Growing up, summer looked like one thing: Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Whether it was swimming in their pool or playing Left, Center, Right inside the screened-in porch that acted as a warehouse of patio furniture, radios and party lights – a dozen of my closest relatives would get together almost every weekend. Thunders of laughter would crescendo like the rumbles of the rolling thunder around us and we would sit there and let time pass by as we ate leftover corn on the cob and slurped on ice pops.
It was summer on the north shore of Long Island and this was the epitome of it all.
Kentucky Fried Chicken in a salad bowl, salad bowl, salad bowl.
This time, heads looked up and conversations came to unwanted halts.
I have these moments where I become so keenly aware of my total depravity before the Lord and I get so ashamed that I all but lock myself up away from the world. I get the point of feeling so unworthy that sometimes; I can’t even lift my head to pray.
And while I can’t say that was the last time I ran and hid in the midst of my remorse, I can’t say it was the last time I was pursued by a relentless and undefiled grace either.