But really, I know better. I know grace.
I know grace because I read about a family that lost their baby, the one born with the broken heart. And then I read about the family who has their sweet daughter, the one born fifteen weeks before she was supposed to. And I hear, and I see, and I know. Effort does not matter. God does. Grace does.
This day is a grace. I want to beat my fists at this window, on this table. I want to cry and heave and weep. Life is not fair. You do not always get back what you gave. But then - what did I do to get this day? This day that is a grace? It was not mine, I did not make it. I did not work it into being. This day was crafted in splendor and with colors that rival the sunrise over a glassy, mountain-circled lake. It was written with glory and glow, purity and passion. Yet it did not happen the way it was written. Because many, many, many days before this one, a choice was made. A choice that shrouded this day with a veil. We can see dimly, yet we still do not really know. We do not fully see. But their are hints. There are hints of grace.
And when I want to shake with sobs or bend in sorrow, I remember that this day was never mine, nor was anything in it. Instead of instinctively clenching and shaking my fists, I pray I will someday intuitively open them. I will open them and let the gifts of grace, in their joys and in their sorrows, fill them up. I can hold them tight because they are from a Giver. A Giver who sees beyond this day and who sees through the veil.