But

I surface from slumber in prayer and a still, small whisper tells me something I’m prone to forget. You’re carrying a burden that isn’t yours to carry.

I know, but . . .

I do that so often. I try to justify my worries as if my particular circumstance is beyond the scope of the grace I stake my life on. This morning my but clangs like a cymbal. I hear truth, and Love guides me with a gentle hand toward truth.

Later I read about peace that comes unbidden and, unexpectedly, the day dawns with blue sky and sunshine. It is a glorious life, beautiful and terrible things and all.

The grace of God means something like: “Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are, because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you.”

There’s only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you’ll reach out and take it.

Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.

Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking

Word wrangler. Photo taker. I'm here early most mornings with one of my photos and a few words about life and those thin places where faith intersects.

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