All Is Grace.
The Promise of Rain
Gently and softly the rain falls now
On the once parched skin of earth’s wrinkled brow
Smoothing lines left by yesterday’s toil
Filling dry creek beds with tomorrow’s soil.
What is it about the promise of rain
That changes forever
The purpose of pain?
Perhaps it’s the cleansing, long overdue
Or how a few drops of water make everything new.
When the tears of heaven kiss my upturned face,
I believe once again in the power of Grace.
For better or worse, the women in my family are known for their devastatingly keen sense of smell. When confronted with overwhelming odors such as certain heavily cologned and dimly lit mall stores selling hip teens’ clothing, the result is headache or nausea. When encountering everyday smells, it is a fantastic tool for detection. For instance, when Drew came home from work pre-pandemic, I could tell by the smell of his head and hands what he had for lunch that day. This process was highly rewarding for one of us and it is something I miss. Having the nose of a canine detective can be annoying, but it has often been a gift. Although a little strange to admit, smelling—for me—has become a way of knowing and experiencing the world more fully.
Every morning after I wake up, I come downstairs to open the window above my sink, stick my nose next to the screen, and smell what the earth is up to. Discovering the changing way the air smells of green and warm or grey and cold brings me joy. Some days I am greeted with the gentle allure of opening blossoms, other days with the sun-warming smell of freshly-cut grass or the spicy scent of fallen leaves as summer ends.
*
This morning when I went to the kitchen window, I was met with the fresh, earthy smell of rain. There are days when the perpetual rain of the Pacific Northwest becomes a barrier—a heavy cloak that wraps itself around my home and mind, causing me to burrow deeper and stay inside, often leading to depression. But there are also days when the rain becomes an invitation. Today was such a day, when the rain was soft and the warm breeze was heavy with the smell of newly greening growth. “Come out and play!” was the song the rain sang, so Drew and I pulled on our raincoats and stepped outside for a walk as the first drops landed on our upturned faces.
We first came across a group of three toddlers along with their caregiver—a woman with green hair and a sheepish grin who was guiding them to a puddle for the express purpose of stomping and splashing. Invincible in their brightly colored rain boots featuring puppy dogs, firetrucks, and flowers, they hopped in and out of the puddle with gleeful giggles. As we said hello, they responded with an excited “Hello!” or “Have a nice day!” in an out-of-sync, jumping chorus of greeting prompted by their now smiling caregiver.
As we continued traversing down the familiar, well-worn sidewalks of the 10 block grid which composes our neighborhood, I marveled at the way the rain makes everything look new. The flowers beamed more vibrantly, with pearls of water glistening upon fringed poppy petals. The sidewalk gleamed with reflected sunlight that was beginning to peek through the clouds.
We were thrilled to encounter a snail and stopped to watch it inch and slide across the uneven sidewalk, carrying its home on its softly undulating back. “Where does his shell come from?” Drew wondered aloud. I didn’t know and said with 0% confidence, “Maybe its mucus grows it…” which Drew graciously accepted as I basked in the mystery of it, choosing not to take out my phone to look up the answer. (Do snails have mucus? Don’t tell me.)
As we continued home, I felt grateful for how the rain’s invitation taught me to slow down long enough to happily greet a group of puddle-hopping toddlers, to see with new eyes the colors made brighter by overcast skies—to wonder at the way a snail moves inch by slow inch across wet pavement, utterly at home in its luminous body.
*
Now indoors as the rain beats upon the panes of my windowed heart, I hold these evidences of goodness close to my chest, pondering a phrase from the autobiography of the late priest and author Brennan Manning that has captured my heart for years:
All is Grace.
As children of God, this is the air we breathe—this Grace that is God’s kindness to us, a kindness that cannot be earned and would cease to be itself if it could be deserved. Grace is the golden thread that is woven through the entirety of your story, even the darkest parts that you’d rather not look at, even the pain you may be experiencing now. As one recovering from years of an “earning” mentality, I have often missed the soft presence of Grace in my midst as I have kept my head down, always pushing ahead, never stopping to look around me.
Yet I suspect this Grace, this gentle kindness, is always among us—whether we acknowledge it or not—beckoning to us like the rain, falling on sinners and saints the same.
This is the truth that is difficult to remember when anxiety and doubt plague my mind, when depression strikes and I feel stuck in a valley of shadows, when loved ones suffer and die and burning questions about meaning and purpose go unanswered. Today, on a day when I do mercifully remember that all is grace and that there is no place or reality too dark that God’s presence cannot be found, I pray that we all may be given the eyes to look up and truly see—to behold, even, the unique way that God is making all things new in our lives and stories, even when it seems impossible and all evidence points to the contrary. All is Grace.
I don’t know why, but today the rain and all it contained is the means of God’s grace…and I am grateful.
* * *
“This…grace is indiscriminate compassion. It works without asking anything of us. It’s not cheap. It’s free, and as such will always be a banana peel for the orthodox foot and a fairy tale for the grown-up sensibility. Grace is sufficient even though we huff and puff with all our might to try and find something or someone that it cannot cover. Grace is enough...
Sin and forgiveness and falling and getting back up and losing the pearl of great price in the couch cushions but then finding it again, and again, and again? Those are the stumbling steps to becoming Real, the only script that’s really worth following in this world or the one that’s coming. Some may be offended by this ragamuffin memoir, a tale told by quite possibly the repeat of all repeat prodigals. Some might even go so far as to call it ugly. But you see that doesn’t matter, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly except to people who don’t understand...that yes, all is grace. It is enough. And it’s beautiful.”
–Brennan Manning, All is Grace