What does grace look like?
Like a cathedral? Tall. Proud. Built with the finest of materials. Decked with the stories of saints and priests and the King himself? Steady. Faithful. Beckoning those outside to enter. To rest. Marvel. Bask in the awesomeness of its vastness.
Like a ocean? Rolling in with such force it takes your breath away. Wave after wave singing a melody that only the quiet hear. Taking. Giving. Day after day. Never ceasing.
Like a gift? A simple wrapped item. Begging to have the shiny and glittery removed. To find the priceless treasure inside. A gift. Specifically chosen just for you.
What does grace look like? Like you? Like me? Like them? Like us?
Is grace merely a word we pay lip service to the day we confess our sins? When faced with those we hate? When it’s convenient?
Or…is grace a life-changing power that gives Abba’s children the strength to live higher than just mere humanity?
Grace changed my life.
I don’t mean as a wimpy cliché that has meaning only to those in the special club of Christianity.
GRACE changed WHO I AM.
Grace looks like this morning. When I realize reacting to my husband’s decision with the same disdain and distrust from 12 years ago was not showing the beauty of the one who never treats me like who I was 12 years ago. Grace looks an awful like yesterday. When I talk with a friend about where I grew up and disbelief that others stay and realize that we are both exactly where we need to be. Grace looks like the aunt who looks at her niece, struggling with her identity and her reality, who has been told that “people like me” hate “people like her” and her auntie looks her in the eyes and tells her no matter who she is, she’ll NEVER stop loving her…never turn away from her…never treat her differently. I pray a blessing over her…to be who she is, no matter what that looks like. Grace looks like this momma, releasing her child, despite her fears, to walk downtown under a bridge and give sandwiches to the homeless. The child who asks “Did you ever do this as a child mom?” and weeps bitterly as she struggles to explain why not. Grace says to that momma, “It’s ok.”
Grace looks like me. In the way I interact with my world, my family and my Abba.
Grace also looks like him. My brother. The one who took on the skin of my own humanity. The one not ashamed to get down in the dirt with someone like me. A woman. Cast from society. Bearing the shame of sin that can never seem to be cleaned no matter the number of cleansing ceremonies and sin offerings. The one who stood beside me in the darkest night, showing me how to nail my pain to his cross. The one who got off that cross and held me as I wept bitterly through my dark nights. The one who called me his beloved. The one who taught me that I could trust again in something pure and innocent. The one who asked me one day, “Have you met my father?” And changed my life. Some call him Jesus. Yeshua. Son of God. I call him my Jesus. My best friend. My brother. The one who takes my hand the moment I’m scared. He’s never left me from the moment I was born and he never will
Grace. When it arrives it blows into town, looking like a hurricane, leaving a path of destruction in its path. At first you stand in disbelief, until you see the things destroyed are the very things you wanted gone. Grace. It changes you from who you are not to who you are.
What does grace look like for you?
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