The Means of Grace

Almighty God, Father of all mercies, we your unworthy servants give you humble thanks for all your goodness and loving-kindness to us and to all whom you have made. We bless you for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life; but above all for your immeasurable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ; for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory. And, we pray, give us such an awareness of your mercies, that with truly thankful hearts we may show forth your praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives, by giving up our selves to your service, and by walking before you in holiness and righteousness all our days; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory throughout all ages. Amen.

Daily Morning Prayer and Daily Evening Prayer: Rite Two, "The General Thanksgiving," The Book of Common Prayer

Will our new donkey enjoy his new home? The long westward highway flattened out ahead of us as we left the rolling hills and trees of north central Texas behind, giving me plenty of time to imagine his first impressions. I hope he likes us.

With the giddy anticipation of an adoptive pet-parent, I'd made sure his living area was tidy and ready for him: fresh water in a large bucket, holding pen free of sticks and debris, and hay set aside to be served. Although I knew he would only see the barn and pasture, in my nervous zeal I'd cleaned the entire house and breezeway, just in case he might want a tour. I mean, you never know ...

It was Saturday, official chore day at the Ridge household. As I swept the concrete floor of the breezeway, I mentally clicked through the rest of the tasks on my to-do list. With only Tom and me at home, there were fewer messes to clean up and no one else to blame for all the shoes left out and dishes in the sink. A good chunk of that blame rested with yours truly. What can I say? I'm just a humble tool in the hands of the Lord for refining the patience of the neatnik whom I married.

I rested my chin on the top of the broom handle and thought back to a memorable chore day several years earlier, when Meghan and Grayson were still at home. I had barked out orders to clean up their toxic-waste-dump bedrooms or else, while I focused my attention on the main living areas. Tom's task for the day was replacing the driver's seat belt on our (then) fifteen-year-old Explorer. I could tell his patience was at the breaking point when he came inside to get a drink of water and said preemptively, "Don't talk to me."

I had followed orders, continuing to move from room to room through the house. Checking on the kids' progress, I jabbed my pointer finger first at Meghan and then the vacuum before giving Grayson a look that communicated my wishes: Put down the Legos and get to work. And no, I don't care if you're hungry right now.

Suddenly, I heard a noise coming from outside and looked up to see Tom banging on the glass sliding door that leads from the breezeway into the house.

I couldn't believe my eyes. My husband's face was contorted, and he was covered in blood!

Dear God, he's been shot! Oh, Lord!

My mind raced in a thousand directions, but my body was frozen in place. I knew Tom would collapse any minute, from sheer blood loss alone.

I immediately commenced crying and praying and looking for my phone so I could dial 911. It had to have been a shotgun at point-blank range!

How is he still standing?

And then I heard ...

"It's P-P-PAINT! I accidentally punctured a red spray can, and it exploded in the back seat! I can't see! It's in my nose and throat, and it's everywhere inside the truck!"

Not blood — just paint.

We sprang into action. While Tom hosed himself down and got somewhat cleaned up, Meghan, Grayson, and I grabbed rubber gloves and paint thinner. After madly ripping old towels into rags, we began wiping down the truck as quickly as we could. The back seat, the carpet, the backs of the front seats, and the ceiling were solid red, while the insides of the doors and windows wore a splattering of the quickly drying enamel.

We were like a CSI team cleaning up a gruesome crime scene, toiling for hours in the sweltering heat, not saying a word except for an occasional whispered request: "Pass the paint thinner, please."

Finally Meghan asked, "Does this kind of thing happen to other people too, or just us?"

There was a long pause as we all looked at one another. There we were — sweaty, greasy, covered with red paint, our rubber gloves dissolving at the fingertips like decaying flesh — feeling like the survivors of the French Revolution in Les Misérables. Oh, mercy. We were such a pitiful sight!

The question hung in the fume-filled air — until we began to laugh ...

When we pulled ourselves together, I assured Meghan, "Oh, no, sweetheart. This kind of thing only happens to us."

We broke down in hysterics once again.

Just when we were feeling alone in our misery, a sparkling moment had been interjected.

I needed it just then.

So often I have felt alone in my particular trying circumstance.

Surely no one else drives a fifteen-year-old vehicle with a broken seat belt. No one else is forced to clean up paint explosions. No one else has struggled through failure and loss in the same ways I have. No one else has experienced whatever it is that I am going through.

Sometimes I just want to know: Am I the only one?

Because it feels like I am.

Then, when I least expect it, a small beam of light breaks through the darkness and offers a glimpse of goodness. A reminder, perhaps, that I am never really alone.

Grace is present.

And if grace is present, then God is too.

Doc met us as we pulled up, directing Tom to pull the horse trailer to a spot near one of the outbuildings. We got out of the truck and stretched our legs after the long drive, taking in the scene around us. Donkeys of every shape, color, and size roamed in pens and dry pastures in all directions. Big donkeys, little donkeys, donkeys with babies, old donkeys. Seeing more than a thousand donkeys in one place at one time is almost impossible to comprehend. It's noisy, and dusty, and utterly overwhelming.

I couldn't help it: I immediately thought of Abraham and his flocks of sheep and goats, his herds of cattle and donkeys described in the Bible. Is this what his nomadic empire might have actually looked like?

Suddenly more questions popped...