Mercy. That act of not getting what you do deserve. Like a true criminal set free. Their sentence paid by one not guilty.
And I'm great at extending mercy to you. Or him or her. Or that homeless guy on the street. Or that celebrity who I'm certain just needs a second chance. Let me boldly extend radical grace and second chances to everyone. But myself...
I must pay for my crimes. The voice echoes in my head. Even for things long forgiven I hold myself accountable. For things Jesus blotted out I make myself pay.
When it comes to me my standards are high and grace is limited. Legalism reigns and I am always under the weight of one self imposed limitation or another.
So mercy, I know what it is. And I can give it to you. But mercy extended to myself? That is something else entirely. Something else I must continue to learn and work at. When I'd rather be shaming myself I must believe that God's words are true. That my sins are gone and I'm clothed in righteousness.
That I am the receptor of his mercy.
Today I'm joining a community of writers that encourage each other on Fridays. Interested? Join us here.