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Grace is My
Mom's Name
My
mom’s name is Grace. Growing up, in church, we always sat in the same
place: On the right side, on the end, three rows from the front, right
behind another Grace. I was surrounded by Grace! Grace was always near at
hand.
As we know, kids minds work weird
(mine especially so, and even now still) so every time we sang a hymn that
contained the word grace, I used to think we were singing about the two Graces
somehow. I mean, who wouldn’t?
Every time Amazing Grace came up,
which was fairly often, it tickled me and I’d chuckle. Then I’d get smacked. Not
too hard, just enough to remind me I was in church and that meant being quiet.
But still I chuckled while we sang. And so did mom and dad, though they tried to
hide it, because they knew why I was chuckling. I was cute then and cracked them
up with stuff like that.
A child’s theology is also a weird
thing. My idea of grace related more to the words, "Just wait until your father
gets home." The sound of this was not so sweet. But once those words of
unwelcome promise were uttered, a lot of negotiation, pleading, and downright
bribery went on—appealing to Grace—before dad got home.
Fresh picked wildflowers from the
woods across the street often had a great soothing effect and seemed to erase
mom’s memory. Not always. But usually. And when it worked, that to me, was real
grace!
When the flowers and child’s charm
didn’t work, the words, "This is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt
you," just seemed to add insult to the injury I was about to receive. The injury
was more in my mind than on my behind, but it’d still hurt. Discipline was
supposed to be a form of mercy, but it didn’t feel merciful. It kinda stung and
burned a bit, if you know what I mean.
It’s taken a few years to
understand that, in fact, the grace applied to my backside truly was merciful,
and truly was a grace of sorts. Part of that realization came the first time I
had to spank my son. That did hurt me worse than any spanking I’d ever received.
But my intent was to apply the grace of discipline that would yield obedience
and character in my son.
When God disciplines us, I believe
it also hurts Him worse than it hurts us. After all, His love for us is perfect
and infinite, and He desires us to be holy. He loves us more than our moms. So,
we have amazing grace. How sweet the sound! Because it does save a wretch like
me, and like you.
God’s grace is free, but not
wimpy. It wasn’t won cheaply, nor is it applied cheaply. To His children God
applies it aggressively and lavishly. Aggressive grace can sting, whether
applied in discipline or as cleansing.
Besides wildflowers, the woods
also had small streams that were more like small muddy rivers when it rained.
Okay, so can you guess what me and my little neighborhood buddies would do when
that happened? Yep. We played in the water… and the mud. I’d come home covered,
head to toe, in mud. What’d mom do? Simple. She’d hose me down. The water was
cold and the pressure stung. But, once again, that was grace.
Living in this world is like
slogging through the mud. Daily the dirt of life and the sins of our stubborn
flesh can cake us, head to heart, in spiritual mud. And when we come home to
Him, God hoses us down with the washing of His grace. After the hose, out comes
the scrub brush of holiness and the lye soap of Jesus’ blood. His love is
never-ending, His mercies are new every morning. Our spiritual skin may get
rubbed a bit raw in the process, but it always feels good to be clean.
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