Grace

I have been slowly, on and off rereading, "Do You Think I'm Beautiful" by Angela Thomas. I don't know specifically why, but it seems God throws something relevant at me each time I remember it's been stashed under my bed with however many other million books. I remember the last time I read the chapter I read tonight, all about the prodigal son. Last time I related to what she was saying about the elder son, this time the prodigal son. Quite a strange realisation. Go and read the story here again. Or/and read this:

Two seventeenth-century theologians were debating on the nature of grace. One said that grace is like one parent guiding a toddler across the room to the other parent, who has an apple for the child. The nearby parent watches the youngster; if he almost falls, this parent will hold him for a moment so that he can still cross the room under his own power. But the other theologian had a different view. For him grace comes to us only in the discovery of our total helplessness. In his concept, we are like a caterpillar in a ring of fire. Deliverance can only come from above. The only hope of liberation for a helpless, resisting caterpillar in a ring of fire is deliverance from above. Someone must reach down into the ring and take us out. This rescue is what brings us from the orphan state into that of the son or daughter. This is not mere supporting grace, but transforming grace.