A Brown Paper Bag

Something waits below the mundane of taking the kids to school, heading to the gym, sitting at a desk wishing you were home—do you see it? It’s called purpose. Sometimes you must search for the intention behind the action, but I assure you, it’s there.

For me it’s as though a Mack truck pulls into my driveway and blasts, “Can you hear me now,” because more often than not, I’m too busy to listen.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It’s so much easier when you stop and listen.

Eli forgot his lunch last week. I didn’t notice the bag in the refrigerator until he called at 10:55 asking if I would bring it to him. There’s no chance he would buy what the cafeteria passes off as food, and neither would I expect him to eat it.

But I was in the middle of seeing the handyman off to Home Depot to get a few supplies for the house when the phone rang. Mr. Handyman was kind (and quite the talker), which made it difficult to pull myself away.

I finally cut him off mid-sentence to say it was urgent that I leave immediately—no time to explain. I knew that if I didn’t, Eli’s lunch period would be over; that quiver in his voice said he was hungry. I would break every speed limit to get to him in time.

Before you tell me how I should have handled this request, I assure you this was not intended to be a lesson in Good Parenting 101. Purpose was waiting. So carrying a brown paper sack, at the intersection of Edmondson Pike and Old Hickory Boulevard, I listened.

To understand what I’m saying, answer this: What was the last thing you asked God for? I bet most will say something tangible like a paycheck (or a bigger paycheck).

  1. The childless may say…a child.
  2. Those who are single may whisper…someone to spend the rest of my life with.
  3. For some…a new home.
  4. Others…groceries.
  5. The sick may say…a good report from the doctor.

The more we ask for things, the more I wonder if God simply hears our requests as, “Susan needs provision. Jim needs sustenance. Cynthia needs healing. Allison and Michael need peace.” Perhaps He goes beyond our tangible requests to offer what we can’t physically hold in our hands.

But first, I know what you’re going to say because I’ve said it before. “If He answers our prayers, then where’s the baby I’ve been praying for?” Or, “I haven’t even been asked on a date and He’s know how badly I want to be married.” Or, “My cupboards are bare. I need food.” The truth is, I really wish I had all the answers, or at least knew someone who could give them to you. What I do know is this: when we ask something in His name, His plan—which is far greater than what we could ever dream—perfects itself, but in His time.

Eli calling and me rushing to him made me think of it like this. Imagine you are in need. You pick up the phone and dial 1-800-I-Need-You-Jesus. He answers. He hears your cry, stops what He’s doing, and rushes to you. When He shows up, He is carrying a brown paper bag. You assume it’s exactly what you asked for. You open it and are a bit surprised at first. It’s not a baby. Nor a winning lottery ticket. Not even the clean bill of health you prayed for.

Then what’s in there that He rushed over to give you?

How about the exact measure of GRACE for today’s situation? STRENGTH to carry you through infertility until the baby He intends for you is born. PEACE that He will take care of you, even if you never get a ring on your finger. COURAGE to help you face your sickness with determination and confidence. 

Does it make sense?

That day was a lesson for me. Normally I would have rolled my eyes and been frustrated that I had to drop what I was doing and take a sack lunch to my son. But it was different this time because I allowed God to show me a much greater purpose.

Here’s my advice to you:

 

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It’s so much easier when you stop and listen. What’s He telling you?

 

“I don’t think the way you think. The way you work isn’t the way I work.” (God’s Decree.) “For as the sky soars high above earth, so the way I work surpasses the way you work, and the way I think is beyond the way you think. Just as rain and snow descend from the skies and don’t go back until they’ve watered the earth, Doing their work of making things grow and blossom, producing seed for farmers and food for the hungry, So will the words that come out of my mouth not come back empty-handed. They’ll do the work I sent them to do, they’ll complete the assignment I gave them.” Isaiah 55:8-11, The Message

 

 

Risking All To Walk On Water

We put our house on the market Thursday. By Sunday, we had two offers. Monday brought one more. I’m reminded of my pastor’s sermon two weeks ago on Risk Faith and Courage—was he talking about For Sale signs as well? MY plan was: find out about a change in schools by Friday, put the house on the market the following Monday, and then by the end of next week, have the house sold! However, in spite of the first answer taking longer than planned, we decided to go ahead and stake the sign in the front. I liken it to sticking my toe into a creek to see the temperature, not ready to jump in yet.

