Grace

     Most of the blogs I write take a while for me to think through, the idea has to rattle around for days before I even start writing, the blog just does not jump out at me.  This blog however just walked up to me and said “Hi, I am your next blog, write me”.

    I am reading The Heart of the Gospel by Robert E. Coleman for my quiet time devotional.  This is not a book review but this is an excellent and extremely worthwhile read.  Coleman has a chapter on grace which I read last Friday.  For me, a borderline legalist, God’s grace can be a difficult concept to understand and especially accept.  On pages 148 and 149 Coleman uses a story that is a perfect illustration of God’s grace.  Allow me to quote it.

     “Some years ago I heard a story that helped me visualize its beauty.  No doubt the narrative lacks a factual basis, but the message that comes through is real.

     A haggard man occupied a seat on the 10:15 train out of Chicago.  His unshaven face, slumped shoulders, and worn-out shoes made him an object of pity.  A few people turned to look at him, but he was unaware of their glances because he was reliving his life.

     His mind had gone back nearly twenty years when he was a boy who lived in a little red brick house next to the railroad track that place where the train would soon be passing.  Many times he had stood on the porch and watched the trains go past.  It was strange how well he could remember those days and the pansies his mom had planted along the walk, and the swing his dad had made for him in the front yard, and the path where he learned to ride his bike.

    The warmth of those thoughts hurt him, and he shrugged impatiently as his memory traveled on another ten years.  The bike had been exchanged for a motorcycle, and after a while he began to come home less often.  He had a job by then and plenty of friends.  The pubs were a lot more fun than being with Mom and Dad.  He did not really want to remember those years, or the day when his gambling debts piled up, and he had gone home meaning to ask for money.  But why ask?  He knew where his mom and dad kept their savings; and later when they were out in the garden, it was easy to help himself to what he wanted.

     That was the last time he had seen them.  He had not wanted to go home after that.  He had gone abroad and never communicated with his parents to tell them where he was.  They knew nothing about the derelict he had become, the years of wandering, nor the prison sentence for his crime.  But locked in his cell at night, as the moonlight moved across the wall, he used to wonder what had happened to them.

     When he served his time, he would love to see them again.  Would they let him come home?  But what right had he to impose himself on them?  He had only brought disgrace to the family.  Could  they ever reconcile the convicted felon he had become with the boy they loved who so bitterly disappointed them?

     A few days before being set free, he summoned his courage and wrote them a letter telling his longing to see them again.  Though very short, it took hours to write.  He told them that he would be on the morning train that went by their house, and if they would have it in their hearts to let him come home, he would get off at the station.  The letter ended with these words: “I know that I do not deserve your love and I don’t want to bring more heartbreak to you, but if you can somehow forgive me, hang a white handkerchief in the window of my old bedroom.  If I see it when the train goes by, I will get off at the station.  But if not, I will go my way.”

          Now the time had come.  The little red brick house was just around the bend.  The disheveled man had pulled down his window to see more clearly.  As the train rounded the turn, he peered nervously out the window and looked and looked and there hanging in his old bedroom window was white handkerchief.  And every other window in the house was hung with white-white pillowcases, white tablecloths-white sheets filled the clothesline, and white muslin curtains trailed across the roof from the attic window.  Every wall of the house gleamed with white in the morning sun.  And there affixed to the fence beside the rail road track was a big sign emblazoned with big letters:

                            WELCOME HOME WE ARE AT HE STATION WAITING FOR YOU”

    While this is an easy blog to write it was a tough one for me to type.  It takes me a long time to type when my eyes fill with tears and this is the type of story that makes me cry.  They are tears of awe and gratitude for God’s grace.  The fact that God extends his grace to a vain and prideful man like me even though it is undeserved is a miracle.  Yes, this is a paraphrase of the Parable of the Prodigal Son but it is a version that fits our time and really illustrates what God’s grace is.  We all need to share the story of God’s grace and its saving message, please join me in doing just that.