The healing gift of Grace
Two men visiting Hong Kong, noticed the ubiquity of street vendors, all pushing their carts along, pell-mell, in and out of traffic. Attempting to gain the attention of any potential customer, the vendors would shout repeatedly, “Sale! Sale! Good items for sale!”
So numerous were these vendors that the men found it difficult to avoid their aggressive sales pitches. It was then that they noticed a lone vendor, different from the others. This man stayed to himself, and slowly and quietly pushed his cart along the sidewalk. Intrigued, they stopped the vendor to ask him about his wares, “What are you selling?”
“Selling?” the vendor responded, “Oh, I’m not selling anything.” With that, he reached into his cart and picked up two pieces of a toy that had been broken. “You see, I buy broken things. My joy comes in mending. Once, mended, it can be given away, and bring more joy.”
This story does my heart good. Because there is a part of me that feels broken. And mending, well, that sounds very good to me. But I believe, in my mind (if I’m honest), that I am exchanging the word mending with the word, fixing. Somehow, I’ve persuaded myself that broken is a deficiency.
So. Let’s begin here: Some of us… no, all of us… break.
Maybe from stress or fatigue of spirit. Or from loss of childlikeness or grief. Or from loss of passion. Or from a world where cruelty and violence is too real.
Yes. Life is difficult.
And no matter how strong or safeguarded, very bad things can happen to good and innocent people. And sometimes I don’t have the words. Even for my prayers.
Here’s what I know: We live in a world where, more than ever, it is easy to lose our way—yes, to lose track of our heart. To feel derailed, disenfranchised, exasperated.
Or, just plain lost.
Bottom line, we are not at home. And on those days, I wish I was made of stronger stuff. I don’t want to admit it, as it feels like a defect to be concealed.
Okay, I’ll personalize this; when I let the cacophony or noise win, I am not at home.
When either fear, or shame, win, I am not at home.
When I give way to any narrative of small-mindedness (where labels or differences are weaponized), I am not at home.
When I stay mute in the face of intolerance or contempt, I am not at home.
And we want someone to show us the way, or at least, the GPS coordinates.
Let us embrace Henri Nouwen’s invitation. “It means a gradual process of coming home to where we belong and listening there to the voice, which desires our attention. Home is the place where that first love dwells and speaks gently to us.”
I’m writing this in Lisbon, Portugal. And today, we spent some time at the Church of Saint Anthony (right next to the Lisbon Cathedral). It is located on the site of the house where Saint Anthony was born and spent his childhood. St. Anthony of Padua is invoked and venerated all over the world as the patron saint for the recovery of lost things. And he is credited with many miracles involving lost people, lost belongings and even lost spiritual matters.
So. Very apropos for our subject today: Regaining—or reclaiming and honoring—what we are sure we had lost.
Here’s the deal: I have a choice. Brokenness can undo me. Or I can see an invitation to a bigger self, creating spaces for healing and spiritual hydration and renewal.
Let us remember the good news; My wholeness is, in fact, a hidden wholeness, and it comes only as I embrace my brokenness. My messiness. My confusion.
That my identity, my value, my worth, is not predicated on answers or resolutions or tidiness. My identity, my value, my worth, comes from Grace.
Grace is that moment of certainty when I know that if I never did one more seminar, or wrote one more book, or attended one more meeting, it would be okay.
Mark Twain was once asked, “Do you believe in child baptism?”
“Believe in it,” he responded. “Hell, I’ve seen it.”
Grace.
At one time, I believed in it.
But now, I have seen it.
“I once was lost but now I’m found
Was blind but now I see”
But here’s the deal: Grace is just not where I expected to find it. Grace is found where God is found, in the pressure points of life. And even in a very broken world, grace is found and spilled, one embrace at a time.
When I understand this, I am free to give up my need for control and answers.
I am free to be at home in my own skin. In this life. Not some tidy life.
I am free to give, to respond with compassion.
I am free to let my life heal, not by denying the pain, but by acknowledging it, and in fact, by keeping my heart open.
I am free to see that the mending does not eliminate the cracks, but allows me to embrace them.
I am free to let that light spill to the world around me.
I resonate with the insight of a woman named Angela, who said, “I did not recognize the sacraments in my life, until I came to church with all my parts.”
And insight that allows me to hit the Pause button. And hear, once again, Jesus’ invitation, “Come unto me all who are weary and burdened. I will give you rest.”
And Thanksgiving week is here. Let our prayers begin with “Thank you.” And I wish to all, moments of replenishment through connection and affirmation hugs with friends and family, old and new. And yes, the refill that comes from heavenly recipes.
Speaking of family and friends, it means the world to me that you are a part of Sabbath Moment, as we walk one another home. And letting you know that tomorrow you’ll be receiving my annual gratitude email, with the invitation to contribute to the Sabbath Moment ministry. If you’ve already given, or that’s not your thing, no worries. But with lots of emails heading our way every day, just a heads up.
Onward together my friends.
Quote for our week…
“Man is born broken.
He lives by mending.
The grace of God is the glue.”
Eugene O’Neill
BULLETIN BOARD
Today’s Photo Credit: “Terry, Good morning from Portland. Mount Hood in the distance. Didn’t need to go father than my hotel balcony to find my miracle this morning. I wanted to scream ‘Loook!'” Juli-anne Davis… Thank you Juli… Thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to terryhersheyster@gmail.com
Yes, your gift makes a difference… Donation = Love…
Help make Sabbath Moment possible. I write SM because I want to live with a soft heart; to create a place for sanctuary, empathy, inclusion, compassion and kindness… a space where we are refueled to make a difference. SM remains free.
(Address by check: PO Box 65336, Port Ludlow, WA 98365)
POEMS AND PRAYER
You can hold my hand
When you need to let go
I can be your mountain
When you’re feeling valley-low
I can be your streetlight
Showing you the way home
You can hold my hand
When you need to let go
I want a house with a crowded table
And a place by the fire for everyone
Let us take on the world while we’re young and able
And bring us back together when the day is done
Crowded Table, The Highwomen
“When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way,
More attentive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home…
When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.”
John O’Donohue, A Blessing for the Traveler
MUSIC FOR THE SOUL
Crowded Table — The Highwomen
