He propped those screws right up against the tire. Three times, they punctured. Three times, we limped our way to the mechanic for a patch. Three times, he saw the damage, the inconvenience, the interruption to our day, but never connected his action to the events until the mechanic handed over the screw.
The brother encourages him to tell, because “it is always better to tell,” instinctively knowing that confession is good for the soul.
He scrounged up all the courage his little frame could muster and spoke the hard-honest truth. It was his fault.
My heart swelled at his courage, his decision to speak Slide1and believe what we have been repeating for years.
…says what we’re sorry for…
…never stays angry…
With trembling lips, he waited to see if our mantra was true. Fearful eyes understood what we didn’t need to say. This was big—bigger than anything he could fix on his own. Worse still, he had no excuse or reason. Equal measures of boredom and curiosity set the plan into motion. Forgiveness, should he receive it, was undeserved, unmerited, and unearned.
Undeserved. He punctured those tires as much as my sin punctured the hands and feet of my Lord. We are both stained with sin.
Unmerited. Grace is the unmerited favour of God toward me. Grace is the best response to his hard-honest confession. He might not deserve it, but one thing I know for sure is that I certainly don’t, yet here I am, drenched in God’s grace.
Unearned. Even with all the coins in his piggy bank, he couldn’t pay for those three patches. It had to be done for him. And even with all of humanity’s good works stacked from bottom to top, the price of sin is still more. It has to be paid for us, for me.
Together we stand as recipients of undeserved, unmerited and unearned forgiveness. Praise the Lord!
*from the archives