Crazy Grace

I once imagined this continuum. On one extreme was “TRUTH”. This was a capital T truth. The kind of truth that stood throughout the ages as beacon of light, the kind of light that reminded you of the light shown by the state trooper as he pulls over your minivan late at night, a light that you could not look at and could not see through. This was the kind of harsh truth.  The opposite side of the continuum was grace. Grace was written in all small letters with no bold accents, just grace in its overwhelming simplicity and quietness. The true measure of love I thought was found right smack dab in the middle of the grace/truth continuum.

Then, I saw the butterfly.  There is very little as sad as a butterfly lying dead on the sidewalk with its beautiful wings perfectly still.  Like a moment of beauty frozen for all to see and examine, except it is dead. It is dead and in a few minutes the ants will come and swarm all over its tiny body taking pieces of it home to feed the others.  In just a few minutes the beauty will be destroyed. In just a few minutes, neither grace nor truth will matter much.

The TRUTH is that the butterfly was an insect. It had lived and having served its purpose it had died. The pieces of it would be reused to fuel new creatures whose bodies would be reused to fuel other new creatures.  The grace was that for a moment an enormous piece of beauty had drifted through the world bringing happiness to those who saw it, providing metaphors to those who sought them, and reminding others that there is a hope. Now this particular metaphor has left but many, many others exist to take its place.

And all of that is well and good. Truth and grace exist along a continuum and we get to choose in any given moment which side of the spectrum we will favor.

Except grace isn’t the opposite of truth. Grace is the truth. Grace is love in action. Even though I try and try to do the right thing, my attempts are as dirty as the dead butterfly. There are days when I just want to give up and quit being me because I am quite sure there isn’t enough grace along any continuum to make dealing with myself palatable. But then, I am reminded of the TRUTH. The truth is that I am beloved of God. The truth is that even in all my pitiful attempts to do and be and act like what I think it will take to be loved, I am already abundantly loved.

See, like that butterfly that died on the sidewalk, I am valuable to God. I am just as valuable to God as that person over there who never loses their keys. I am just as valuable to God as that woman who sings so beautifully or that man who creates art that makes others hearts sing. But even more important than who I am is who we all are. We are all the beloved of God.

I don’t know what your issue is. I am painfully aware of my own issues. But I do know that you are adored by God. And, if you are adored by the being that created the entire universe, you must be pretty special. If you had even the smallest hint of an idea about how wonderful you are, can you imagine how beautifully you would impact the world? Can you imagine being so aware of how much you are loved and then spreading that kind of love, wrapped in truth and grace, to everyone you encounter?  Take a minute and bask in the knowledge that you are loved. Breathe in the freedom of that truth. Now, breath out all the times you’ve messed up. There, do you feel it? That incredible joy?

This is crazy grace. This is abundant love. That while we were still dirty, empty metaphors we were loved with a love that is beyond comprehension. And, love is both grace and truth.

The love we have available to share and to impact the world is limitless. We are sons and daughters of the Most High God. The scriptures say that just like we wouldn’t give our children a snake when they ask for an egg, our God will not give bad things to us.  Remember you are beloved and those who are beloved are empowered to love.  Take joy in resting in God’s crazy grace.

The Songs

I turn the music on and the familiar but long missing notes float on the air. I remember the pain of that melody. This is the first time in many years that I've been brave enough to listen.  I listen to the songs and at first I feel nothing. Then, the days, months, years begin to fold in on one another like accordion pleats on beautiful paper. The years fold in on each other and I’m driven to my knees fighting regrets.

He was a good boy/man. I can see his eyes holding mine and I can see the hardness of my heart hiding the tender pit buried deep inside. I can see his heart breaking as my thoughts swirled madly within me trying desperately to find a solid ground. The solid ground was gone though. The solid ground had left when I fled. I had run so far and so long. All that was left there to stand on was the whirlwind.

The other was kind too but I wasn't looking for kind. I was looking for powerful. I was looking for someone powerful enough to calm the whirlwind and how could that young man even begin to understand what he was up against.

The songs play and the accordion folds open and close. Little glimpses of pain and anger and hope and dancing. The night I danced in defiance of all their eyes. The day I saw the end and the beginning wrapped up in one poor girl’s eyes.

