My name is inappropriate on several levels.

/greɪs/ Show Spellbut mostly just this one: 

grace [greys] noun, verb, adjective: graced, grac·ing, grace·ful

noun: freely given, unmerited favor and love

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"Did any of you guys ever play Destiny when you were campers?"

"I did! I converted you when I was 13, Katie Northey."

"Did everyone hear that? Grace Stephenson saved me. Except that's a lie,
cause only God can save people..."

And from the back of the chapel we hear a group of boys shouting,
"SAVED BY GRACE!"

The response from Katie: "Darn you, quick-witted boys..."

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Occasionally people make silly puns, or point at me when they sing about grace in church, and I generally dismiss their childish humor. Recently, though, it's been growing, nagging at me-- the actual implications of my name.

What is the power and the legacy of that word-- that name? 

"Oh, what's in a name?"

GRACE

It defines me, but it also gives meaning to something with eternal implications. I have, with increasing intensity, felt unworthy of the name my parents gave me.

Grace.

God's grace.

The completely free and undeserved gift from our Creator to His beloved, albeit sinful, children. This concept saved humanity.
MANKIND HAS BEEN SAVED BY GRACE.
I am a tiny, worthless fleck of dust
when measured against the word that was given to me at birth.

I don't claim any ownership of it. I wouldn't be capable of that... Sometimes I feel a silly burden from it, when I start feeling as though my sin could somehow taint the nonbeliever's image of perfect redemption; if that isn't irony, I don't know what is... I portray the meaning of grace in their eyes, and it has nothing to do with it being my name: I'm sinfully human just like everyone else, the thing that makes a difference is the freely given, unmerited favor and love I receive daily despite my worldliness. My shortcomings only highlight my gracious Savior's selfless love.

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Unashamed by Starfield

I have not much to offer You

Not near what You deserve

But still I come because Your cross

Has placed in me my worth

Oh, Christ my King of sympathy

Whose wounds secure my peace

Your grace extends to call me friend

Your mercy sets me free

And I know I'm weak, I know I'm unworthy

To call upon Your name

But because of grace, because of Your mercy
I stand here unashamed

Here I am

At Your feet

In my brokenness,

Complete

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With something as small as a name tag,
I am carrying around an idea powerful enough to bring me to my knees. 


I feel alienated from it.

dependent upon it.
undeserving of it.

an overwhelming affection and gratitude for it.

Has anyone else noticed how long my recent posts have been?

Yeah, me too.

I thought it was time for some lighter material.

Or maybe not lighter.

Maybe just less.

Gainer showed me this video.

And it made me extremely happy,

like,

happy-tears, bubbly-feeling-in-your-stomach,

can't-wipe-that-stupid-grin-off-your-face, happy.

I'm not sure why.

Me and paper cranes, we go way back...

Freshman year I watched David Lee make one

and I figured out how.

There are now flocks of flamable birds on all my teachers' shelves.

Dozens made every day.

I do it now without thinking about it.

But when I do take the time to think about it,

I find that there's something endearing

about my frail attempts at creating an imitation of life,

those little folded pieces of winged paper;

like a child playing,
pretending to do their parents' work.

I used to pretend I was an architect, like my dad...

All I would do was color pictures on old blueprints.

Things haven't changed much.

essence of grandfatherlynessosity

There are tears on my cheeks, and approximately 47% of them are sad tears. The other 53%, I think, are ones of happiness:

I don't want to get into any sticky details at the moment... or ever, really... But this week my hillarious, frugal, spry, Godly, altruistic, 100% Dutch grandpa VerPloeg is going through a messy divorce from a woman who isn't my biological grandmother. My mother, her twin sister and their brother are all major worriers, and so our home for the past five days has been drowning in VerPloegian agitation. It's suffocating me.

But my grandpa walked into the kitchen, where I was hiding, to get away from his fretting children. I patted him on the back and said, "I bet that by now you're really tired of hearing people talk about you..."
"Oh, Gracie, you don't know the half of it."
I gave him a hug.
"Gracie," (he's the only one allowed to call me that besides my nieces, Dallas Bee and Earl Taylor) "I'm not gonna be up and running much longer... But before I go, I think I'd like to see you get married to a nice fella."
"Got anyone in mind? You'll have to find someone for me."
"I'd love to."
"Let me know when he's passed your tests, alright?"
"Sure."
We turn to go our separate ways.
"Oh, and Gracie?"
"Yeah Grandpa?"
"He's gonna have to be Dutch."
"... I think I can live with that."

The classiest wrestler I've ever met.

