Fish Vomit and Grace

This week has been a fish vomit sort of week.

-The lovely house - our "home" house - in Colorado was under contract. But the contract fell through. Again. Something with the buyers financing, but whatever. The cost of keeping the house on the market has put a huge strain on our finances; the emotional strain is equal.

-Eddie has had to work TONS. And while I generally have a decent attitude about his long hours I really needed backup this week. And he was gone. And I was, well, kinda pissed. Because we moved out here so we could be with Eddie. I felt ripped off. Cheated. I, actually, really do believe that Eddie wants to be with us, and he shifts and juggles things to be present as much as possible, This week it didn't happen. And the bitterness is crescendo-ed because we have such a flimsy support system here.

-And my foot is still swollen so I can't run. While I have a love-hate relationship with running I know it contributes to my emotional health and stability. It is a necessary ingredient to sanity.

-I am feeling the weight of the consequences of our move more potently than ever. FASD is dancing through our home upsetting tables and overturning expectations as it makes its merry way through what once was stable. I don't know anyone in the state of California who even remotely understands what this means to us. I feel alone in it.

-And we have mediocre options for schooling the kids. Mediocre and costly. And it weighs heavy.

Which brings me to the fish vomit.

In he midst of my pity party this week I started thinking about Jonah - you know, the guy who was swallowed by the whale. I started thinking about how absolutely disgusting that experience must have been. Vile, dark, clammy and smelling of fish vomit. But the crazy thing of it was that it was GRACE.

It was grace, and it smelled like fish vomit.

Grace for Jonah - the pansy prophet.
Grace for Ninevah - the culture of degenerates and reprobates
Grace for those Sailors - the bad luck crew who had the misfortune of hooking up with a guy who had a bone to pick with God.

It's the retching of our faith, and the irony of God, that sometimes Grace-Wild-Grace smells of fish vomit.

And the trick of it is to name it correctly.

GRACE.

It rarely looks as we think it should.

The narrative of its most compelling display showcases:
a chopped off ear,
flagrant betrayal,
a sword in the side,
and looting and lude soldiers at the foot of the cross.

Grace was death, and why are we surprised when the grace of God feels like death.

But it is STILL grace.