The man who showed me grace

I don’t remember how old I was but I think I was around 11 the summer I traveled 1,300 miles with my sister, her husband and their baby to visit my brother-in-law’s parents in Montana. The only inhabitants of an unincorporated town high in Glacier Park, they owned a small general store with a post office, a horse stable and a few cabins.

While there, I slept in an upstairs bedroom, above the store and post office. One morning, while others were getting ready for the day, I waited in the store below. As I meandered around the small area that contained food and other items visitors to Glacier Park might find useful, I noted some hairpins—bobby pins, we called them, back then. Impulsively, I grabbed a packet from the shelf and put it in my pocket. I’m sure they weren’t missed—at least nothing was said—and I took them home with me in my suitcase.

For a long time, perhaps several months, those bobby pins weighed heavily on my conscience and I frequently fought feelings of guilt and shame. Finally, unable to stand the self-condemnation any longer, I told my mother about my offense. At her suggestion, I sent a letter of confession, together with 50 cents for the hairpins, to my brother-in-law’s dad and went on with my life, putting the incident behind me. Looking back on it, I don’t remember if he responded to my confession.

However, when I learned some time later, that he would be passing through our area with my sister and her family, and stopping by our house for a visit, I was concerned. He was a cowboy type, who reminded me of Ben Cartwright on TV’s “Bonanza.” Nice but, from my childhood perspective, also burly and intimidating. What if he said something to me about the incident? What would I say in return? What if he made a joke about my thievery, humiliating me in front of the whole family? Once again, I began to experience anxiety and feelings of guilt over my sin.

The dreaded day of his arrival came, and I recall slowly descending the stairs from the upper story of our house, fear gripping my heart. I opened the door at the bottom of the stairway to see, standing in the entry, his larger-than-life frame and wanted to disappear, to be anywhere else. I needn’t have worried. Acknowledging my presence, he continued the conversation in progress and, throughout the entire visit, never said a thing about my crime. I was so relieved. He was giving me grace!

We often hear about prominent people who “fall from grace,” but most members of the secular media do not understand the theological definition of grace, which is unmerited favor. I did not deserve grace from this Montana “cowboy,” but he granted it to me, anyway. He’s in heaven now, but I will always remember the grace he showed me. As a young girl, I saw in this man the likeness of God who, when we confess our sin and ask for forgiveness, extends grace and mercy—even when we don’t deserve it—and forgets the transgression ever happened.

"I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more” (Isaiah 43:25).

Copyright © 2010

This old house

About 15 years ago, we purchased my husband’s childhood home from his mother. For the past 14 years, we have been renovating the house, which was built in the 1880s. My husband has done much of the work himself, with some assistance from me.

A year after moving into the house, we hired two men to re-shingle the roof. They removed multiple layers of old shingles, covered the roof boards with plywood and installed new shingles. It was a definite improvement, but accented the fact that the rest of the house needed to be repaired and painted.Based on information in This Old House magazine, we purchased a Paint Shaver, specifically designed to remove lead-based paint. The grinder’s metal blades, rotating at high speed, chipped away the contaminated paint, while an industrial-strength vacuum collected it. Atop two-story-high scaffolding, my husband began the task of removing all the paint from the house’s eaves. Later, he removed the paint from the first-story clapboard siding. (The upper level, which is covered with cedar shakes, did not require shaving.) It was a labor-intensive task. Over the course of more than a century, successive layers of paint had hardened in the sun to an alligator-skin-like surface that resisted removal.

Removing the paint left the wood in a rough condition that required sanding, and that was just the beginning. Siding had to be repaired and, in some cases, replaced. Windows—both primary and storm—had to be reglazed and readied for painting. Only when a particular section of the house was fully prepped could it be painted, first with primer and then two topcoats. Working evenings and weekends in the spring, summer and fall, it took us two years, and not until the end of the second fall were we able to sit back and admire the completed project. It was worth it. Our old house had been transformed. It was beautiful!

One day, while we were painting, a woman stopped by and said, “I have been watching your progress on the house. This is definitely a work of love!” She was right.

The work is not finished, however; there is plenty to be done on the inside, as well as on the garage. It is a daunting task that never seems to end. Progress has been made, but there is still a long list of jobs before us. Since it is our summer home and we do the work ourselves, fitting it in between other demands on our schedule, we will probably be working on the project for years to come. I often jokingly complain, “We will be doing this till the day we die!”

In restoring this old house, I am frequently reminded of the similarities between our project and the renovation Jesus Christ does in a believer. He purchased us by dying on the cross. When we accept his gift of eternal life, he moves into our worn, tattered and broken dwelling and begins restoration, scraping away old paint, repairing cracks and applying new paint. Gradually, he renovates us, transforming us into something beautiful. This process, too, is a work of love and will take a lifetime.

Copyright © 2010

The perfect stranger

                            
A few years ago, I watched “The Perfect Stranger,” a powerful movie based on the book, Dinner With a Perfect Stranger, written by David Gregory. The story follows a woman as she transitions from doubt to belief after encountering “the most unforgettable man she would ever meet.” After building a conversational relationship with him that both charms and challenges her, she learns he is none other than Jesus Christ, and the experience changes her hopeless, ruined life to one of joy, peace and purpose.

It made me think about the hurdle many people face when confronted with the promise of eternal life through faith in Jesus Christ. How do you believe in and have a relationship with someone people say is alive but you cannot see? How do you know he is alive?

Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary defines faith as “firm belief in something for which there is no proof.” That’s Webster’s definition of faith, but Christians do not believe in something for which there is no proof. We have historical evidence and the testimony of many witnesses. Luke, a physician who set out to record “an orderly account” of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, reported that Jesus “gave many convincing proofs that he was alive” (Acts 1: 3, NIV), and Luke’s friend, Paul, the apostle, reported that Jesus appeared to more than 500 eyewitnesses at one time (I Corinthians 15:6).

Like the woman in the movie, we, too, can see Jesus. We see him in the countless men and women whose lives he has changed. But there's no substitute for a personal encounter with Jesus Christ. That's reason enough to believe.


Copyright © 2010

Born on the Fourth of July

My mother was born in Spirit Lake, Idaho on July 4, 1911. Her strong, no-nonsense personality intimidated some but those close to her knew she had a great sense of humor and a heart of gold. Although her time in history was not during America’s colonial period or its expansion westward, my mom was a pioneer woman. Her ability to make do and endure hardship was amazing!

Starting days by firing up a small stove in her kitchen with wood she often split herself, she worked from early morning to night, washing clothes in an old wringer washing machine; planting, maintaining and harvesting a huge garden; canning and freezing produce; sewing and mending clothes for her seven children; and making quilts. Amidst her busy schedule, she frequently found time and energy to host guests for Sunday dinner. Almost every weekend, when their children were in college, my parents welcomed numerous students into our home. Typically, the crew would arrive on Friday night and my mom would clean, cook and entertain the group until they left Sunday evening. I am still trying to figure out how my parents were able to finance hosting so many people on their meager income.

Over the course of her life, my mom influenced many to become followers of Jesus Christ and, through her letter writing and prayers, encouraged others along the journey. Her children were dependent on her prayers. When I found myself in difficulty, I often prayed that God would impress my mom to pray for me. I knew she had a connection with God, and He answered her prayers.

Although she may have done so, I do not remember my mother actually saying the words, “I love you.” But that has never mattered to me, because everything she did and said shouted that fact. There was no doubt! My mother loved me. I am a strong proponent of parents telling their children that they love them but, in analyzing my relationship with my mother, I am reminded that love is more than a noun—it is a verb.

I love you, Mom. You were a real firecracker!

Copyright © 2010