Sunday, February 2, 2014

Grace lives here

I once wrote about a time when I was little and I saw an old man at the grocery store take a piece of candy from the Brach's candy display. I was very young, and I thought since he took a piece, perhaps they were free samples. So I took one too. I put it in my pocket. When my dad and I got home from the store, I took the candy out to eat it. He knew he hadn't purchased it, so he took me back to the store to return it to the manager. My dad wanted to teach me a lesson. I stood fearfully in front of the store manager and cried as I offered him back the piece of candy. The manager heard me out--when my own father did not. My dad's lesson stuck with me.

I wondered later, as an adult and parent and as someone newly discovering grace, how my life might have been shaped if my father hadn't viewed me as a criminal, but had believed the best about me. How would my heart have been shaped about myself and others, if he had taken the time to ask me about the circumstances without immediately assuming the worst?

That memory may be a source of pride for him, because he believed he was teaching me a lesson about stealing. But that memory is a somber monument for me, as a missed opportunity for love, understanding and grace.

I deleted the post about it.

I'm bringing it back, however truncated and rushed, because I need to remember:

Grace lives here.

Thankful for the family I have, and for Shane's example of grace this weekend when I messed up a wall he had been repairing.   

Grace lives here.

I want to write this on my walls so that I always remember the need we have for grace. Or maybe I can just let my fingerprints in the laundry room spackle speak for me.

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