“Forgiveness is the subtle miracle that arises from the juxtaposition of grace and truth. The truth can be so difficult sometimes, but grace can bring such liberation. I wish to have a vice-like grip on both, because I hate the feeling of being in the deceptively accommodating prison of offenses.” – Makafui.
I’ve been charged with being unworthy;
Unneeded, unwanted even before birth;
Destined, not for this life or the next;
Overstaying my welcome; Overextending my reach;
Overestimating myself; Misappropriating resources;
Underplaying my flaws; Overemphasizing Grace.
I admit that I’m guilty;
But guilty of nothing but being loved, wanted, saved,
Appreciated, needed, understood, celebrated, precious;
Guilty of having to leave too soon; Underestimating myself;
Under-using Grace; Abusing my strengths; Hiding behind my flaws;
Sabotaging and badly misjudging the extent of my reach.
My name is Grace, Amazing Grace, we haven’t been introduced yet.
It’s a pleasure to meet you. Give me a minute or two, will you?
I’ve got a pitch prepared, but more than that, I’ve got reviews.
I’m in the business of transformations – total makeovers;
From ashes to beauty, from pauper’s rags to royal robes;
From death to life, anxiety to peace, hunger to satisfaction.
I take what has been discarded, forgotten, condemned, destroyed;
I remember to dust off, pardon, restore, comfort, assure, protect.
I preserve what is mine, and seek for more to make mine and pamper.
“If Grace had a price-tag, there wouldn’t be enough space for the trailing zeros; It is precious even in abundance, and it’s absence is a terrible vacuum – such abject lack that the entirety of creation groans in inexpressible agony.” – Makafui.
In the midst of trials, sometimes up is down
And the lines are blurred; Truth is trifled with,
The boundaries of falsehood are extended,
And to distinguish between left and right
Is to choose between a rock and a hard place.
Some say words are cheap; I disagree in part;
For my words are heavy and expensive,
Because they are not entirely mine.
I’m learning to let mine simmer
In the broth of truth over the fires of faith.
There are those whose stories
Are etched on their bodies;
It’s in every untimely wrinkle,
Each inexplicably heavy sigh;
The weight of each step,
The unconscious stoop,
The wary glance,
The weary countenance,
The shallow smile.