Same Isaac, New Altar

Just when I begin to think and hope and believe that I have surrendered my Isaac, that I have believed and trusted and yielded; just when I think I'm finally beginning to understand that simple Sunday School lesson I thought I had learned such a long, long time ago, the narrative shifts and I have to begin again.

Has God indeed provided a ram, deliverance from the altar I've agreed to place my son on?  Or has he (and we) been granted only temporary reprieve, simply calling him to another altar?

The altar named Uncertainty.

And will there be another ram, another, thicket, another deliverance?  Or will that altar consume him, and me, with fear and doubt and despair?

These are the questions I bring back to the story, knowing the answers in my head, praying they will take root in my heart.

I read these words by a man named Belden C. Lane in a book entitled The Solace of Fierce Landscapes:

There are graces, we all come to realize, that we'd rather not receive.  Theologians used to distinguish between special grace and common grace, but we've never much valued the latter.  Special grace is extraordinary; it comes with drama and flair.  We are rescued, singled out in a momentous act of boldness.  But common grace falls upon the just and unjust alike.  It strikes us as simply too ... ordinary.

And this is what I need, this common grace.  Grace to believe that God will, indeed, be faithful in the inbetween time--the time of desert wandering, the time of exile when I've just been told to buy a worthless field and wait for God's deliverance.  But as I wander, I doubt.  I wonder if God will be gracious this day, or tomorrow, during the next appointment, when frustrations surface, when conflicts arise, when sinners live together, when cars and house and things break down.  Will God give me this common, daily grace?





I continue to number the gifts.  I count common grace.

409. Finding “the dress!”

410. Four full days of mother/daughter time and loving every minute of it.

411. The friendliness of Pittsburgh people.

412. Hearing Pittsburgh-ese, that delightful accent, all around me.

413. Seeing Amish farmers through the windows of the passing train, watching them work their fields in the heat of the day, using only horse-drawn equipment.

414. Conversations with fellow passengers on the train.

415. A young man giving up his seat for an elderly woman; seeing others witness this and follow suit.

416. Coming home to the beloved Swede.

417. Getting the repairs done.

418. Being awake and having an unexpected heart-felt text chat with a friend in the middle of the night.

419. Rain, finally, falling on the crunchy brown grass, falling on the just and the unjust.

419. Common grace, like rain.