Where Grace Abounds

By: Nathan Fletcher

Rom. 5

Sometimes the past comes unannounced,

A scent, a sound, a glance pronounced.

A place once known, a voice once near

And suddenly, the pain is here.

I asked her softly, “What’s your mind?”

She said, “I watch, I note, I find.”

No anger there, no edge, no sting

Just silence wrapped in pondering.

But I have known another thread,

Where journals struck like words unsaid.

Where thoughts were stored and later used

To cut, condemn, control, accuse.

So when she spoke, my chest grew tight,

But something different stirred tonight.

No rising fear, no shaken breath

No shadow pulling me toward death.

I asked her then with calm and grace,

“What do you do with what you trace?”

She met my gaze, no guise, no game

Her voice was low, her words not tame.

She said she’s thankful, deep and wide,

That grace has held her through the tide.

That loving me, she gets to do

And some of it was overdue.

Not grace…from pulpits cold and dry,

But grace that lives and bleeds and cries.

It reached me in a quiet flood,

And colored all the blanks in blood.

A healing space, not just a safe

A sacred pause, a soul reshaped.

Where once I bore a heavy guilt,

Tonight, that weight began to tilt.

I saw the past for what it was

A form of love that lost its cause.

The harsh, the cruel, the self-assured,

Who thought their wounds made them the cure.

But now I see, and now I know

There’s mercy in the letting go.

Her grace poured out, not earned, not forced,

A love not fenced, nor last, nor sourced.

No accident this time or place,

No random acts, just holy grace.

I’ve watched the doors swing wide and tight,

And knew my Father set them right.

So what comes next? I spoke with my dad

He heard my joy and then he said:

“When it’s time to cut the tree, my son,

Cut it down. Then walk on.”

So here I stand, the axe in hand,

No rage, no spite, no reprimand.

Just peace beneath the breaking sound

Where roots are pulled and grace is found.

The story my father shared:

Shortly after the end of the Civil War, Robert E. Lee visited a Kentucky woman who was enraged over the damage federal artillery fire had done to a once beautiful tree in her front yard. She insisted the tree was a casualty of the war and wanted Lee to condemn Northern forces for what she called their senseless attack on her property or at least sympathize with her over what she considered a great loss. After a brief silence, Lee said, "Cut it down, my dear Madam, and forget it."