They asked if I would sit on a panel about grace (to share my story) with an amazing local pastor and with Mike Foster of People of the Second Chance. I immediately said yes, and then in the quiet as I contemplated what it even meant, I told God how unqualified I am. I’ve been crying about it.
I felt Him hover down and hone in, like a monsoon closing in, like the voice of many waters. How dare any believer say she’s unqualified to speak grace?
If my story gives me authority on grace, as Mike Rusch puts it, then I’m an authority. I speak too often, too many words, confuse brashness for bold. I pray for peace, and then I rattle the floors with mad feet. I know things about myself that have never been spoken out loud. All these things that come to mind as my house stays filled with the fragrance of wine and hot pepper, the sound of boys running wild and friends laughing, my dishwasher humming like a home. That’s not my glory. Those things – the abortion, the affair, how I’ve yelled at my children – those things are my death.
And the grace? The grace isn’t the even in the home, the blessings. The grace is that resurrection is real – rebirth – how that one time I peeled myself off the floor of a dorm room and flipped to Romans and read words that summoned a swooping fire into my body, mind, and soul.
What does it mean to be found, when once we were lost?
What does it mean to see, when once we were blind?
It means so much that I’m asking now for your prayers tonight for a local gathering called “Present in the City,” a gathering that I hope pierces through doubt, shame and judgment – all the issues that come with skin and unforgiveness.