Grace in a Broken Cup

I broke Dad's favorite coffee cup, like the one he uses every day. It was an accident! I'd washed the cup and left it drying on a tine of the dish rack. When I tried to pull it off to put it away, it slipped out of my hands and fell into the cast iron sink. Voila! The cup went into two large pieces and a thousand tiny shards.

When I told Dad what I'd done, he was like, "The cup I use every day?"

I was like, "Yeah, the black one."

"Oh well." That was all he said. He could condemned me, gotten upset, berated me, or even asked me to replace the cup (which I later did, because I wanted to), but he didn't. He let it go.

I, on the other hand, had a hard time letting go. I questioned what I could have and should have done differently. I was tired and exhausted and needed to go to bed, but found myself wanting to do penance. I wanted to order a new cup right then, or read extra Bible verses, or somehow otherwise punish myself. But I realized I had a choice. I could beat myself up or forgive myself. I could move on, or or I could stay stuck. I chose to move on.

I took my shower that night, read the newspaper, ate my snack, and went to bed as per usual routine. I woke up the next morning and ordered a new cup that not coincidentally said on it, "Best Dad Ever." And life went on.

Being shown grace necessitates that I show it to others, even to myself. Dad's grace wouldn't have done much good had I not it to myself. And I wouldn't know grace had I no need for it. Perhaps grace flows best through broken vessels.

I'm linking up with Amanda at Running with Spoons for this Thinking Out Loud post.