For the first time in years we aren’t sure of where we’ll land after our house sells. We’ve talked about, wanted to, and had a purpose for moving (all while staying in Nashville) for over a year. You know the “stuff” we worry about? None of it has lined up and that has been my signal to keep waiting for a break from the perfect storm before doing anything. Then I heard those words from the platform. Until then I assumed risk, faith and courage was for couples wanting to move to far off lands and open orphanages. Not reasonably normal people looking to make a few changes in life.

So many emotions bubble over with the sale of a home.

I think I’m okay with moving in thirty days if the buyer wants. I think I’m okay with leaving the Japanese Maple and River Burch, two beautiful trees I’ve managed not to kill these last ten years. I think I’m okay leaving the light fixtures we went over budget on. I’d like to say I’m okay leaving here and going…Oh wait, we have no idea where we’re going.

I’m not one to cling to my stuff (there’s that word again), but lately it has been difficult to loosen my grip. To let go of the excess frying pans I’ve collected over the years, the chandeliers on dimmer switches, the pergola built with the sweat of Uncle George and my cousin, Josh.

And therein lies the problem with many of us. It’s this inability to let go that gets us stuck trying to take the car from second to third gear…as though everything we have at this current place in life is the best we’ll ever have. I say things like, “Here we go again. I’ve worked hard for this. You want me give it all up now?”

What careless faith. Don’t I trust Him to give me just what I need at just the right moment? Do you? Then why do we say things like: “I’ll do it…If You give me a better house; If I get that promotion; If I find that perfect spouse; If you fix my marriage. If not, all bets are off.”

Read this with me from Matthew 14:

Meanwhile, the boat was far out to sea when the wind came up against them and they were battered by the waves. At about four o’clock in the morning, Jesus came toward them walking on the water. They were scared out of their wits. “A ghost!” they said, crying out in terror.  27But Jesus was quick to comfort them. “Courage, it’s me. Don’t be afraid.” 28Peter, suddenly bold, said, “Master, if it’s really you, call me to come to you on the water.” 29-30He said, “Come ahead.” Jumping out of the boat, Peter walked on the water to Jesus. But when he looked down at the waves churning beneath his feet, he lost his nerve and started to sink. He cried, “Master, save me!” 31Jesus didn’t hesitate. He reached down and grabbed his hand. Then he said, “Faint-heart, what got into you?” 32-33The two of them climbed into the boat, and the wind died down. The disciples in the boat, having watched the whole thing, worshiped Jesus, saying, “This is it! You are God’s Son for sure!”

The part that strikes me is, “The two of them climbed into the boat, and [then] the wind died down.” Jesus, who had just walked on water and had already calmed one squall for His disciples, could have said, “Hang on a second, Pete. Let me take care of the storm before you start your journey.” But he didn’t. He called to Peter through the storm, as though Peter needed to learn that Easy Street is not the only open road.

Then he walked straight towards Jesus on the water. Maybe Pete, realizing the storm wasn’t letting up, got scared and decided he was more comfortable in the safety of the familiar boat. Do you know the kind of familiarity I’m talking about? That mediocre place where we get stuck doing it the way we’ve always done because we can’t fathom that there is anything better for us? It hardly seems possibly that God would call us out of our comfort zone, and still be ALL the provision we need.

“Courage!” He calls me by that name through the heavy downpour, so can he teach my faint heart how to maneuver through the wind. He gives courage when it’s time to move, time to change, time to let go. Just like he did for Peter, Jesus wants to show us that He is our sufficiency; but we have to be willing to take a risk—in courage and in faith.

Sometimes He says, “Go,” without giving you an address to log into Google maps. I know it’s risky, like you’re a blind man with no cane to tap the pavement, trusting completely in a still small whisper. But if God is in charge of everything, then He is also in charge of that storm. Some times He will take it out of your path, and some times He will tell you to slip on a life jacket and send you straight into the choppy waters.

I say it’s time to test the waters.

 

 

 

 

Show Me Your Scar, I’ll Show You Mine

I have scars.

I got one recently after I cooked lunch for some friends. In the rush to have everything on the table at the same time, I burned my hand as I took bread out of the oven. It didn’t hurt until the next day. A puffy little blister, sore to the touch; I knew it would leave a mark.

There’s more. If you look closely, you can still see the faded triangle between my left calf and shin from the fifth grade when I tried to officiate a fight between two German Shepherds. On my other shin, there’s a scar from when I slid down a concrete bench in the 11th grade. I can still see where I got cut with a piece of glass on my right hand from who knows when.

What about the other scars? The ones that go deeper than dogs and bread?

