By Andrea Lingle

Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Philippians 4:8

"We all need a reason to keep going," said the horse. "What's yours?" "You three," said the fox. "Getting home," said the boy. "Cake," said the mole. (Mackesy)

Grace is a hard notion. It is something that winds through life—simultaneously completely obvious and utterly mysterious. It has the power to transform life into Life, and it can be utterly disregarded. It is as demanding as family and available to all without exception.

Grace comes before, transforms the now, and presses toward the future. Grace, if we are to agree with John Wesley, is the reason and the means “to keep going.” Why?

Why would grace bother?

Doesn’t it know how often I have been unkind? Doesn’t it know that I have often not loved my neighbor? Doesn’t it know that my bed is unmade?

I believe that we all walk around with a question. Do I belong? Grace insists that, not only do you belong, you are part of what makes there something to belong to. You are integral to the relationship between that which is deepest in the universe and the communities of grace that inhabit that universe. Even in the face of acceptance the question remains: do I belong?

I must belong because I am perfect or helpful or spectacular or unique or smart or useful or funny or powerful or reliable. I must be commendable, right?

Grace says you belong. Before all that. Before you washed the dishes. Before you worked a double. Before you tidied the house or lost weight or earned six figures. You belong.

Consider this parable:

The Longing

There was a child who longed to be loved by her father.

Each day she dressed in her fanciest dresses and put ribbons in her hair.

But still she longed to be loved.

When she got older she studied hard and became an exemplary student.

But still she longed to be loved.

One day she came upon a starving, mangy dog in the road. She knew that her father valued compassion above all else, so she reached out her hand to comfort the dog. The dog, overcome by fear and, loathe to be hurt again, attacked the girl.

Torn and bleeding, the girl wept in anger. She had been beautiful, accomplished, and compassionate, and still she had failed.

When she returned home, she hid from her father in shame.

At the close of the day, her father came and sat on the floor next to his daughter.

“Oh, Father, all I ever wanted was for you to love me.”

“My child, don’t you know? All that you are, all that you have ever been, has always been loved by me. The only way I could love you more is for me to learn to love more.”