Squashed or saved?

I saved the worst until nearing the end of our redecorating. Today, I donned rubber gloves and cautiously opened the attic door. Nothing scurried away, but draped from the ceiling, across the coat rail, round the light bulb, was a gossamer matting woven over years.

Who knew spider webs could be tough enough to resist the pull of a Dyson? Gingerly, I lifted out a couple of old coats, matted with cobwebs. Suddenly they were alive as the eight-legged beasts who spun such traps scrambled to escape. I’m sorry … mmm, no, not really. First instinct. Squash them. 

And squash them I did. Three or four, though undoubtedly, lurking in pockets or down dark sleeves, there remain one, two or even a few more.

God didn’t don rubber gloves when he came to deal with us. He came as a baby, vulnerable and naked. The webs of deceit we weave, strong as we think they are, disappear in the puff of his breath. Fearful of his wrath, running to hide from his almighty power, we are instead overtaken by the power of his love, drawing us inexorably into his loving embrace.

I deserve to be squashed, but instead, I stand redeemed by his life. Amazing grace.

Grandpa took the hit

Grandpa was playing with his two-year-old grandson, ragging around on the couch. He lifted the wee boy aloft and leaned back, misjudging the placement of pillows and backrests, and suddenly found himself rolling right backwards and off the couch onto the floor beneath. The wee boy giggled wildly, thinking it was all part of the game. Grandpa grimaced as his rib hit the wood, but he didn’t say anything.

The bruise was deep, invisible to the naked eye. He ignored its soreness and ache, so happy was he that his grandson came through unscathed. And they continued to play.

Jesus took the hit for us. He didn’t complain, either. He chose to be hurt in order to save us. He still takes the hit for us, every time he intervenes, stepping into our messes and helping us sort them out. There is a price to pay, and Jesus pays it. Because of his love for us. For you. For me.

Thank you, Jesus, from the depth of my being. Thank you.

Attitude of Gratitude

I stood in my prayer alcove this morning and admired the blue sky and the sunshine, the green fields and the flowering bushes. Yes, the temps in our Scottish summer have done their usual nosedive and I am attired in three tops of varying thicknesses, but I am still awed by the beauty of a Scottish summer.

Everything is rarely rosy in our lives. There are always niggles that, if allowed to, can undermine our gratitude and turn a smile upside down. 

I’ve just received a lovely ‘thank-you’ note from someone very dear to me, whose memory is beginning to slip a bit. The gifts we’d given for her special birthday were probably muddled in her mind with a collection of other gifts she’d received, but her attitude was one of gratitude for the nearly daily skype calls I make. She may not remember the detail, but she remembers the bigger picture and her heart is grateful.

How often I neglect, or forget, or maybe not even notice the many gracious gifts God lavishes on me every day... but my heart is full of gratitude to him for the incredible gifts of life, love and sacrifice which I hope I never forget. 

The weather of my life may not always be summery, but I have a life, a saved life, which I have done nothing to deserve. It is all grace. And I am full of gratitude.

I guess we’re back to yesterday’s rainbow. Trace the rainbow through the rain. It’s always there, even if you can’t see it.