Grace in Disguise

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds.
—James 1:2 (NIV)

When I was eleven, my grandma fell in her kitchen. We later learned she’d had a grand mal seizure, and the fall was simply a byproduct.

For months, Grandma was in a coma. Doctors were uncertain whether she’d ever wake up again. Daily my grandpa, a hardworking farmer and World War II vet, was by her side. Quietly waiting. Caring. Hoping.

And then, Grandma woke up. She was never the same cognitively or physically. Her condition required constant care, so Grandpa sold the farm and built a house right behind ours. We assisted in Grandma’s day-to-day needs.

It was not uncommon for us all to eat dinner together or for me to pop over to Grandpa’s to help him with household tasks or watch Purdue basketball. Our lives became linked to theirs.

Don’t be deceived: I was anything but a saint. In my early teens, I often balked at the responsibility I carried. Because my mom was often busy helping my grandparents, I was put in charge of dinner or watching my three younger siblings. Ever the drama queen, I was convinced no one else ever had it so rough. (Insert eye roll here.)

But when I was fifteen, Grandma died, and the loss was palpable. Our lives had been so wrapped up in her health that her absence left more than sadness. It was disorienting. All of us felt a sense of “What now?” to varying degrees.

I could go back to being a “normal” teenager—but that realization brought no joy. As hard as caring for grandparents was, the good was greater. That season held its sacredness, and when it was over, I struggled to adjust to the new normal.

One day, Grandpa called our house and asked me to come over. The request wasn’t unusual so I took off across the grass and bounded in though his sunroom door.

Grandpa stood there with purpose. It was no ordinary house call. He proceeded to tell me how much he had appreciated my help with grandma over the years since her fall, and then he held out the ring—Grandma’s ring—“I want you to have it.” Together, we wept.

Twenty-one years later, I still wear her ring, as a reminder not only of my grandparents but also that God often allows what is hard to usher in what is good. And that is grace.

—originally published in Be Still: Leaning into God When Everything Falls Apart (A 30-Day Devotional)

feature image: Jakub Kriz via unsplash

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