your cheeks and leaves them rosy. So, I sit and drink my coffee while peering out the window as the sun rises over the tree-line. I’ve been questioning a lot lately. Have I made the right decisions? Should I have gone away? Should I have taken this job or that? Something is stirring in my heart. A deep well is being filled with something I can’t quite identify. I can only pray that whatever spills over will allow me to further figure out what direction to go. In the midst of this, I keep meditating on one word. Grace. Un-merited favor. 

 

Someone recently asked me what my definition of grace was–how I had seen God display tangible grace to me. In a moment, I am taken back to the cool, dusty side of a hill where I held a little girl. Small, fragile. She was my first–two years before–the first to open my eyes to the pain that little girls face. The first to make me realize how sinful and pain-ridden we are as humans. The first to make anger well up inside of me. Her view of herself was not what I saw–how did I make her see something new? Something God-inspired? Tears rolled off of her cheeks like rain on a window pane. “How do I know I am doing everything I can to please God? What if I don’t make it into heaven?” How did I provide an answer to a question I had always looked in the mirror and asked myself? I’m not good enough. I’m not worthy enough. I will never be enough. And yet, in my insufficiency, He is sufficient.

I told her a story–a story inspired by a thirteen year old named Sabrina. A story my mother had seen in a vision at a church service. A story I believe God wishes me to record…if I was only brave enough to do it. I told her about a castle and a King and a poor, tired girl with cut hands and a fearful heart. I told her about a prince and a pearl. I told her a fairy tale. When I finished and wiped a big alligator tear from her eye, she looked up and said, “I understand.” And I like to believe that she did.

Isn’t that what grace is, in a way? A “too good to be true,” story? The funny thing about me and grace…is that I so readily offer it to others, but so often reject the grace that is being given to me each day.

I do not at all understand the mystery of grace – only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us. Anne Lamott

 

 

 

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