In light of the state tournament, I suppose it's probably time to share this two-part story.
Part One: A year ago
It was February, and I was at the 2010 CIML wrestling tournament. (I'm a manager) We were waiting for the finals match ahead of us to end; it was really intense, between Dowling and Urbandale, with the score tied up and parents from their respective teams yelling at each other. Chaos. It went into overtime and, after a few somewhat controversial calls from the ref and quuite an impressive battle, the Dowling wrestler won. I was sitting in front of his section; they went wild. After talking to his coaches, the victor came over near the stands (right beside me) to put his sweatpants back on and such-- he was pretty happy and everyone was shouting their congratulations. But my eye was on the guy who had lost; the wrestler from Urbandale was walking towards his opponent. And me. My first thought came purely in the interest of self-preservation: Do I need to get out of the way?
I wasn't trying to be dramatic.. I promise I'm not like the countless cheerleaders who scatter from the edge of the mat when wrestlers get anywhere near them... But I've been kicked by someone who just lost a match. I've had headgear thrown at me, been shoved out of the way, had chairs knocked into me. I'm not trying to receive any sympathy, I'm merely proving that a lot of guys have strong reactions to defeat. Some guys aren't just disappointed in themselves. Some guys make scenes. Some cry. Some have blind, and occasionally violent, rage. And at that moment, a potentially furious 215 pounds of almost entirely muscle was walking in my direction. I'm not gonna lie; I was scurrrred.
But his facial expression wasn't murderous. It wasn't angry or bitter... It wasn't even sad. My poker-face-reading skills failed me: I had no idea what this kid was thinking or planning to do. So, remaining cautious but mildly curious, I stayed where I was. And I sat there, listening timidly, as the wrestler from Urbandale walked up to the guy who had just narrowly beaten him, gave him a hand shake and said something to the effect of, "Hey, man. That was a really great match. You wrestled well-- Nice job."

 ...Bwhhaaatt?

Never. NEVER. In seven years of managing, and a significant portion of my childhood sitting around at wrestling duals and tournaments, never had I witnessed anything even remotely comparable to this interaction. I mean, really. Who does that? I don't even want to look at a team who has beaten us in soccer. And I'm a girl; I don't even care that much. And soccer isn't at all an individualistic sport. I couldn't comprehend what I had just witnessed. It took me a while to find the word for it: classy. I later learned, though, that that wasn't the right word at all... That's where part two comes in.

Part Two: A year later (for those of you who are bad at math.... That's this year.)
Since it happened, I think I had told that story a few times, allowing others to share in my surprise. Which they did. My dad told me I should tell the guy from Urbandale, but I couldn't think of anything that would be more awkward... (By the way, I saw his actual name in the tournament brackets, but let's just refer to him as various forms of 'Urbandale Wrestler' or 'Mr.Classy') 
So there I was, once again, at the CIML. I had been under the impression that Mr.C had graduated, but I saw him wrestling again, which threw me off as I tried awkwardly to avoid him at all costs... While hearing my dad's voice in the back of my mind, saying, "As a Christian, wouldn't that be the type of thing you'd want people to notice about you?"
A little while into the tournament, I was standing by a mat, scoring two separate matches and taping a third, when McClassy walked off another mat after winning a match and stopped right next to me to talk to his coaches. T'was agonizing, only for me of course, because I take my dad's crazy advice into such high consideration that it tends to cause me physical pain. There were two major things I didn't want to accomplish.
1. Unnecessarily fabricating the week's most awkward moment out of thin air, and
2. Sounding creepy, and somehow giving the false impression that I was at all interested in this person....
So awkward. So, so awkward. But the matches I was responsible for drew to a close, as all matches must, and I was forced to the realization that my dear father was right. So, tossing any sort of dignity into the wind and embracing my blindly encouraging self, I turned to Wrestler-From-Urbandale, whose coaches had wandered off, (I can only assume that other wrestlers were in need of coaching of some sort) and I proceeded to tell him the story as I told it in Part One. Perhaps with slightly less eloquence, but I feel I was quite articulate. I acknowledged, with humor, the potential awkwardness and explained my reasons for sharing what I had witnessed: We always pay attention to the wrestler who screams at the reff and runs out of the gym crying, and it's like fueling a toddler's tantrums. In doing that, we make it okay, even expected, for athletes to behave like that. Nobody (supposedly) sees when those that lose are gracious and humble; if it's not a loud, dramatic display of angsty teenage emotions, it seems that no one cares. I wanted to tell him that I noticed, because I think that kind of behavior is what deserves to be recognized. If we pay attention to the people who show humility and respect in defeat, couldn't that become the standard we hold high school athletes to? How much better would the entire institution be if that were the case?
As I pretty much expected, Mr.Wrestler received all this with gratitude and humility. We had a surprisingly comfortable conversation when I was done explaining myself. He remembered which match I was talking about and was surprised, making a comment that a year is a long time to remember something like that, and I responded that it had just kind of made an impression on me. He thanked me numerous times, but when he explained why he did it-- that was the thing that caught me. 'That kid from Dowling,' he said, 'he's my brother.' I gave him sort of a questioning look and he explained, 'Well, no, not actually-- He's my brother in Christ.'
The only thing I was capable of saying at that moment was, 'That's awesome.'
I realized then, that it wasn't my tactful humor or diction that was preventing awkwardness from entering this conversation. It was pure, choreographed edification; straight from our savior, giving me goosebumps. Scripture was flying through my mind. "By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another," and "Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen," and "Do all things without grumbling or questioning so that you may be blameless and pure children of God, without fault in a crooked and twisted generation in which you shine like stars in the universe."

So no, not classy. I mean, yes, I maintain that it was very classy behavior. But that doesn't cover the magnitude of it. That, my friends, is shining like a star in the broken and depraved universe that is our generation. Well done, Mr.Urbandale. Your actions reflected Jesus. Thank you.