I discovered this trick of music when I came back.  I came back and the hymns I hadn't heard in years came back. First the music then the words with all their power filled my heart/mind. I recovered the memories of those days in moments. I didn't need a hymnal. I had memory. With the hymns came the verses. All those words long hidden in my heart/mind came back to the surface. Ten years of memory verses floating to the top after ten years of flight. 

So then the lyrics of long forgotten memories came bubbling up. Could I listen to the music? Could I hear it and stay in the place I am? Is it too dangerous to walk those streets again? But memory is not a monster. Memory is only memory. I chose to listen. I chose to listen and battle the demons and the pain. I remembered more than just hurt. I remembered freedom.

Freedom is more than just knowing you are safe. Freedom is holding the accordion folded years in your hand. Holding those years in your hands and feeling the pain and shame and laughter. That is all there is.  This life where we have walked is part of who we are. The music made us. The music connects us to that place in time but that place in time is not now. That place in time is just the past. Each memory a building block that led to now and now is a beautiful place. Now is the place where even the songs that sang of failure ring with the truth that the failure led us here.

The whirlwind rages still but does not touch me. The whirlwind wraps around me and I cling to the everlasting arms, safe in the moment.  I unfold the accordion pleated years. I sing all the songs. I smile and the man I love smiles with me. Living in this moment is harder than living in any other moment but it is all well. The pain and regret of the past is only in the past. The laughter and joy of the past is only in the past. Time comes and goes folded and wrapped up in itself. The whirlwind blows. Life continues. And we sing the songs.

Wisdom Came to Visit

Wisdom came to visit today. She sat down at my table like an old friend, eyes dancing in merriment. I watched her laugh as she picked up her cup and remembered the first time I had seen her.

The first time I saw her from across the room and she seemed mysterious. Her smile reserved. Her form draped in rich colors. The light glinted off the deep brown crystal she wore at the end of a heavy gold chain. Wisdom was there and I was afraid to speak with her. I watched her from across the room. I saw how she spoke freely with others in the room. She spoke with them and their eyes danced with fire.

I began to look for her after that first encounter. The days stretched between us. I would catch glimpses of her in windows. She would laugh. I would hear little notes of happiness. How though would happiness come from such a creature as Wisdom?

Wisdom was angry and harsh. Wisdom required that one be disciplined. Wisdom was a hard master. Where did this laughter come from? Where did the fire I saw in the eyes of those she spoke to ignite?

I stayed and watched as she talked to others and laughed with them.  I saw Wisdom as she worked with people around me. I saw their eyes catch fire and their thoughts come quicker. I heard their words spark hope in others.

And then, Wisdom came to visit. We sat down at my table like old friends. She took her cup of coffee in her hands. Her fingers wrapped delicately against the brown ceramic. I saw that her hands are old but her nails are painted that perfect color, the color that speaks of safety and beauty and challenges.  Wisdom’s eyes speak love and compassion. They brim with tears at the suffering she sees. I thought there was anger and harshness in her eyes but in our quiet talk I heard none of that. There was only love in her voice. She spoke to peace to me. She spoke of comfort. She spoke and we laughed gently because even in the pain there was hope.

She whispered to me. She whispered that his purpose was not to die. His purpose was to glorify God-the same purpose we all have.  The gift of life that he gave was his gift, not his purpose.  Wisdom told me that God is good, all the time. That even when awful things happen, God is with us. She told me this and laughed, her eyes filled with tears.  We are all meant to give our gifts she said and her delicately manicured fingers wrapped tighter around the warm cup.

I breathed in the heat rising from my cup. I breathed in and watched as Wisdom stood quietly. She tilted her head and I was captivated by her beauty. Years fell away from her face and I saw her as a young woman.  I saw all the moments of exquisite delight fly across her face. I saw Wisdom in all her glory.

Wisdom is not harsh. Wisdom is not angry.  Wisdom ignites a love of discipline. Wisdom is found in laughter as often as she is found in tears. Wisdom dances through sorrow with slow measured steps. Then she turns and whirls through ecstasy.  Wisdom knows that time is fickle so she enjoys and endures as the moment requires.

Wisdom and I finished our coffee. We put the cups away. Wisdom looked back at me as she walked toward the door. I was struck again by her beauty. I remembered then her whispered words of hope and comfort. He did not come only to die. He came to live.