It’s safe to say we all make a mess in life. It’s only when we refuse to clean up that mess, to deal with our wound, that things get ugly. I learned early on how to conceal what was inside by looking good on the outside. Do you know the smile I’m talking about? Thought so.

So instead of asking for help, the wound in me went unattended and infection set in. Gross and blistery, oozing with nastiness. No band-aid is large enough to cover guilt and shame forever. There I was, going to Bible study on Tuesday and bringing peanut butter cookies to the potluck, with that smile you know so well. Though I was in desperate need of some ointment, I was too worried what someone would think if I showed them how deep the wound went.

Just like it’s NOT normal for a person to show up at the ER smiling while bleeding profusely, it’s not acceptable to walk through life crippled because we’re afraid to seek help. Do you tell yourself, “Just keep smiling…no one will recognize I’m on crutches?!”

Reality is often ugly. Unfortunately the people we welcome into our lives don’t want to know WHERE we’ve come from, just that we arrived safely. It’s the equivalent of taking on this sort of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell gospel!

I’ll never forget going to a Bible study at one of the first churches we attended after moving to Nashville. We met in what seemed to be the busiest hallway on that Wednesday evening. It was, you know, one of those classes. The kind where the curious mill around the hallway just so they can see who walks through the door—unable to grasp the idea that imperfect people attend their church. Anyway, imagine my shock when my good friend walked in after me. I love this friend dearly and could never have imagined that we were on the same journey. Until then, she had never showed me her wound, I had never showed her mine.

Healing often begins when we realize we are not alone.

After I dealt with my pain, I began sharing my story with others. People would walk up to me and whisper that they’d been through the same thing. I could see the weight being lifted off their back because they found someone who had walked where they walked. I’m not saying everyone has to make a public proclamation of their experience. I just think that too many people allow shame, embarrassment, and guilt, and friends, and family, and church…to erase their story.

What does the Bible have to say about scars?

It says that when Jesus appeared to His apostles after the resurrection, “He showed them His hands and His side.” If you’ve read the account, or seen it acted out on any given Easter Sunday, you know Jesus didn’t show them gaping holes with bloody pieces of mangled skin still in tact. No. He showed them wounds that had been healed by His Father; and those very scars were how his friends knew it was truly Him! See the purpose of His scars?

Can you grasp the difference between scars and wounds? Scars come with a story of redemption. Wounds are still in the middle of trying to figure out their story.

I wish you could see my inbox. I often get private messages from people who are right in the middle of a gaping wound. It’s like they’re limping their way to the cross, and no one even notices. Here I am, miles away and connected only through the internet, and I wonder why they’re telling me? Is there no one around them to notice their wound?

Imagine how different the path to the cross would look if we were brave enough to lock arms with our friends who can’t make it on their own.

Today I want to challenge you. Yes, you, the person reading this post. YOU, the person who was wounded but found healing. You have a story…you know you do. I’m simply asking you to become more aware of the people around you that are lame, abused, and hobbling to the water cooler.

Don’t be afraid to ask, “What’s wrong?” So that at the right time you can say, “I have one of those scars too.”

You may be just the person to rip that Band-Aid off their wound and expose them to the greatest Healer ever.

 

 

What Happens If There’s No Fireworks? My Retreat Wrap-Up.

The retreat weekend started with a bang. Maybe a howl is a better adjective. We were supposed to drive up on Friday night but due to the tornadoes and storms, we waited until Saturday morning. It was an agonizing verdict that taught me a lot about decision-making and just how difficult it is to get five women to agree on anything.

We decided to take one car, another huge decision in itself, and to meet at Christy’s where we would all leave together. There would be no early escape for me, no matter how hard I tried. I prepared to leave my house at 6 a.m., quietly and without drama, until I couldn’t find my keys. I had to wake Regi up to help me look for them. Found them. It occurred to me that I had stumbled on reason #1 to stay home.

I didn’t.

After meeting the other girls, we piled into Angela’s SUV and stopped at Starbuck’s on the way out-of-town. I realized I had no cash and had forgotten my debit card in my car…at Christy’s. I scrounged together the needed $4.25 and felt pretty stupid for being so unprepared. This was reason #2 two that I should have cancelled my trip altogether.

But I didn’t.

We chatted for two hours straight and arrived at our beautiful location. We made it just after the morning session started; I instantly knew when I walked into the room that I had discovered reason #3 that I should have stayed home. Certain crowds intimidate me. There were approximately 150 women which by my standards, was entirely too many for one retreat. If you check the rule book, I’m sure you will see that I’m right. We sat, you guessed it, on the back row. I couldn’t fully enjoy myself because as the above stated rule book will also divulge, it takes women approximately three sessions at a retreat until they are relaxed enough to enjoy or take in what is being preached, taught, sung, whatever.

