Five years old and there was a ball at my feet. My mind was shaped around sport. How to keep the ball, how to steal the ball, how to attack, how to defend, ingrained before the age of six. Only the blood on your feet, the sweat on your brow, and tears on your cheeks would warrant you the slight shift of his chin from north to south.
At age twenty-two I had mastered playing for him, but had yet to master living for Him. My feet would become entangled with one another, leading me to the ground, I would earnestly stumble back to my feet in a desperate attempt to receive a shift in the direction of His chin.
If I could just prove to God that I was good enough, that my fall did not discount me. That my tangled legs did not define as lame. If I could just bleed enough, sweat enough, cry enough to prove to Him I was worthy of forgiveness.
I had grown accustomed to playing for a man who warranted all this. But who I play for, is not who I live for. My Father does not require me to run extra laps when I miss a wide open net, He does not require me to drop down and give Him fifty when I am late. He doesn’t even require me to give an alter sacrifice.
I broke promises, I consciously went against His word, I intentionally distanced myself from Him, I sinned again and again and each time I feared He would snatch me from His grace, His mercy, and even worse His love.
I would say to myself ” I’ll pray a lot tomorrow, I’ll go to bible study twice this week, I’ll give an offering at church…..”.
But it finally clicked this year. My walk with Christ isn’t like playing a sport. He doesn’t require me to earn my grace, it’s renewed every morning.
There is nothing I can do to earn His love and there is nothing that can separate me from His love. It’s just something He gives unconditionally.
God is sheer mercy and grace; not easily angered, he’s rich in love. He doesn’t endlessly nag and scold, nor hold grudges forever. He doesn’t treat us as our sins deserve, nor pay us back in full for our wrongs.
-Psalm 103: 8-10