I don’t get it.
What does grace even mean?
It means taking the blows and giving only gentleness in return. It means defying hate with love. It means unconditional. It means again. And again.
But I don’t get it.
Why is it that I must extend grace when I least feel I could or should? Why must I especially extend grace when it’s not extended to me?
Grace is a word that is painted as something soft and beautiful, gentle and glowing. It’s accompanied by sweet smiles and humble hearts and pink sunsets laced with gold.
But I know better.
Because, when it comes down to it, grace is hard and uncomfortable – often downright painful – and definitely not a delicate ornament that, well, graces my head. Grace is gritty and gungy and all too often covered in the mud that was thrown up by being spurned.
Nope – I don’t get it. Yet, somehow, someway, grace is still there.
Underneath the dirt and the rough and the anything-but-happiness of it all, grace is ready and waiting. Despite my best efforts to wallow in self-pity and hurt and hate, grace glimmers in the wings, patiently, calmly, loyally.
Really, it’s an oxymoron.
Grace is at its most beautiful when its surroundings are at their worst. It is strongest when I hold it up from my lowest place of brokenness. It is brightest when all around is only the deepest darkness.
And I don’t get it. Yet, somehow, someway, grace is still there.
Grace is undeserved and unconditional – and inexplicably real.
I know grace is real because, sometimes, grace is the only way I can see any beauty in my world. Most of the time, it is the only thing that holds me up when I’ve been beaten beyond brokenness. Time and again, it is the only shaft of light in my deepest darkness.
I know grace is real because somehow, someway, anyway, grace is extended