Ocean grace.

Her words bubbled up from deep within, nearly nervouse to share but not willing to forsake the truth. "I don't even want to talk to Him or pray, really. My mind is filled with thoughts that are impure and not right," or something to that extent were the statements that toppled out as she picked at her fingers.

It was then in that moment that a small quiet voice said to me, "Share with her. Share with her how UNwanting of His will and this story you have been. Share with her that thoughts course through your head that make you realize how misfit you are as a Pastor's wife, how off you are with Him, how you weren't sure you even wanted Him. Tell her that you weren't sure you could ever pray again or open the Bible and read it the way you used to...in love with His love letter. Share."

And so I did. My eyes bore into hers, pleading and desparate to desire Him.

"You know...since March 1, I wasn't sure I would ever be able to want to pray or read His word (the Bible) like devouring a meal. I never doubted His existence and very real presence; no I have known He was here all along. His presence was too thick, too here to deny. But I wasn't wanting the story being written for me. I was throwing a tantrum that was lasting months; heck I still throw one about once a day. There were moments I laid on my carpet floor and sobbed so many tears into the fibers and all I could think was, 'The right thing to do is pray, but I don't have words, or a will.' I thought maybe I was slipping too far into the pit of destruction; being buried by dirt and filth and earth worms and muck. I thought maybe I wouldn't care if He left me to rot on my own. Maybe I would stop being ME. If only I could cease existing. I had decided the honest route, which is clearly less heroic, less beautiful, more painful. But you know what? It's the end of May. It's been nearly three full months of weeping and sorrow and seeking Him without knowing I was. But I was; in my acknowledging that He was present amidst my aches and pains. Something else that hit me this weekend is, I don't resent Him - my honesty protected me. Though I felt wholly ungodly, I experienced a level of grace that I've talked about but not quite felt. The grace continually said, 'You are okay right now...ungodly and damaged. You are still mine and I'm not letting go. I still delight in you, my daighter.' And if Jesus hasn't let go of me while I am throwing tantrums and saying I don't want this [beautiful] life He has given me, He surely will not let go of you. You are covered by the same grace."

Both of our sweet created eyes had wells of tears and honest aching for that to be true. And though I may slip back into that place of 3 year old tantrum, I still believe His grace is enough. For you and for me.

Grace. Covering us, engulfing us, swallowing us whole, even in the nasty, ugly, isolated pit we have been thrown into.

His grace is sufficient.

His grace is an ocean.