We know the word. We read it. We sing about it. Yet, we struggle to fully understand it. That’s because it doesn’t really make sense. By it’s very nature, it doesn’t make sense. Loving the lovely makes sense. Pursuing not simply a stranger but a rejector makes really no sense at all. Grace is senseless.
There are some days, I think I get it. I seem to be able to grasp grace enough to muster up some words to explain it. I tell my children about the God who desires relationship with us so much that while we were crossing our arms, stomping our feet, and saying “me, me, me” and “mine, mine, mine,” He not only stooped down and came to win and rescue us from ourselves; He bled and died for us so that we could be friends with Him and live close with Him forever and forever and ever.
There are others days, He puts me in a cleft of a rock and says loud and clear dear one, this is grace.
It’s an imperfect illustration; after all, that’s what an illustration is, an opportunity for a glimpse that makes us sigh and better understand that which is the real thing. We aren’t rescuers. We get tired. We smile and complain. We make judgments that we don’t even see as judgments. And, then, we go home. But, we will go back. And, when we do, we’ll bring others with us, to come and see, to be senseless and leave what feels safe and put themselves in a place where their hearts may get broken. That’s what grace does. And, when we put ourselves in the position to be grace givers (albeit imperfect ones), He gently guides us to uncross our arms and experience His grace in a way that changes us from the inside out.