She’s in tears when she picks me up, her lateness, to her, the latest in the string that proclaims her a failure. To me, she’s God’s love with skin on, and the extra ten minutes just makes the gift all the greater on this day when I’m moving slowly.
But I know tears well, and the feeling that surely by now I should be able to get it all together.
Daily I click past the posts of people who seem to have it all together but cry healing tears over those where grace shines through the cracks. Why do I still fight to let others see my own cracks?
The LORD is my portion and it’s his own blessed brokenness that we eat at the table. If I no longer live but he lives in me should I be surprised when it’s my broken places that are taken and blessed and broken still further and given to feed those hungry for grace?
Maybe true healing is less about getting past our need of grace than about getting past our surprise that we still need it.
Every day I'm hungry for grace. Grace to forgive and grace to heal and grace to feed my own hunger and the hunger of those around me. And just when I wonder whether it's okay to ask for one more helping of grace, the words arrive and I find grace not just pursuing me but running ahead to set the table in the presence of my enemies.
“Grace always asks if you want more. I laugh . . . and say sure, and all you have to do is say yes, and I stick my plate out for another helping.” (Ann Voskamp)
The black-capped chickadees eat the seeds right out of the sunflowers, grace laid before them on golden plates. The grasses all bow in gratefulness, and the petals hungrily cup each drop of grace offered.