Fair...

Mine. I want it. I had it first. I didn’t do it. But he started it. You may think I am replaying a conversation that took place this morning with my 3 year old son. And you are right. But even more revealing (and embarrassing) is my admittance that it is also the same conversation I have had countless times with God. I admit it. I am quick to find someone to blame when I have been wronged. To take it one step further, I quickly become an expert at justifying my actions when I have been the one doing the ‘wronging’.

When I was in younger, my parents and I would argue about how they were choosing to parent one of my siblings. You see, she chose a different path for her life – one that most anyone would agree was selfish and destructive. On the other hand I was doing my best to please my parents by excelling in school, holding a job and trying to learn responsibility. Don’t misread me here, I made more than my far share of bad decisions and certainly took many opportunities to show my rebellious side – but that is a different story for a different day. I was no angel child, but compared to her, I looked pretty darn good. No matter how good I was, or how ‘bad’ she was, we were still offered the same privileges it seemed. I got a car to drive to school and work, but you know what, so did she. Didn’t they know she rarely made it to school and didn’t even have a job? Strike 1. She would hit them up for some cash for who knows what, and I had to explain what I intended to do with every cent I was given. Strike 2. You can see where this is going. I would get so angry because it appeared that if I would choose to make poor choices I would be afforded the same luxuries, or perhaps even more. They were always dealing with her latest ordeal and I was just expected to “stay out of trouble” and “don’t cause us any more problems because we already have our hands full with your sister”. It seemed the spotlight was always on her.

I had never drawn the parallels of this story to that of the Prodigal Son, but today they were made very clear. My parents were extending the same grace to her as they were me. Why should I expect them to parent me any different? It wasn’t up to me. I wasted so much time being angry and wondering why I wasn’t being applauded for my efforts.

I am sure many of us have similar stories – but that is just it – the story doesn’t really matter. What matters is who you are in the story. Are you the rebellious son, lost and far from God? Are you the self-righteous one, no longer capable of rejoicing when a sinner returns to God? Maybe you've hit rock-bottom, come to your senses and decided to run to God's open arms of compassion and mercy? Or are you one of the servants in the household, rejoicing with the father when a lost son finds his way home? No matter what, God is standing there ready and willing to accept you regardless of who you believe yourself to be or what you have done. For me, I just need to accept grace for what it is – an amazing, unexplainable gift from my Heavenly Father.

Dee