God begins to shape her baby’s ears in the darkness. She doesn’t even know yet – that life throbs in her. Cells split multiply split multiply split multiply.
By now she knows and thrills with pride and panic and happy nausea at the inner mystery workings though she can’t see how He is moulding the little folds in their just-so position, their just-so shape. And as she grows big with hope the little ears in the hushed sanctuary swallow her soft diluted voice. Love and confidence trace tiny brain paths. Peace pulses into the foetal soul. He’ll know his Mommy when he hears her.
The inevitable debut dawns. God breathes and infant lungs suck and swell. The just-born ears hear pain and ecstasy and tender mumblings and tentative love.
The years pass. God watches every hum buzz joke song yell and prayer that thuds or trickles into the ears of the baby then the boy then the man. Who ends up a slave.
To the high priest.
The slave-man’s ears overhear the antagonism of his master. The cartilage canals brim with bitterness. There’s the sound of fear and jealousy and a plot coagulating.
One night in a garden above the city the slave-man is swept into the vindictive climax of a cosmic betrayal. Torch glaring, he hears in the throng of surprise attack soft traitor lips insipid on bearded cheeks. That’s Him. His friends are bleary – ashamed – yet desperate and afraid and brandishing swords because suddenly they get what this is and just as suddenly the slave-man hears – slice – excruciating silence. There’s blood and shock and grating breath and staggering and –
‘No more of this.’
It’s the prisoner speaking. The One they came to get. The One whose uncanny eyes are liquid love and perfect power and deep sadness strangely brightened by victory and bloodshot with prayer. God stretches out His hand. He touches the place where He formed the ear that first time in the darkness. And here in the darkness of the garden as His darkest hours unfold He makes for his beloved foe the slave-man another ear for the one He knew He would heal one day even as He was whispering to those first cells to split multiply split multiply split multiply. And there’s no surprise in His eyes.
He forms his enemy. Then he fixes his enemy. Despite knowing. Despite everything.
He formed me. Then he fixed me. Despite knowing. Despite everything.
And I want to bow low and weep and fling wide my arms in laughing sobs of thanks and consternation and relief and strange terror at our great God.
Because I was deaf but now I hear.
I think that’s grace.
Today’s words for 500 Words on Grace are penned by the lovely Dalene. Dalene Reyburn is passionate about God, people, and life in general. She is wife to Murray, mom to Cameron and Scott, daughter, sister, friend, aunt, teacher, learner, traveller, writer, adventurer, speaker, bed snuggler, barefoot walker, letter writer, prayer warrior, tea drinker, home maker, book reader, chick-flick watcher, and lover of: Africa, music, mountains, big trees, big skies, poetry, cappuccinos, dancing, golden retrievers and catching trains in foreign countries. You can check out her blogs Growing younger on the inside and Celebrating Life, or you can follow her on Twitter.