I sat at my dining room table in our comfy blue chairs. I sat at my desk tucked away in the loft. I sat outside in a beautiful breeze under our blue and green beach umbrella. I alternately stared at a blank computer screen and typed words that I couldn’t quite string together. So many thoughts swirling like a bunch of loose balloons in a windstorm.
And so this week, I chose rest over writing.
I’ve been thinking about how I am not enough for all that falls into the realm of my responsibility. I’ve been thinking about how Grace meets us in our not-enoughness and creates an abundance and a strength we can never muster up on our own. I am relearning the wisdom of rest and unearthing new levels of trust and surrender. I am discovering the weightlessness of freedom.
As I’ve been thinking, a Facebook post I wrote just over two years ago came to mind. I dug it up, and the words rang even more true now.
Even as I pause this week from creating something new, I can see the Grace in still being able to share something true.
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And this is Grace:
When, after a hard week, your 17-month-old toddler decides to use his favorite book as a shovel to fling fresh ashes, from the woodstove you’re currently cleaning, all over the living room when your back is turned for five seconds. And you lose it. You explode at everyone in site and slam doors and spew venom words.
And then, with your hands still smudged with ashes, you take off in the car and just drive away. You feed your anger with your hurt and your self-righteousness as the shore speeds by.
But you know.
This is not love.
And so you stop.
It’s hard. You could just keep going. Canada isn’t that far away. But you don’t have your passport and you pull over and park. And you surrender. Surrender the lies and the anger and perceived wrongs. You cry some desperate tears and pray some desperate prayers and then turn the car around and decide to face it.
You stop at your husband’s favorite restaurant to bring a peace offering of his favorite pie, and your friend is working. She sees your red-rimmed eyes and gives you the pie for free. Which makes you cry again.
And then you get home and shame roots you to the car seat. It follows you into the house. You brace yourself for the worst, prepare the rehearsed apologies.
As you open the door, you see your husband has cleaned up the house and is feeding your son and is cooking a savory-smelling brunch. He has a mug of fresh coffee waiting for you and asks no questions. He looks you in the eye with love, asks nothing of you and just serves you a plate full of deliciousness. Even though his friends are arriving and waiting for him. He sends them out to the sauna and just sits with you.
And you know that this is grace.
This is love. A taste of what God has for us if we would just surrender.
And so you ignore the voice that whispers you don’t deserve it. Because you don’t. But you can receive it and savor it and change from it. Because you know you don’t deserve it. And that’s what makes it grace. And it is redemptive.
So you wash the ashes off your hands and open them up to something more beautiful than you could ever fill them with.
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