"All is grace?" I asked with Ann Voskamp today as I read One thousand Gifts for what seems like the thousandth time. But I'll need the reminder a million times before I learn.
All. Is. Grace.
Ink has run in rivers the past painful days, but it's as though I've written nothing. All those words still can't name this.. this.
Grace: The Word knows the name of all I can't name.
And Ann reminds this Anne that if I don't claim that as grace, what will I have left? When all we have is seeming emptiness, we are forced to name the hallow echo - grace.
And even these words are the forced truths that I trust will heal; the pretending that precedes the prevailing belief - the belief that can only desperately groan, "Help my unbelief!" And in the back of my anxious, doubting mind I ask, "But, when?" and wonder, "How long?" Snow, like a myriad of Who-sized doilies, dusted the ground last night, and on my edge of the forest it's still below freezing. How can I not wonder, "Will spring ever come?" Wouldn't you?
But even the wondering has a name: grace. Because questions set us on a quest to find answers, wounds drive us to find a healer, despair starves us for hope, and maybe in our stumbling tears we'll run into the One who wipes them all away with the nail-scarred hands?
I can only hope. And keep going. One. Step. At. A. Time.
Grace. This is the next step. Saying yes to all grace. Saying yes to all. All is grace.
Part of the ink I spilled tonight asked Him to set the sliding trust and tottering heart back on her feet, even if it meant giving me sea legs to weather the storm of all grace. At the end of this grace journey, we won't come to the end of grace, but we'll discover the eye of the storm.
Oh, Soul, hear truth and believe!