Sometimes

Sometimes grace is full and sweet, like the first bite of a ripe peach where you find your teeth sinking deep and look up sheepishly with juice trickling down your chin.
Sometimes grace is sharp and salty, like the way tears cut their way across your flushed cheeks and your tired mind can trace their path and taste their deposits at the corner of your mouth.
Sometimes grace is both, twined together, entangled.
Sometimes you look up and you think, The goodness of God is too good. And it stabs itself into your stomach and makes you gasp, even as tears rush down your face because you know, I don't deserve it.
Sometimes you wonder how God could really have answered your prayer, simply because you asked it. And sometimes you wonder why he didn't answer your other prayer, the one you wept and slept.
Sometimes you open your hands, slowly, weakly, tired of clutching them and squeezing--suffocating--the flame of joy because you're so intent on holding on to it--protecting it. Like the little girl who smiles ghoulishly into the fish tank, anxious for her next victim.
Sometimes you stand on the top of the hill, gasping, aching, looking at the sun meandering its way behind the hills and you know fire--grace--gifts.
Sometimes you hug someone and you think Redeemer, we need you.
Sometimes redemption is deep waters, enveloping, swallowing, dragging to the bottom claiming Him for their own so you could stumble, collapse on dry ground. Taste sand and know joy. Wild.