Amazing grace . . .

Most parents I know occasionally second-guess the way they raised (or are raising) their kids. I still do.

Or we regret career decisions. Broken relationships. There’s wreckage‚ despite our best intentions. Damage is done.

When we experience God’s amazing grace, it becomes easier to extend grace to others. And to ourselves.

Sometimes, though, I forget how lost I once was—and how transformed I am now, by comparison.

Recently, I had the chance to co-create something special with my adult daughter, Kristin—for each of us, a newly amazing grace.

What we did

Last week Kristin and I collaborated on a music/movement/spoken-word piece, then shared it at her church, Liferoads.

We blended verses from Psalm 88 (The Message) with two poems I adapted for the occasion from my book, Where the Sky Opens, and the moving song, “Grace Flows Down,” by Christy Nockels.

Kristin’s friend, Laura Fodey, joined us on violin. Thanks to Laura’s quick-thinking husband and his cell phone, along with Troy masterminding sound, we can offer you this casual capture here.

 

 

Grace, as gift, multiplies, then keeps on giving each time we receive it from God, and each time we extend grace to others, as well as ourselves.

Here’s the text, for anyone interested.

Amazing Grace . . . I once was lost, and now am found.
What does it mean, being “lost?” Do you remember?
Psalm 88 says it this way:

God, you’re my last chance of the day . . .
Put me on your salvation agenda,
take notes on the trouble I’m in.
I’m camped on the edge of hell,
written off as a lost cause,
one more statistic, a hopeless case.
Abandoned as one already dead
and not so much as a gravestone—
I’m a black hole in oblivion.
I call to you, God; all day I call.
Why . . . why do you make yourself scarce?
The only friend I have left is Darkness.    

                                    —Psalm 88, The Message

Amazing! Grace covers me . . .

What might being “found” by God look like, feel like, sound like? Pretty hard to put into words.

Perhaps a poem and some body language gives us a glimpse:

The lone dove at dusk echoes
every day’s hope,

each note a psalm of a self,
a white blossom

where rests fall between sounds
like petals. See the way God

cups each face that he loves, and
his light strikes the hollow

curve of each throat, leaving us
speechless.

And having been lost,
and now, so amazingly found,
how then shall we live?

I am going to start living
larger, looser—
stripped down
to my sapling self, leaning,
leaning toward
that leafless tree Messiah loved
enough to die on.

Because Grace flows down
and covers me,
my knee goes down.
My brow touches earth until,
moved by hosannas, echoing
deep inside stones,
I rise. Forgiven. Free.
Then the tight turn,
lifting fingers and limbs,
my soul like a white blossom—
all the thorns, delicately removed.

Then the wide turn,
leaning toward the next sapling self,
lost, leafless, filled with longing.
Maybe it’s you, or you, or you.

                —Adapted from “She Can Only Try to Compose Herself” and “Yes,” from Where the Sky Opens