so much grace
Last week, two friends knelt in the dirt beside me, the grass pressing lines into their ankles, and washed my feet.
That’s exactly what they did, even if it looked more like twisting shovels into the earth and planting a little hope. We buried the seeds of allium, hyacinth, tulips, and daffodils, tucking them away for vibrant resurrection, the artistry of God on the edge of Spring.
My friends, sisters by the power of an indestructible life, gave up their morning, their time, their energy, for love I don’t really deserve. And that, of course, is grace.
Grace, grace, God’s grace, grace that is greater than all our sin. All is grace. And in my life, I’ve tasted so much grace.
All the words in the world couldn’t completely describe what it means to me that on a beautiful Fall day, my friends let me see His grace, their fingers wrapped solidly around shovel handles, their arms about me. God always provides friends, and grace sufficient (2 Corinthians 12:9).
One of my friends cut blisters into her hands that day, pushing the bulb planter into the soil time and again, the seeds of blooms to come numerous beyond counting. That tool, my favorite for the garden, so simple and quick about it’s clean little tombs; it also cut blisters into my palms.
I held up my hands to her, “Look, matching blisters.” It reminded me of blood brothers cutting their skin on purpose, clasping hands over the scarlet drops. Covenants are always cut, the skin broken, building unity out of shed blood and sacrifice. We are blister sisters, I tell her.
Long ago, God settled on a balm for our trouble: sacrifice, the yielded skin of one broken for another; blood marking the wound, covering need, bridging brokenness. Looking at our blisters, her cracked and tender skin, I see it all over again, what He’s done. And I love that no matter what happens in this world, nothing stops Him from showing the wealth of His glory.
Kneeling there with these friends, under a deep blue sky, our children’s laughter a background to steady work, I feel goosebumps prickling my arm as I think of covenant, berit, the intimate relationship I have with YHWH, cut into the wrists, the scarred side of His son. Every time we allow ourselves to be broken that something might be redeemed for someone else, He allows us to join the unhindered echoes of the Spirit, testifying joy and victory: He has done it (Psalm 22:31)! He surrendered life, the covenant cut into his flesh, redeeming all. He has done it. All our troubles, overcome by love.
I roll the wheelbarrow a few feet a way, picking up bulbs by the handful to scatter in the flower bed. We are nearly ready to lay them to sleep beside the roses and irises, these irises divisions of my friend’s own garden. She is five times the gardener that I am, and I keep asking her advice as we work. In one corner, I scatter about thirty bulbs and then say something like, “Does that look like about the right amount?” The only thing that saves her hands from the blisters is that she uses a shovel instead of the bulb planter. She considers, and then passes up the opportunity to save herself some digging. “More, maybe?” She suggests it lightly, leaning on her shovel. More hope. Her love, her sacrifice, pouring it out on me.
I scatter more bulbs and look back to see that Zoe has wandered over to her, curious. My friend is kneeling beside her, patiently showing my daughter how to dig a hole the right depth, how to gently drop a bulb inside, how to cover it loosely with dirt. Zoe’s cheeks are flushed from jumping on the trampoline, her eyes as bright and blue as the sky. She smiles at my friend. “Can I try?” My friend, sharing the smile, hands her the shovel. “Well, of course you can.” It’s a simple thing, really, but it fills my heart. I can’t help but notice how easily it comes, the teaching. And suddenly I am full of gratitude for grace, recognizing that God has given me rare, beautiful relationships that are berit too, covenants built on and reflecting His covenant, that I might remember.
The morning bleeds into afternoon, redeeming the month for me as we tuck away the last seeds, sometimes working close, shoulder to shoulder. We must’ve planted two hundred bulbs, the three of us. These two friends smile and laugh with me, telling me that when Spring comes, they want to see all this hope in bloom. Hope their love tucked deep into my heart, to carry me through Winter.
With their gloved fingers gripping handles, gently placing bulbs, they speak of family, friendship, community. They repeat with sweat and effort what they’d said after Zoe’s diagnosis, one an echo of the other, both breathing Spirit, “What can we do? There must be something we can do to help you.”
I confess that I am still learning to be vulnerable enough to admit that I need help. It is, after all, our mutual sickness, this inability to admit that we aren’t self sufficient. Pride births tumors that seal us into dank, earthly tombs, so ready are we to die before owning our need. God rolled that stone, broke the seal. And each time I admit that I need, the glory is all His, revealing yet again what He has done. When will this truth finally be planted heart deep?
I need help. It’s one of Adam’s best sentences. He always says it desperately, repetitively, the word help rising and hanging in the broken silence like a punctuating, rhythmic wail. Sometimes I stand there helplessly, turning his face to mine, asking, “Adam, what can I do to help you? ‘I need help’…with what?” He looks at me, blinking, searching for words. “I need…help!…please. I need…help!” So, I try another tact. “I need help with…” Sometimes the prompt is enough. He repeats, leaping over the crack with a jerk, finding one word to hold on to, something to explain. Other times, he just can’t. He stares at me, holding my eyes, willing me to know. “I need…help!” That’s when I start suggesting possible endings to the sentence, when I can tell that for whatever reason, that day the words won’t come.
I’ve come to see that in one way or another, we all have a spiritual disease, a disease of entrapment, encased as we are in dying flesh. It’s a spectrum disorder, really. Some of us are high-functioning, but still eccentric, quirky, awkward; others of us find Community so difficult we remain locked up, distracted by a thousand competing stimuli, following compulsions, need propelling us senselessly in a thousand wrong directions. And the only cure for it is love, compassion, grace. So much grace.
I am so like my son it’s uncanny, the way I flounder to find the words for the help I need. Sometimes I manage a word or two, thanks to the ones who love me enough to stand there in front of me, holding my gaze, guiding me through it. “I need help with…” That’s what covenant does, persisting, the desire to sacrifice for another coming easy like breathing, love flowing out like blood spilled, a balm to all trouble.
And then there are the days when I can’t seem to find the words for what I need. Those who know me, love me, start suggesting things for me, the way my mom did, the week after she traveled home. And Grace is the one who sees my dirty feet and bends to wash them before I’ve asked. This world has so much trouble; we all need tender kindness, grace poured out, someone who notices our need and reaches to touch us.
At the last, just before the cross and the blood flowing, covering, the Savior showed His disciples this very thing, wrapping a towel around His waist. One translation says,
Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love (John 13:1).
Peter at first refused, horrified. “No,” he says, “you shall never wash my feet (John 13:8).”
But Jesus insisted, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”
Covenant relationships cannot exist apart from sacrifice, one for another, the fullest extent of love. Unless we love that way, allow ourselves to be loved that way, we really have no part with each other.
It’s easier to offer grace than to receive it, owning the need for it. I am learning, because my Father is faithful. He has given me little choice. I’m so thankful for the gift; that He has not spared me joy–the joy of laying down my need and feeling His arms holding me, tender; the joy of friends who lay down their day in the name of covenant, blistering their hands for me, planting hope.