Then the entire weekend came and went in an instant.

Nothing earth shattering happened in my life. I can’t say I went needing “this” and came away with “that” like many women who attended. And that was okay.

Here are some valuable lessons I learned:

  1. Finding five seats together at a retreat is difficult. It will be best to strictly adhere next time to the one-buddy policy if at all possible.
  2. Some of the kindest women you’ll ever met are the ones over the age of 60 like Kathleen and Sally.
  3. Peanut Butter Snickers were the chocolate of choice.
  4. There is great value to be held in honoring other people. (And this wasn’t even a topic that was taught on. It was simply something we saw acted out throughout the entire day and evening).
  5. My friends will cross busy streets and leave convenience stores if they don’t serve Diet Coke and if their ice machine does not work.

I also learned (again) that I live behind a wall. And I learned (again) that it’s up to me whether I will allow that wall to keep me at arm’s distance from others, the world, the emotion, the stretching, and the plying that is needed for my own personal growth. I must continually chip away at that wall because it will never go away.

Do you have a wall?

I learned that God doesn’t put us into situations for frivolous reasons. For example, just as soon as three of us were going to skip the small group breakout session (i.e. six women sitting around a table chatting…ugh), we changed our minds. Turns out it was there that one of my friends had her greatest revelation of the weekend. And we almost missed it because we wanted nothing to do with the unfamiliar territory.

How many blessings do you miss because you are afraid to take a step?

I can't believe we didn't get a pic of the 5 of us! (...next year) These are my roommates, Angela and Holly. I love them!

The weekend was full of some of the most amazing teaching I’ve heard in a long time; I am reminded that I must feed my soul. If you aren’t in a place where you’re growing spiritually, find a new place. Life is too difficult to do alone, let alone without the encouragement of women who have walked in our shoes and aren’t afraid to model their battle wounds.

I think it would be easy to view retreats as the only place we can off-load our burdens, the only time we can spend focusing on the matters of our heart.  I must purpose to retreat every day. A place where I stop, pray, think, consider the weight of my responsibilities, my job, my loneliness, my blessings, anything I carry, and lay it down. None of it is mine to carry anyway.

 Can you possibly exist on that once a year experience? Do you need to take a retreat today?

To be honest, I questioned why I even came on this retreat as I packed up my stuff to leave. I thought I’d meet so many new people, and experience a small epiphany along the way. However, it occurred to me, and was confirmed when Christy stated the same thing to me, that this retreat was more about me strengthening the relationships I already have. I spent many hours with my friends that I may not have the chance to do until the next retreat. I learned what’s important to them, where their zeal for others comes from, and what part of their heart is hurting.

I didn’t see fireworks. I didn’t wear half the clothes I packed. I didn’t have any near death bathroom experiences. I didn’t take a shower. I didn’t wash my hair. I didn’t cry. I put on as much make-up as I wanted. But I had fun, I laughed, I learned things about my friends I didn’t know, I was refreshed.

And I can’t wait to do it all over again next year.

 

Women, Chocolate, and Kleenex. Why Retreats Scare Me.

It’s Monday. I’m already worrying about Friday.

A couple months ago I thought it would be a great thing if a couple friends and I signed up for the women’s retreat. We’re all fairly new to our church—wouldn’t this be a good way to get plugged-in and meet a lot more people? I encouraged. I prodded. And now, as much as I’d like to, I can’t back out of my own idea.

A few of us are long time friends, a few are new-ish. I’ve never spent time alone in a hotel room with any of them that’s for sure (or seen them in their p.j.’s, for that matter), and I’m nervous.

How do you approach, you know, the stuff?

What if I snore? What if one of them snores? Or what if one of them snores and asks me if she kept me up all night with her snoring? I can’t lie for pity sake…I’m on a spiritual women’s retreat where lying is not on the agenda.

I can’t even think about three or four people sharing one bathroom. That frightens me. Literally.

The next question is, “How do I show up for breakfast the first morning?” Do I act like I’m okay in my own skin and not spend much time in front of the mirror? You know the minute I don’t, there will be an entire table of ladies who spent way more time on looking good and I’ll feel completely undone. Being female is not an easy task. If only some house rules were established, I’d be fine. Let’s start with these: a) No makeup allowed; b) Showers are optional; and b) No games allowed where you have to guess which farm animal is taped to your back or any other silly ice breaker. Guidelines or boundaries would surely up the enrollment to these things.

