grace in the city

An afternoon in the city.

The four of us. 

No concrete plans for the day and somehow for a control freak who plans every detail down to the minute, it was perfect. Days like this when the family is together I cap in a bottle and tuck away.

We roamed through the heart of midtown, joining the crowds gathered at every intersection and swarming the sidewalks; tourists pooled beneath the Empire State Building, stretching out in a line that nearly wrapped around the block and I admired their willingness to wait in a three hour line to catch a glimpse of the city.

We marveled at the skyscrapers from down below. New York, the city of lines and protruding angles. Afterwards, when we'd grown tired of pushing and squeezing past the masses, we stumbled across a little nook with rustic tables and low-hanging lights suspended from the ceiling, the perfect hideout to escape the cold and the chaos outside. We huddled around a table in the corner and passed around rich hot drinks to warm our fingers and fuel the conversations about integrating faith and life. I couldn't help but smile at the name of the coffee shop:

Grace Street.

Grace. The common thread that bound us all together. The reason why we still thrive as a family even when we've had our fair share of bad days and felt like ripping out each other's hair or grabbing at each other's throats. Or as Erma Bombeck put more eloquently, family is "inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant."

Grace. Receiving something we never deserved. Not just shutting an eye to another's faults, but choosing to silently forgive and love when we had the desire and ability to turn against each other and tear down whatever threads still held us together.

Of course, true as Bombeck's intentions may have been, she erred when she assumed we could heal the pain we inflicted upon each other. In our two decades of living together, four sinners have seen enough disappointment and watched each other stumble and fall and claw our way back towards the light. We've said words that weren't meant to be said. Words that cut deep and crushed the spirit instead of building it up. We've screamed and shouted at one another in a miserable fashion, begging the other to see the speck of sawdust in their eyes when in reality our vision was just as clouded, if not more.

Four sinners under a roof, grasping for understanding, a coping mechanism, not just to survive but thrive.

As a unit. 

But I know that in my twenty years, I've seen it. I've seen it appear over and over again.

Grace happens. 

And when it does, it is beautiful. Because we start to build each other up. We start to strengthen the bonds that pull us together. Our feeble attempts of reconciliation lead us crawling back to the cross where it first began. It beckons us to come by the street of grace, to stop in, sit down, and replenish the soul together. To dine at the table where He gives it so freely. He loved us first so we could love each other.

So, we walk out together. Breathing the cool fresh air of the city. Ready to face the cold and the chaos again.

As a family.