And, instead, you throw an unbridled, unexpected, UNDESERVED party.
I’m afraid to accept it because I don’t think I’m good enough to maintain it. I don’t think I can be as perfect as I need to be in order to continue deserving it. Now that it’s in my hands, my hands can never be dirty again. You hand me grace, and I think you’re handing me an expectation.
And it weighs so much. I’m afraid to drop it, but the expectation to be perfect is heavier than I can carry. I know this is foolish. I know in my head that, when you give us grace, you are not finishing the process of forgiveness, you are beginning it.
But in my ears I hear differently. I cobble together a view of you that is untrue. From bad sermons and bad books and bad theology and bad friends, I build a bad God.
I don’t know who you are yet, but I know it’s not who I’ve built you to be.
When you hand me grace, please take away my hammer too.
I’m tired of being in the construction business.