Ought to Give Iowa a Try!

I'm used to flat terrain, but this is completely different. Over in South Bend, we're flat, but we're also near the lake, so the wind blows past us pretty conisistenly. Here, it's completely landlocked, so the wind just thrashes at the surface of the Iowan earth making it much colder than I packed for. Well...'packed' is a relative term. I forgot the bag with my changes of clothes at my house, so I had to pick up a pack of shirts and unmentionables from the Wal-mart next to the hotel. Also, it's an incredibly long drive to Iowa...especially if you drive two hours completely out of the way to visit your little sister at Taylor University before embarking on a seven and a half hour journey.

But the journey was worth it. There are cousins in my life that haven't been in my life for far too long. I hadn't seen my Uncle Quinton since eighth grade, I think, and I hadn't seen my Uncle Marlon in much longer. I hadn't seen my cousin Carrie since she left Bethel. I hadn't met her amazing daughter Jae Lynn. I hadn't seen my cousin Eric since middle school. I hadn't met my cousin Rachel's beautiful children. I hadn't seen her Susie in so long that I forgot she existed, and I hadn't met her husband and daughter.

But, I have to confess that I've had reservations about my grandmother. There were darknesses that I knew about that I had difficulty reconciling. The same with Chet (my father--not dad). And beyond that, there's a sort of jadedness in me toward 'old fashioned' spirituality, which was the place in my mind that she occupied. But at the memorial, a Chet I never knew (heard about, but never met) read a memoir he had written about a grandmother that I had never gotten the chance to know like everyone else there knew her. And I am so desperately wish I could have known her as she was described. I knew of her joy, and I knew of her passion for her family, and of her skills with making things with her hands. But I did not know of her passion for the Scriptures, or for missions, or her hospitality for anyone (apparently, ANYone) who was in need, or how she loved her husband so deeply and passionately and was a partner with him in everything. And I saw Chet as he read this...And I saw someone else inhabiting the body of the person who 'raised' me. My uncle introduced him with a reference to his magic pen, which I then saw for the first time. I had heard about how he had written, but I never met Chet the writer--or Chet the mischievous brother or Chet the beloved son.

And I looked at the darkness and I realized something that shamed me. How do I dare to preach grace to all, regardless of the magnitude of their sin, and not extend that grace to my own family? How dare I declare all sins equal and coverable by the blood of Christ, yet paint a picture of a brooding darkness in the lives of my ancestors?

And I realized then and there, that there is a very large difference between forgiveness and grace.
And I promise, when I found out more of what that means, I'll let you know.

But I learned today that there is no shame in the 'old fashioned' spirituality of those gone on before us. In fact, there is no difference between that and the post-post-modern ideals of those around me. Everyone has a place in God's plan, and the best anyone can do is to fill theirs fully. And I learned today that my grandmother did just that.