I was lucky enough to be born to a portrait of grace.
A portrait of love, which to me…
Often mirrored that of my Heavenly Father’s.
From a young age GRACE was a constant reminder in my life;
from the warm embrace after the rebuke or the spanking that was “forgotten”,
GRACE was present.
As I grew older I clearly remember the first time returning home…
and the second and the third.
Each time more broken than the last.
Yet I was always greeted at the door by a portrait of GRACE.
You see, I was the prodigal daughter, the one who left
and to my own demise ended up in a pig’s field.
Yet somehow I was always reminded of the portrait of GRACE.
I recall the last time I returned home,
knowing that as soon as I passed the doors threshold
I would be safe.
Now I look back on my life and know God’s grace was working,
through my parents and I am amazed.
Amazed that he would unconditionally love this screw up.
Amazed that HE would send HIS son to die for me.
Amazed that HE would willingly accept my brokenness.
Amazed that Jesus stood in my place.
Amazed at HIS GRACE.