Then there’s the whole vulnerability issue. This is the part I think I hate the most. I’m an emotional person, but on my own terms, and I like to keep it together in front of people. But something happens when a bunch of women get together. No one can talk without crying, everyone feels inclined to share their deepest secret, a lot of singing in small rooms is encouraged, chocolate is consumed at all hours of the day…dear God, what’s wrong with me to think like this?!

Pressure. Insecurities. Fear of the unknown. You name it, women experience it.

But why do we have such a difficult time with ourselves? Maybe I’m speaking to no one but myself here. [Insert: tell me to go read my old blog called The Bag-man Cometh. Or Seeth.] That begs the question: When was the last women’s retreat you went on? Maybe you, like me, have just avoided them altogether so you never have to experience this emotional train wreck. Next time maybe I should ask for the private room rate and bypass this angst?

I think it gets down to us getting so wrapped up in motherhood, being a wife, being single, cleaning the house, making dinner, working long hours and never getting sick that we must maintain our super powers and not allow anyone to see us sweat. Or cry. Or downright sob. Or hurt. Or laugh. Or giggle uncontrollably into the wee hours of the morning. Or forget about everything we love that drains us and for one weekend focus on ourselves. Our stinky, frizzy morning haired, snorish, tired, hungry yet lovely and unique selves that is longing for refuge. Even if for just a weekend.

I have a few days before it’s Friday and we all load up and drive the 1.5 hours to our destination. We are thinking about all five of us driving together, but like one friend told me, if she brings her own car, it would be the perfect escape route should we need to make a quick exit. She has a point.

I’m already telling myself to relax, look forward to the weekend, to bravely step into these unknown pastures (although I may step on a cow patty or two), and get real. With myself, with others and most of all, with God.

Excuse me for now. I need to go buy some Kleenex and chocolate. Something tells me I’m going to need them.

Buckle Up. Bad Weather Ahead!

Tuesday morning I dropped Sophie off in Leiper’s Fork to check out a school. The long drive is not something I typically do any other morning. Just think Tennessee farms, horses, and fog settling beneath the branches of empty trees on a cool winter morning. On the way home, I purposefully let up on the gas pedal and turned the radio off. The quiet helps me think. And remember.

It’s hard to believe that just two nights before, eerie tornado sirens were drowned out as the wind whipped through the Bradford pears and delivered hail and buckets of water.

This calm after the storm reminds me of a time when Sophie and I flew to Texas to visit my mom. On the way to the airport, Regi said, “Not such a great day to fly.” The sky was gray and the thunder deep within the horizon made me think the second coming was underway. I got nervous when the pilot came over the loud speaker to announce that the beverage service would be delayed. That always means trouble.

The plane’s ascent felt like I was riding in my mom’s blue Pinto on the dirt road of my childhood rather than in an MD 80. If you could get inside my mind at these times, you’d hear me praying the Rosary, meditating, reciting the books of the Bible, and then settling in as I lock into a familiar Rich Mullins tune. I make sure my bases are covered.

This particular flight occurred after I’d had a conversation with my mom about spatial disorientation. (I bring these things on myself.) I managed to convince myself that we were experiencing that phenomenon as we sliced through the clouds. Were we right side up or upside down? It looked as though the clouds were slapping the windows of the plane; we were in an all out tug-of-war as we climbed. Sophie nestled her head in my lap and fell asleep. I gripped my armrests as the guy in 14B read the newspaper.

Eventually we shot out of the clouds and we were sitting atop what resembled muddy cotton candy. Now that we were over the storm everything was breathtaking. Blue skies stretched as far as my eye could see. And not just any blue; it was bluer than anything Crayola has ever attempted. The airplane was so calm that I wondered if the storm had been that bad. Did I overreact? Finally the familiar ding echoed across the loud speaker and the illuminated seat belt disappeared.

Wouldn’t it be so much easier if we could all be ensured a smooth ride?

The truth is, we will encounter turbulence along our way. I’ve come to learn that often the only path to a blue sky is the one that goes right through a mean storm. I’m talking a choppy, knuckle-gripping squall that lasts longer than the weatherman predicted. But think of this: it’s only after the misery of winter that yellow daffodils are prompted from the ground!

Perhaps that blue sky is placed above us as an anchor. An anchor of hope that says we’re in for some tough times and that we need to buckle up. An anchor that reminds us there is something greater beyond the blue. An anchor, firm and steady.

