We know the word. We read it. We sing about it. Yet, we struggle to fully understand it. That’s because it doesn’t really make sense. By it’s very nature, it doesn’t make sense. Loving the lovely makes sense. Pursuing not simply a stranger but a rejector makes really no sense at all. Grace is senseless.

There are some days, I think I get it. I seem to be able to grasp grace enough to muster up some words to explain it. I tell my children about the God who desires relationship with us so much that while we were crossing our arms, stomping our feet, and saying “me, me, me” and “mine, mine, mine,” He not only stooped down and came to win and rescue us from ourselves; He bled and died for us so that we could be friends with Him and live close with Him forever and forever and ever.

There are others days, He puts me in a cleft of a rock and says loud and clear dear one, this is grace.

It doesn’t make sense. It’s inconvenient, uncomfortable, sometimes awkward, expensive, both somehow both energizing and exhausting. It’s the presence of beautiful music in the midst of loud noise that somehow transforms it. It’s peace in a place turned upside down. It’s a gentle invitation that is going to be met with fear or anxiety or rough acceptance. It’s wearing your heart on your sleeve knowing the risk that it might break a little.

It’s an imperfect illustration; after all, that’s what an illustration is, an opportunity for a glimpse that makes us sigh and better understand that which is the real thing. We aren’t rescuers. We get tired. We smile and complain. We make judgments that we don’t even see as judgments. And, then, we go home. But, we will go back. And, when we do, we’ll bring others with us, to come and see, to be senseless and leave what feels safe and put themselves in a place where their hearts may get broken. That’s what grace does. And, when we put ourselves in the position to be grace givers (albeit imperfect ones), He gently guides us to uncross our arms and experience His grace in a way that changes us from the inside out.

The team looked out of their element. They listened to what I had told them ahead of time: don’t just walk into the dining room and sit down. Wait for the director to tell you to sit. Save the seat facing the door for him; he’s the host and needs to sit in the place of honor. Don’t just dig into the food; wait for him to be presented with each dish and then offer it to us. He told them to sit. He sat in the place of honor. Joan sat flipping through the menu encyclopedia to help him order dishes Americans would like. And, the team sat looking on, admiring the fancy restaurant that had a traditional opera happening in the room next door complete with a live little orchestra.

The afternoon had been an emotional one as we said goodbyes to children and to caregivers and left the orphanage for the last time. But, we all were rallying, knowing that we weren’t quite done. We had a celebration to enjoy tonight. And, we had a gift to give. We had brought a lot of gifts to give, and this one was the one we most anticipated giving.

The directors have come to anticipate it not all that unlike a child on Christmas morning anticipating some traditional gift. I’ve given them this gift three times now. And, every time, they act both glad to see something they were hoping they’d get again and excited as if they’ve never seen it before. This year did not disappoint.

More than 50 families participated, sending me pictures of their children from their time at the orphanage and then current pictures. Some showed them celebrating holidays with their families, playing basketball, swimming in the ocean, dressed up like princesses. Their mommies and daddies also wrote a few words sharing how their child is doing and thanking the orphanage for caring for their child until they could hand the baton to them.

The directors gathered around the book. Like last year, he pointed to baby pictures and covered the child’s name up with his hand, testing his 40-year-old memory. Not one name did he miss. Together, they marveled at how the children had changed. They nodded in agreement when they noticed that clefts had been well repaired and scars removed. They laughed at how Americans don’t put enough clothes on their children. And, they showed the child who had come with us that family is good and told him we’d be working to find one for him too.

They studied that book of children for way longer than Joan studied that menu. Dishes had come out, had been presented to him, and now sat on our lazy Susan, my team too respectful to dig in while they continued to study that book. By the time we all ate, the food was cold. But, no one cared.

After dinner, we all walked outside to a place I had never been before in all my trips here. Our shoulders were pulled up high in a vain attempt to stay warm as inappropriately clothed Americans. And, we looked out at the city.

He is there. He is there at the orphanage on the outskirts of the city. He is there working through people who love Him and through those who do not yet know and love Him as we do. He is there in the noise of busy traffic and in the cries of babies and in the conversations between friends and colaborers around lazy Susans.