the beauty of counting to eleventeen

A couple months ago as I was preparing dinner I listened to the kids playing.  I could hear enough snippits of their interactions to know that they were playing hide-and-go-seek.  The game had been going along for a while when someone decided that my youngest should have a turn to count. He is always happy to have a turn.  Unfortunately for him, he's not super skilled in the counting department. I listened.  He counted.  "1. 2.  3.  Here I come."  It actually took him less than 2 seconds to get that out and he went running down the hall.  I could not hear the interaction that followed, but he was sent back.  I heard him count again.  "1. 2. 3. ...5...8. 9. 10."  And off he went again.  This time I could hear some frustrated voices.  "You aren't counting long enough!!!"  So he tried again a third time.  "1......2......3.....5.......9.....10...(Now insert very long pause.  He is smart.)  
ELEVENTEEN!!!!"  And he went running with gusto down the hall to find his sisters. 
Nobody argued with the kid who counted to eleventeen.

My school aged kiddos go to a school that has a diverse population.  This year there are 2 different moms that I would love to chat with, but they don't speak English and I am not very confident in my Spanish speaking abilities.  I would smile and say "hello" and they would shyly smile back but that was as far as our communication went.  Until a few weeks ago.  I gathered up some of my courage and I initiated a conversation in Spanish.  We talked non stop for the few minutes that remained before school let out.  I am certain that I made numerous grammatical errors.  I probably said something like "eleventeen".  But guess what?  I don't think she cared. 

I went home and I thought about this other mom and how often she has to gather up her courage to do her best with a language she can't speak very well.  All the embarrassment of knowing that you are making mistakes and wondering if you are really being understood.  Suddenly I realized that I had this little window of opportunity to absorb that for her.  I could be the one to bumble around in a language I don't speak well.  I could be the one to make all the mistakes, and allow her to nod reassuringly and offer the words that I was searching for.  What if my willingness to be weak was a blessing to her?  What if it was empowering?

As the fall was coming to an end, our family took advantage of a few extra days off for conferences and we went to the beach.  As we were gathering up all our stuff to go, my dad offered to start loading the luggage in the van.  I thanked him but declined.  I explained to him that I wanted to quickly vacuum out the van before we left.  A few minutes later I was aware that my dad was getting out the vacuum and preparing to vacuum the car. 

So kind.  But I cringed.

The far back seat of the van regularly has enough crumbs to sustain our whole family for an entire meal or two. I always intend to get back there, and "follow up" on what my kids believe to be a sufficient clean up job, but I rarely make it to the third back seat.  To say that the van needed to be vacuumed was a severe understatement.  Anyone who has ever known anything about my dad knows that he is a very strong Type A personality.  Growing up, room inspection was serious business.  I watched him vacuum my van and I was tempted to go back to my childhood days of "room inspection."  I was not passing inspection.  My van was a disaster.

My dad kindly and patiently vacuumed the van as we gathered the rest of our stuff.  He then helped us to load up the van.  He didn't say anything about our crumbs or the mess.  He smiled and told us to have fun.  I thanked him for his help and we headed off.

As we drove to the beach I thought about my feelings about my dad vacuuming the van.  One thing that I have come to appreciate is that even though there are things that my dad can't do anymore, he is very eager to do anything that he can.  Maybe my willingness to be weak, or in this case, my willingness to accept help is a blessing to him. 

What if I limited my own interactions to the places I feel comfortable?  What if I only did the things that I know I do well?  What if I never allowed myself to need help from the people around me?

Friends I think that this is where grace is rich.  Grace is rich in the places that lie just beyond the edge of our own capabilities.  When I can say, "This isn't something I've mastered.  I need help." we put ourselves in a place to receive grace.  I saw it in the eyes of another mother, encouraging me with thankful eyes.  Her nods and her broad smile spoke grace to me.  I saw it in the hands of my father, reaching the vacuum into the far back seat of our van, using his type A skills to get every measurable crumb into its proper place.  It's not room inspection anymore.  Just grace.  I can rest in that.

Romans 12:16 "Live in harmony with each other.  Don't try to act important, but enjoy the company of ordinary people, and don't think you know it all!"  (New Living)

So I have a new resolve.  I want to live more of my life on the edge of my own strength and allow myself to be empowered by His strength.  I want to reach beyond my own capabilities even if it means counting to eleventeen.  I want to be willing to not be perfect and admit the places that I need help and accept it.  And I resolve to eagerly extend grace as well.  To offer help where I see that it is needed.  To acknowledge the effort that it takes to walk outside of our comfort zone and use encouraging eyes. 

I want to walk in places of rich grace.