Here's What No One Tells You About Grace
Why Grace is the Spiritual Medicine Every Marriage Needs
“If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late.”
My mom was one of six kids, the daughter of a dentist and nurse who both valued showing up early as the ultimate form of respect. So naturally, she passed that notion down to me. Some of my earliest childhood memories involve being early. Waiting outside the door on the first day of school. Waiting on the field for every soccer practice to start. Waiting in waiting rooms for annual dentist and doctor checkups.
So. Much. Waiting.
You would think by the time I became an adult myself that I would have rebelled against the utterly boring and tedious task of being early. Yet, the mere thought of running late causes me to have a visceral reaction. Pretty sure it’s a Pavlov’s dog thing. I’m talking a sweating-through-your-shirt, face-turning-red, stomach-churning, nail-biting kinda thing. I’m fully aware of just how ridiculous this is and that there are far worse things in life than being late, but I literally cannot help myself.
We often attend the 4:00 Saturday service at our church. Since we live about thirty minutes away, I know I have to start getting the kids ready at 2:30 to be out the door and in the car by 3:15. That gives us JUST enough time to check them into childcare and for me to grab a coffee before the worship music begins. It’s a whole thing, but I’ve got it down to a science.
On one particular Saturday, I knew my husband had planned for a busy workday at the farm, but he promised to be home early. I got the kids ready, shoes on, coats zipped, water bottles filled… and then I got the text from him five minutes before we were supposed to walk out the door: “I’m so sorry! Things didn’t go as planned today. I’ll be home in twenty.”
This is the part where I’d like to say I texted back with “No problem, babe, totally understand! See you soon!” But no, not even a little bit. We were now going to be late and I was seething. Let me be the first to say that the irony of this situation is not lost on me— we were going to church, CHURCH. The least I could have done was show my husband a little Jesus at that moment. But again, no. I was far too concerned with catastrophizing the domino effect of being late than showing my husband a little compassion.
He walked in with a smile, which I didn’t reciprocate, and offered another apology, which I didn’t accept, before making a beeline for the bedroom. He wrapped the kids in a bear hug before asking them to time how fast he could get changed into his church clothes. They counted as high as they could while eagerly cheering him on, something I clearly could’ve been taking notes on. When he was finished getting ready, he happily loaded both kids into their car seats and opened my car door for me.
Not once did he match my energy.
I watched him pump gas through the passenger side window, clenching my jaw as the minutes ticked by. I had known my gas tank was nearing empty all week. We both knew I could have stopped one of the numerous times I was in town, but I didn’t.
Not once did he mention that fact.
We pulled into the church parking lot and despite the scowl on my face, he told me how beautiful I looked. As I was getting the kids checked into their childcare rooms, he grabbed my favorite coffee order from the church café. With minutes to spare, he took my hand and led me into the sanctuary to find a seat.
Not once did he gloat that we made it on time.
As the worship music began, he threw his arm around me and whispered into my ear how much he loved me. Side by side we praised God, one of us acknowledging our blessings, the other asking for forgiveness. My husband squeezed me tightly as my tears began to brim, a feeling of unworthiness washing over me.
Not once did he withhold his affection.
From the outside, it may look like my husband was just trying to get back into my good graces, but it wasn’t that. That evening, he fully recognized that I was severely lacking in grace of any kind— so he gave me his. And not just a little bit, all of it.
My hard exterior couldn’t help but shatter in the face of that kind of grace. I apologized to him profusely, explaining how I hate that lateness is such a trigger for me and how much I had struggled with my anxiety that day, but that it was also no excuse for my behavior... And before I could even finish my rambling repentance, he stopped me. “I know,” he said with a smile, wrapping me in his arms once more. “I already forgave you the moment I walked in the door.”
My husband is good at grace, whereas I am good at grudges (working on it). But as a self-aware recipient of that grace, I can tell you one thing: While grace is always unexpected and often undeserved, it never goes unnoticed and the receiver never goes unaffected.
I remember that moment every time my husband makes a mistake now because that kind of grace? It sets a precedent. It’s God’s spiritual medicine, capable of divinely healing hardened hearts and restoring relationships. And if we are willing, we can freely administer it as often as needed.
If you enjoyed this blog post, I think you’ll love A Real Christian. It’s all about why Christianity isn’t synonymous with perfectionism, and why we need to stop equating the two immediately.