I stumbled across this article today and it got me thinking about yet another grace-gift: my childhood.
Now, I don't want to paint some idyllic picture in all rosy shades.
We were far from a perfect family. My sisters and I disobeyed (rather frequently, I might add), we broke things, we called each other names, we got skinned knees. My parents made their own mistakes.
But here's the thing: I knew without a doubt that my parents loved us and each other. Not every child has the privilege of growing up with the stability that knowledge brings, and I don't ever want to take it for granted.
And when I think back on those years, I remember a lot less of the bad stuff and a lot more of the good stuff.
I remember standing on chairs behind the kitchen counter to watch Mom cook (we called them "cooking shows"). Snuggling up under blankets with hot chocolate and buttered popcorn. Mom or Dad reading books out loud. Riding our bikes in the backyard for hours on Saturday. Dressing up and pretending we were pilgrims or pioneers. Sitting out in the garage and watching Dad work his magic on wood.
I think of how Mom did her best to nurture our God-given curiosity, or how Dad worked hard to provide for our family. We didn't get everything we asked for, but we had all that we needed (and more). We were given chores and responsibility, yet we still had time and freedom to play - to be children.
Most importantly, Mom and Dad wanted us to truly know God, the One who is so much bigger than all of our human imperfections.
These are gifts. Again, not every child enjoys these things, and I'm no more deserving than anyone else. It's all grace.
To use a line from Monday's post -
He is good. And I am grateful.
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