Hard to define, even harder to truly explain, but when I am in need of it, the clarity of this grace is sharp and penetrating.
Grace fills in the gaps of my utter humanity, my well-worn flesh as it were. Grace is the feisty thread refusing to let go of its task of holding my tattered stuffing in place, velveteen rabbit that I am.
Grace is old wisdom found in rooms down in the basements of empty churches.
Grace is me, slowly but surely, coming to accept and embrace the truth that my faith is messier than most. It is hard to pin down but like an invisible thread, it is woven throughout my being. Yes, my sins are great, and the every present threat of my addictions even more so at times, but my recovery is more and more velveteen real each day precisely because of this grace that fills in the gaps.
But there it is again: grace filling the gaps; making up the small measure that is my faith; filling the cracks and crevices of my days; being the hope in my hopelessness; the light in my darkness; the beauty in my supposed ugliness.
While circumstances bat me around like a whiffle ball in a hurricane, grace is the sure-footed love of God. This God who tells me I am loved no matter what – regardless of feelings or facts; this God who chooses me, draws me in, and loves me tenderly and more faithful than any words could describe.
This God of grace who fills in my gaps, leaving me sated so that I may sate the thirst of others like me, this God do I give thanks to with all my heart.