Whatever it means for you, I pray you find the courage to get through your situation. After all, it’s usually the most uncomfortable road that takes you on the ride of your life!

Food For Fines a/k/a How Ramen Noodles Taught Me About Grace

January 9th marked the start of the annual food drive that Nashville’s Public Library conducts in order to purge people of all their sinful ways. I mean to waive their overdue fines.

As I approach the gentleman at the library, my face turns pink. My eyes often well with tears when I discuss my overdue fines. I preface our conversation with, “I’m probably on your most wanted list. I need to pay up before I can check anything out.” Fear veiled in humor is a dead giveaway.

He perches up on his elbow, leans in close and whispers, “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” He points to the flyer that says “Food for Fines” and tells me to pay up then. “There is so much else to be concerned about.”

Problem is, when I go back on the day Food for Fines starts, he is nowhere in sight. I saunter up to the counter and face the nicely dressed woman who scares me. I force a smile and put my return books and canned goods on the table of shame. I pray that no one approaches behind me to witness my confession.

“I need to return these today.” This is really just to warm her up. “I’d also like to apply the cans to what I owe as well.” It would take no less than 50 cans of petite peas to completely erase our family library debt and I refuse to pull a Radio Flyer behind me.

She looks at me, then the cans, then the computer, pushes some buttons, and glares back at me through pointy silver-rimmed readers. She announces, in an outside voice, “But you have $19.40 to pay off,” so that everyone around me knows I’m guilty.

“Oh my, I didn’t realize it. Let’s just start with these,” I feign surprise at the amount I owe although it’s lower than what I anticipated. She takes my mercy cans and inspects them. I admit this was my clean-out-the-pantry effort, however, I did not submit anything expired. Afterwards, I go look for more books.

It wasn’t until my way out that I saw the official flyer. It stated in neat bullets what they would accept:

  • Canned Tuna/Chicken
  • Cereal
  • Canned Vegetables, Fruit, or Soup
  • Peanut Butter
  • Pasta

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Clearly refried beans, jellied cranberry sauce, and bamboo shoots weren’t technically on the list.

I return the following Wednesday, this time with six cans of generic vegetables and find the nice worker. “Hi,” I look down and pray the tears away. “I’m here to pay off more of my debt.” He cracks a joke and senses my ill ease because once again, he tells me to relax.

“See those tall boxes?” He points to the back. “They have been overflowing with canned food all week. Literally spilling out. Some people have brought truckloads so don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.”

“I just feel so bad for racking up these fines.” I glance behind me and see a woman carrying a cardbox box, awaiting her turn at repentance.

I confess that he’s the nicest guy in the library and I confide my fear of the pointy glasses woman. He grabs my hand and offers the sincerest of thanks. “Nobody should be afraid to come to the library.”

He then pulls up all the fines my kids and I owe (I still don’t have the heart to bring up my husband’s account that probably has my lost book attached to it) as we laugh and take our time determining exactly how much more food it will take to wipe the slate clean. This is when he gives me an insider tip: Raman noodles. My eyes light up!

I tell him I will bring the noodles (six for a dollar…yippee!) in tomorrow since it is the last day of the food drive when he says, “Oh no, you don’t have to. The deadline [for grace] has been extended until Sunday!”

I tell ya…while chatting over peas and carrots, my little foreign friend taught me more about grace than I’ve heard in a long time.

I used to lug around a similar cardboard box that held the enormity of all I ever did wrong. Eventually the weight did me in and I finally got the nerve to state my case. Head hung low, I presented an offering that was equal to a bunch of dented cans filled with pureed shame because I had nothing else left.

And right then and there, He accepted everything I did without the slightest bit of judging. I will admit that I look for simple re-reminders from places just like the library. When I saw the tall boxes overflowing with cans, it painted a picture for me as though The Grand Canyon were right in front of me and it was abundant with…you guessed it. More ramen noodles than an eye could behold. Yet not even that beautiful creation can contain the sheer amount of grace He makes available to me!

So I commend you if you’ve lived a life worthy of sainthood or at least having a fellowship hall named after you. But for those of us who have stood outside the shadow of grace for far too long, the idea of a canyon filled with dried noodles makes perfect sense.

I learned through my friendly librarians that grace doesn’t come with a deadline or expire in 24 hours. No one has to be afraid to ask for it. You don’t have to carry it around with you and you don’t have to be afraid to lay it out before a loving God. All you have to do is accept it. Because it’s free. Because it’s immense. And because He already paid your debt.