Ordinary Grace

Concern sat in the passenger seat next to me on Tuesday, kept me company while the miles spun out in front of us with the familiarity that comes on a road well traveled. I’ve made this round trip three times in the past month. Concern is always a willing traveling companion.

The last several weeks have mostly consisted of driving back and forth across state lines to be with my mother. From the moment the phone rang in September until the moment I left just three days ago, it’s been a series of realizations proving how much her existence is woven into mine. Living a state away while she’s recuperating from such a serious operation hasn’t been easy. I feel the pulling conflict of needing to be with my kids while also needing to be with my mother.

Shifting from the quiet presence of company and a bit of care-taking to the reentry of being Mom full-time has been a strange, unsettling rearrangement. And while the pull to be in two places at once feels strong—I would worry about either place on both ends—I can’t let the opportunity pass to soak in the moments of ordinary grace that I might have otherwise missed.

It’s reckless to focus only on what’s hard. To ignore the new memories that are presently unfolding, however strangely they fit, is to argue that I would have done things differently than God. After the last month, I’m so glad He’s in charge. I would have screwed up my corner of the universe in one keystroke, in one panicked conversation, in one troubled glance.

This week I’ve been meditating on John 3, and what is so mind-bogglingly calming is the assertiveness of Jesus’ authority. Direct in conversation and backed up by the always-knows-his-place John the Baptist, Jesus is so clear about being from God. When John tells his friends, “A man can receive nothing unless it has been given him from heaven,” I’m struck by the authority given by God to Jesus. “It’s Jesus who’s God, can’t you see?” John seems to be saying. The manifestation of God Himself is Jesus Christ, and He has the same authority as the Father.
That’s deeply comforting to me. Not because I have trouble holding on to Jesus’ divinity, but because I need to remember His authority extends to all of creation, big and small.

Last night was one of those nights that I live for and draw from later when I’m scrambling in frenetic activity. An empty blank on the calendar, quiet phones, and an opportunity to just be without expectation or care. I stood in my kitchen, stirring a fragrant sauce while my family huddled together on the couch in the living room doing whatever it is that boys do—sports stuff, I think. Music poured through the house while I simmered and roasted, stirred and served. The children had ravenous appetites that resulted in clean plates, and as usual we laughed our way through our loose translation of family devotions. The eight year old reads the cluster of verses, stumbling hilariously over the pronunciation of “Melchizadek,” and the baby squeals appropriately during the prayer. We leave the table full and happy. There’s football in the living room while I wipe down the table, scrub pots and pans, and when it’s all over I’m just a girl standing alone in a dark kitchen while a song about Jesus streams through speakers and carrying such a deep awareness of His nearness that the tears on my face are a surprise. In the middle of these challenging worrying weeks, there have been moments of ordinary grace that I might have missed if not for the gritty, fearsome days.

Maybe you know what I’m talking about. The niggling fear that keeps you up at night, the concern for the one you love, the piles of bills you can’t bring yourself to open—sometimes it feels like too much. But then you stand outside on a finally-autumn day, and you give yourself to the coolness of a breeze that caresses your face, washing the worry away for just a moment. You remember the story about Jesus speaking to the wind, and you know that even this breeze obeys Him. It’s okay to stand still for a minute and give yourself to the goodness you could never earn, to crawl under it like the consoling heaviness of January’s down comforter. You’re not denying the current circumstances or pretending they don’t exist. What you’re doing is understanding that God is gracious in the midst of trouble, and that the gifts He gives encourage you to trust Him with all that’s difficult and discouraging.

It’s a neighborhood walk at dusk, it’s the baby working hard at climbing up the stairs on his own, it’s the arms that encircle you while you stand at the sink elbow deep in suds. It’s the verses about Jesus’ strength that you didn’t realize you memorized, coming to light and settling around you like a well-loved blanket. It’s the steady cadence of laughter and conversation around a wobbly, third-generation table. It’s standing in the kitchen, just you and the Lord and a tear streaked face. It’s the gift of praying until sleep finally pulls you under for the night.

Let the small moments of ordinary grace propel you to trust in the good, sovereign purposes of God.