Grace Exchange begins

When you buy a new shirt do you wash it before you wear it? Not me - I love the crisp, fresh from the store, just ripped the tags off smell. In fact, I've unwittingly worn a few still-tagged shirts out in public. After a few good parties, some flattering comments, that once fabulous blouse fades into the humdrum of a closet full of brilliant purchases turned ordinary. In fact in just a few short seasons of the mercurial fashion world, your glance may never fall on this item of clothing again... What do they say about clothes... if you didn't wear it last season, you won't wear it this season. Yet how often do I leave these faded finds simply collecting dust, occupying precious hanger space in my mini European closet - the only real closet in our entire house.

What is a grace exchange? An invitation to pull out those old clothes, those sort of itchy, stained, used to be nice, but look a bit stretched-out garments you moved to the back of your closet last season. Are you clinging too tightly to sweaters that used to flatter, shoes that used to have intact heels? How often do I do that in my spiritual life - cover myself with the truths God taught me in the previous chapter of my life, hoping they're deep enough to bide me some coasting time in the present. Forgiveness accepted and extended a year ago. The peace you knew last summer in the midst of your heart's latest storm. I've been biding my time a bit lately, and I sense God moving a grace exchange, an amnesty day on the horizon of my soul.

From the time I was a "wee lass", as my Scottish friend Nicky would say, i had a thing for justice. My parents always thought I'd end up in the courtroom, defending the shackled. Yet a penchance for justice can be shackling in itself. How quickly can a love for truth and justice morph into a leaching weed of smug rightness? Daily, hourly, often moment to moment in my skin this mutation imperceptibly occurs.

I recently began reading a Henri Nouwen work (my first ever, I'm ashamed to admit) called, "Return of the Prodigal Son." It's based on his encounter with Rembrandt's painting of the story from the Bible of a son who demands his inheritance from his father, then quickly putzes (he was Jewish after all) it away on loose living (there's a 1950's phrase if I ever wrote one!) On so many levels, I see my reflection in the characters of the story - the ungrateful, turned repentant son, the dutiful, bitter older brother, the clueless onlookers.

Who am I today?