What Exactly Is Grace?
Too often we think of it a little too cheaply.
Extravagant. Amazing. Cheap.
No, I’m not talking about a great sale at my favorite department store. I’m talking about grace. In Christian circles, we talk about extravagant grace, we sing about amazing grace, we bemoan the problem of “cheap grace.” We “say grace” at dinnertime; we sum up its meaning with acronyms (like “God’s Riches At Christ’s Expense”). We even name our daughters Grace. But what—really—is grace?
In my world—and in the simplest of terms—grace is the overwhelming idea that God mercifully forgives and deeply loves me, even in the face of wrongs I’ve done. I remember the first time I really “got” grace; to be frank, it wasn’t until after I’d really screwed up and felt tremendous guilt about something that I started to meaningfully experience grace. I’d talked about it plenty—but I didn’t “get it” until I realized I desperately needed it.
Grace tells us that no matter what we do—even the worst of the worst of the worst—God’s love is bigger and deeper and stronger than our sin. He won’t give up on us, ever. He’ll forgive us and love us and make us new again.
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July 20, 2010On the Lookout
How can we best comfort and care for women who struggle with depression?
We were all so excited for “Leah’s” visit to the office with her new baby. She’d been on maternity leave for four weeks and was coming by at lunch so we could ooh and aah at her new bundle of joy.
But when I saw Leah, I quickly realized joy was the furthest thing from her experience.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I whispered as we hugged. When I stepped back, I saw tears in her eyes—and they weren’t tears of happiness.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“This is so much harder than I thought it would be,” she told me. “It’s so, so hard.”
Leah wasn’t just tired from pulling an all-nighter with her baby. She was suffering from postpartum depression.
I saw Leah again a few weeks later. She’d met with her doctor and was now on medication, she confided. It was helping a little, but she still cried all the time. She asked me not to tell anyone—she felt like she’d be judged by other Christians, especially for taking medication.
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July 13, 2010A Re-Education on Beauty
Don’t let our culture’s standards define you.
A few months ago, I had the opportunity to travel to Cebu, Philippines, in order to celebrate my brother’s wedding. My family and I flew in for 10 days, met his soon-to-be-wife, met her family, and wrapped up the trip with their wedding. A whirlwind experience, leaving me several weeks later, still processing the trip. As we traveled around Cebu City and visited other islands, we noticed a trend: eyes staring at us. We learned that the culture associates white skin with beauty, wealth, and celebrity, which sky-rocketed us to the center of attention everywhere we went. I was humbled, embarrassed, and moved by this notion, and through it, was able to view my own culture’s concept of beauty from a distance.
Like our culture, the Filipino culture has taught them how they should look. You see it all over the media—on billboards and local television shows. It’s engrained in them. Though they may have a different concept of beauty from ours, we share the same eternal struggle—unobtainable standards of beauty.
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July 6, 2010Unexpected Mentors
Being open to the women in my life who know me
I’ve never really thought of myself as someone who wants a mentor. I’m pretty self-sufficient. I hold my cards close to my chest, and—for better or worse—it’s not in my nature to talk about a problem or decision in-depthly with many others.
“I’ve never had a mentor,” I’d tell friends who would talk about a youth leader who poured into their lives when they were high school or the teacher who guided them through some tough decisions. While I was generally okay with this, sometimes I’d feel a pang of jealousy toward those who had an older woman take a mentoring role in their life.
It wasn’t until more recently that I began to see the mentors in my life. Two women come to mind—both of them former bosses. I sat across the table from one of them at a restaurant recently, realizing that it had been nine years ago that we’d first met. She hired me at my college library—a place where I worked for four years. Every so often we get together to catch up, this last time after a too-long hiatus. I left the three-hour dinner feeling so grateful for her. While probably neither she nor I would give her the title of “mentor” over “friend,” it struck me that she was indeed a mentor to me and has been for the past nine years. A lot of growing and changing happens during those formative college years, and it nearly overwhelms me to look back and remember her prayers for me, her questions, her investment in my life. Though I was employed by her, I knew that I was more than just a student worker—my personal and spiritual life was cared for. Even now when I don’t see her for a long time, she remembers details of my life, encourages me, and speaks truth. I’m humbled to realize that I’ve had a couple amazing women invest in me, despite my inwardness.
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June 29, 2010Swatches of Hope
How do we connect what feels like abstract hope to the concrete problems we see?
For a few weeks now, I’ve been carrying around some unusual symbols of hope: a small stack of paint swatches in a wrinkled plastic grocery bag.
I’d been looking for a new place to live—someplace close enough to work and school to shorten a soul-draining daily commute. A good space for having friends over, with enough room for a little dog, and a small balcony where I can read on warm summer nights. A space with walls I can paint whatever color I want.
Finding that space has taken more than a year—a long year full of appointments and paperwork squeezed around all of my regular responsibilities. As time has ground on, the idea of having a home has started to feel more abstract than concrete. I know intellectually that eventually I’ll fax the last mound of papers, write the last check, get the keys, and move in, but I didn’t feel connected to that reality.
So a few weeks ago, I went to the hardware store on a mission to find some paint swatches. I figured that having some small reminders of the joy I’d feel once I had my own place would help me feel encouraged and connected, even as I slogged along.
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