I’ve just had a deep, hard, soul-cleansing cry after reading about acquaintances of ours still dealing with grief over the death of their child.
Meanwhile, my chubby three month old son nuzzles against me, nursing as I read. He’s falling asleep quickly, rubbing the tufted rolls of his wrists across heavy eyelids. I do not deserve this grace.
Across the hall, Amelia cries out from a deep sleep. “Mommy!” We’ve had a tough time lately. Her emotions at 3 mimick what I didn’t expect until 13. I’ve never felt so rejected. But now, she calls for me. Finds comfort in my lap. I lay her down, placing blankets under her chin and kisses across her cheeks. And I don’t deserve this grace.
I think of friends still waiting in hard places. I don’t even know what to say to them. I feel like I’ve abandoned them, the empty-handed, while I clutch greedily my children, my husband, my blessings.
I have so much more than I deserve.
Thank you, God, for the strange, unexplainable graces You lavished on me, an ingrate. There is no justice to it at all.