Grace In God's Time

"Hey, Judi, did you measure?"

"A long time ago," I heard myself say, as if, somehow, over time, the dimensions of the room would have been altered without us knowing. What I really meant was, it had been a while; perhaps I'd forgotten. Plus, we were shopping, way back when, for an area rug to go underneath our "comfortably seats four" kitchen table. Now, we had purchased said rug to accommodate our "he's still breathing on me!" table for six, or more. And it was still too big -- not for the table, mind you, but for the room.

I'd found the rug on a yard sale website; it wasn't my first choice, but that one was taken. This one was from a seller, a pastor; we even shared a name. Safe, right? As though no serial killer or sex trafficker named Judi would ever masquerade as a woman of the cloth. (I mean, ya gotta think about those things in this day and age.) Just a quick trip across the bridge, a more than reasonable asking price met, and it would be ours. It was perfect. It still smelled new. All joking aside, I had prayed about this. The rug thing -- or lack thereof -- was really bugging Scott. I had asked God to open or shut any doors inconsistent with us spending the money for "accessories" when we had other bills to pay. Every door we encountered was open. Except for one...

"What are we gonna do with it now?"

After discussing a few options, we decided there was definitely a "best choice." One of our newest residents had, in the Springtime, carelessly, possibly even deliberately, desecrated the carpet that was in her room. Upon the first offense, we spoke to her, of course; but after the second and a third incident, we removed said carpet. The stark, cold hardwood floors cried out for something to warm them, particularly as the weather began to change. But, things like plumbing and auto repairs, and medical bills drew our eyes away from restoring this child; and though we never would have made her do without any longer (it had already been months, and she had definitely exhibited signs of maturing) we hadn't given it further thought. But God had.

As I stood Sunday evening, absorbing the fragrance of new wool, my toes curling deeply into the soft pile, one word came to mind. Grace. This is how God's grace smells. This is how God's grace feels. Perfectly is how God's grace fits. It was time to show this young sister grace. And, though we wouldn't have denied it, it was completely off our radar. But not off of God's. He knows her need. He knows her heart. His timing is perfect. And He opens doors -- maybe not the ones we'd expect -- to two busy, sometimes over-extended and oblivious caregivers, giving them the privilege of being vessels of His grace.